Mellifluous

I'm actually one of the few people out there that enjoys rainy days. I like how my apartment, already darkened by our chocolate hardwood floors and brown furniture, descends even further into this cozy darkness. It's an excuse to light vanilla candles all over (Phantom of the Opera-style), make a steaming pot of coffee, and catch up on magazine reading and bills from last week. The candlelight makes it feel very Old World, which I secretly like. But OK! Magazine totally brings it back to the present, of course.

The other day I reached the very last page of the Moleskine notebook I've been keeping since December 2009. The end of an era. Since I started it, I've been keeping a running list of vocabulary words that I come across and like. Not necessarily difficult SAT-esque words, but words that strike me as interesting in some way or another. It's not like I try to use them on a day-to-day basis (bifurcate? dirigible?), but the simple act of writing 'em down helps me to remember them. And that's all I want to do. Remember. 

Sometimes I can even remember where I was when I wrote down a certain word. I know I jotted down "octogenarian" -- a person in their eighties -- after reading an article on the awesomeness that is Betty White (and she really is awesome). And "mellifluous" -- having a smooth, rich, musical flow -- came during a concert at a wine bar when the singer announced we were in for a "mellifluous hour and a half" (and he ended up being true to his word). Maybe that's why I write certain words down. Like little thumbtacks saluting me from the road map of 2010, they remind me of where I've been and what I've learned.

P.S. Fun fact: I don't dot my "I's." Not even in my own name!

Two Mirrors

The Photodiarist

"But you've never wanted that. You wanted a mirror. People want nothing but mirrors around them. To reflect them while they're reflecting too. You know, like the senseless infinity you get from two mirrors facing each other across a narrow passage. Usually in the more vulgar kind of hotels. Reflections of reflections and echoes of echoes." - The Fountainhead

This is usually how I feel when I meet someone new for the first time. As a default, I expect them to be the kind of person that's only talking to me because they want to hear themselves talk. They want an audience. They want a mirror reflecting their own mirror reflecting mine reflecting theirs, and so on and so forth. I know it's completely unfair, but lately I just can't help it. Sometimes I feel like I'm meeting the same person over and over again. And it's really getting to me. I used to be doe-eyed and overeager, almost throwing my whole being into a conversation with a new person. Now I just don't give a shit. Well, that's putting it a little harshly. I care. I still want to get to know you better. I just no longer expect to be surprised, is all. It's a snobbish arrogance on my part, as if I'm the keeper of all the wisdom in the world. But I'm too keenly aware of who I am as an individual, and I guess a lot of people still aren't. And may never want to find out. I don't fault them. I just don't have the patience for it any longer.

I spent the last few days trying to find something insightful to say about this moment and frankly, I got nothin'. All I know is that lying on a smooth rock, watching ducks swim in lazy circles, sunlight warming cheeks and hands and lips and bones, I was entirely convinced I was the happiest girl in all of Central Park. But then again, it doesn't take much to make me happy these days. Ice cream makes me happy. The color green makes me happy. Peeling off the covers and falling into the untouched, soft coolness that is your bed when you go to sleep at night makes me supremely happy. But yep, I was sure that I was happier than any other being in the whole wide park.

That's all I have to say for now!

Midnight Musing

"Truth is, everybody's going to hurt you. You just gotta find the one worth suffering for." - Bob Marley

Can't fall asleep and hating it. It's seriously one of the things that makes me so inexplicably angry, probably because I'm the only person I know that can fall asleep just about anywhere and at anytime. No joke. So when I'm actively trying to fall asleep and can't...well, you get my point. So here I am in the dark, sprawled on my bed, listening to a few things on rotation. Telepopmusik, Animal Collective, Bob Marley, Tennis, Menomena, and Talib Kweli's new album Gutter Rainbows, which is just plain delicious. All things considered, it's a good compilation of music to listen to when your mind can't sit still even though your body wants to. I guess this is as good a time as any to share this Bob Marley quote I found earlier and have been absentmindedly mulling over in my head. Maybe this is why I can't fall asleep?

My Exhalation

ffffound

This is how I feel right now. And it's such a good feeling!

Store Fronts

Store Front: The Disappearing Face of New York via Honestly...WTF

I confessed to someone today that I was the somewhat embarrassed owner of a personal blog. She asked me what I usually write about and I just shrugged. "Anything." Which is the truth, I suppose. Whatever comes across my mind as worth sharing with the general public, be it intimate thoughts or totally rad stuff I find trolling the interwebs (i.e. the disappearing New York store fronts above). 

When it comes to personal musings, though, I'm always conflicted about the level of information I should and shouldn't share. I like to think of myself as an open book. Not that "what you see is what you get" bullshit, but that for the most part, I'm relatively transparent about how I feel and what I think. For better or worse, you could say. When it comes to blogging, I try and maintain this transparency and to stay consistent with the core of who I am. The difference, though, is that while you can control who is listening to you when you talk, you can't exactly control who's reading the words on your not-so-very-personal-after-all blog. Inevitably you end up adjusting that transparency to reflect how you want to be perceived by the people that read your writing. 

So I guess "anything" isn't exactly truthful, nor does it capture the goal of keeping a personal blog. I've kept this blog for over two years because I enjoy sharing little pieces of myself that I deem worth sharing. But only when I feel like it, which is why I don't actively publicize my blog either. You could say I like the idea of flying under the radar, but still being on a few other radars out there as well.

This blog is my store front. It's flashy and full of pretty things to look at, that's for sure. But if you want something special and different, something you can't find anywhere else, you should probably come inside and talk to the owner in person.

Alone/Single/Both

As transcribed from a note I wrote in my Blackberry while sitting in a cafe recently:

One of the things I struggle with, day in and day out, is learning to be alone in this monster of a city. Or, more specifically, learning to be alone and to not feel lonely. Sitting in a cafe by myself, stifling the compulsion to stick out feelers (texts, calls) to everyone I know, just to remind myself I have friends. Taking walks through parks without stealing jealous glances at couples in their honeymoon phase. Going shopping solo. Flying solo, essentially. 

Winter in Manhattan rewards those in a relationship, allowing them to seek refuge in the safety of cozy apartments and warm beds. And then it basically shits on just about everyone else. We're all left to fend for ourselves. I'm almost positive that's why there are more people holed up in Starbuckses during the winter; it's much easier being alone and single as a collective than being alone and single on your own. Which leads me to wonder: is this a feeling I'll be forced to endure so long as I continue living as a single gal in this city? Does it ever go away, and if so, when? I read all these articles in New York Magazine and the Times, detailing the parallels between singledom and loneliness in Manhattan, and they never cease to amaze me. And they never really offer any answers either, just conjectures. Some days I wish one of these cappuccino-sipping, single mofos would just come up to me and teach me his/her ways. The way of the samurai single. Because I'd really like to know how it feels to be utterly alone and perfectly content. Apparently it's a well-kept secret in this damn town.

Mantra

To say that the last two months have been one of the most trying periods in my life is an understatement. The people closest to me have watched me bury myself entirely in my work, and to suffer immeasurably as a result. I work over ten hours almost everyday. I am the first person in the office, and usually the last one out. I haven't taken a true hour-long lunch break in weeks. Most days, I'm so exhausted that I usually just go home, have something to eat, and then collapse into bed. I recognize that this is a cold, hard reality for a lot of New Yorkers, but it's just taking a long time for me to adjust to this new lifestyle and workload. Some days I wish I was unemployed or, at the very least, not so addicted to caffeine. And then I chide myself for being stupid, especially when there are people that are depending on me to survive.

There's a quote by Henry David Thoreau that I've been absentmindedly reciting to myself every now and then: "It's not what you look at that matters, it's what you see." Sometimes when I'm staring bleakly at my desktop monitor, asking myself why oh why am I working so damn hard, I remind myself to stop and take a figurative step back. This isn't work, but an opportunity. These aren't strangers that I'm randomly calling, but potential sources of revenue and long-standing meaningful relationships on Wall Street. Sounds a little cheesy, but I think Thoreau's quote has become my mantra...or something. It's the one little thing I cling to in order to keep my eye on the big cash prize. And when I hit that deal, I'll go out for that long-awaited, TWO-hour-long lunch I know I deserve.

Fine Young Cannibals

Halloween 2009

Sometimes it can get so lonely, and you can't remember what you're doing or why the hell you're doing it. Nothing makes sense anymore. When I'm in a hole so deep that I can't figure out how to get out, I call my friends and let them talk to me. It doesn't matter what they say, so long as they talk. Sometimes all you need is to know that there's someone on the other side. Eventually they talk me out of doing something stupid, and I slowly crawl out of the hole again. But it's an endless struggle. Every time that I think I'm "there," I realize I've still got a hell of a long way to go.

Trampoline

Jennifer Sanchez
After I finished regaling my best friend with my colorful adventures of the week, she took a sip of her beer and shook her head, smiling. "It's like you live your life on a trampoline...sometimes you jump really high, and sometimes the trampoline breaks and you crash." 
I was struck pretty hard by this analogy, even though it wasn't the first time someone's said something like it before. If I had had my Moleskine notebook on me as I usually do, I would've whipped it out immediately and jotted it down to remember the next day. But as it stood I was sitting in a bar, so I thoughtfully took a sip of my own beer instead.
I spend a lot of time wondering how other twenty-somethings cope with the balancing act of work and play, especially in a city like ours where temptation (read: pregraming) is just a corner bodega and six dollars away. When I'm feeling motivated, I can throw my weight into my job without needing to see any immediate rewards/gratification; my paychecks alone keep me chugging along.  But as a result I'll often find myself neglecting my friends, family, body, etc., choosing instead to bury myself in my work. And vice versa. When I say the proverbial "fuck you" to responsibility and spend almost every night of the week out, I'll end up struggling to stay awake in the office, or spacing at my desk for hours on end. It seems like a real lose-lose situation to me.
I suppose that if I continue chipping away at this whole post-grad thing -- where the cozy bubble has long burst and nobody is there to tell you to "buck up" and just do it -- the balancing act will get easier and I'll be able to stand in the middle of the see-saw without tipping over to either side. The thing is, I'm kind've enjoying my trampoline right now...and I'm not looking to get off it just yet.

On Valuables

Fresh sunflowers
Ever since I bought a bike, I've had this supreme paranoia that someone is out to steal it (or rather him, as I have fondly dubbed him Felix). I've heard my fair share of cautionary tales over the years and have, thus far, done my very best to ensure Felix's safety whenever I leave him on his own. But try as I may to avoid it, I still find myself worrying about bike thefts and the like -- to the point where I will periodically drop by throughout the workday to see that he's still there, safe and sound. My baby in cream.
Maybe it's just the pangs of worry that every new owner inevitably feels. The pangs that, with time, eventually subside and give way to feelings of assuredness and -- dare I say it? -- optimism. Not too long from now, I know I'll find myself laughing at the precautionary measures I used to take to safeguard Felix against ulterior motives. I'll look back on those naysayers who warned me against rising bike theft statistics and scoff. I'll start believing I'm one of the lucky ones. Slacking in routine, I will one day forget to lock my bike as soundly as I used to. And out of the blue Felix will be stolen, and suddenly I'll remember how dangerous the world really is.
In a lot of ways, I'm the eternal new owner when it comes to my own heart as well. Like most people who find themselves in possession of something precious, I initially go to great lengths to protect it. Building walls, buying sturdy locks...doing everything in my power to ensure its safety. But my defense is fallible, and eventually my vigilance begins to slip. I find myself relaxing, relieved to discover that I was overreacting in the first place. It's then that my security system is cracked, and somebody breaks in to hurt what is most important to me.
Sometimes I wonder: who is it better to be, the eternal new owner or the overly cautious veteran? For better or worse, I know I'll always be the eternal new owner. Optimistic and hopeful, never quite learning my "lesson." I want to believe that people are inherently good, even if experience and history both suggest otherwise. And as foolish as this sounds, I'm alright with being wrong time and time again, with having my bike taken and my heart broken. Because bikes can be replaced and hearts do eventually heal, even if you lose a few pieces in the recovery. I'm waiting for that somebody to come along who can take care of all of my valuables, however worthless or prized they may be.

Pause

I wasn't so keen on acknowledging it, but I think I may be at a bit of a blogging halt for the moment (I vacillated for a second on whether "halt" or "rut" would best represent the situation, and settled on the more optimistic of the two). I haven't felt a sincere desire to write at length recently, seeking rather to bury my head in a mound of deliciously good fiction. Believing it was about time I churned out a legitimate entry, I set aside some time tonight to tease out a few of the threads that have been circulating around in my mind as of late. 

There was the one idea of exploring my current fixation with the Myers Briggs test. I had these lofty plans of connecting a seemingly ordinary personality exam with the greater question of how much (or how little...) my personality has changed since I was five, the age by which Freud believed one's personality becomes almost fully developed.

And then I had this grandiose idea of discussing my fascination with the World Cup, and other such universally-ballyhooed sporting events (if you don't know already, I am perhaps the most avid Olympics viewer of all time; I watch both the Summer and Winter ones religiously). From what I recall from my brief brainstorming stint, I had every intention of picking apart the elements that allow sporting spectacles to unite such different demographics of people, especially around noble causes like drinking on Sunday afternoons. This latter idea -- involving the World Cup and its significance, not the whole drinking thing -- had been inspired by a book I recently browsed through at a bookstore. 

Finally, I was hoping to simply get the chance to write about my summery adventures: frolicking around Long Island, reuniting with old friends that have gone missing far too long from my life, discovering secret gardens, good reads (currently reading Kafka on the Shore), familiar summertime haunts, newly-established summertime haunts, my obsession with iced coffee (now a daily dietary intake, oh boy), sporadic-but-always-rewarding runs...basically, the whole gamut of activities and social scenes and new and old people I have been involved in and surrounded by. Oh, and also the crazy heat wave that has latched onto and preyed upon my dear, dear city.

The problem, though, was that I kept trying to write about all of these different topics. Simultaneously. When I would sit down to expand upon one idea, I would find myself invariably roped into an entirely different line of thought. And so everything just sort've became really scrambled and messy. Rich in content, but a little overly ambitious in aim. At any rate, in the end I decided I would write about my entire thought process instead, outlining how each idea came into fruition only to be usurped by another, rather than the thoughts themselves. Maybe I should just rename this entry "Metacognition."

I think a lot about life consists of throwing your weight into something, or even someone. Throwing all of your weight into that something, burrowing deep within it, investing your limited emotional resources, all of you. Sometimes really beautiful things can arise, whether on purpose or purely incidental, when that something and you just click and everything feels right and you feel so, so good as a result. And with time and repetition, sometimes hobbies eventually form. I say all this because I feel like I've been hobby-less for a while, and it's only just now beginning to dawn on me.

In truth, I've been burying myself in other activities that definitely don't fall in the aforementioned "hobby" category, namely drinking and smoking and all sorts of debauchery and merriment. It's been fun, and in a lot of strange ways, refreshing as well. Sometimes it's nice to just close your eyes and hide your face. Averting, avoiding. But at the end of the day, when I stumble into bed at night, I'm not fulfilled and I am far from satiated. I need more than this. I need to produce beauty, make something extraordinary and feel extra ordinary in the process. These days, I am nothing. I offer nothing to the world and the recognition of this fact is incredibly frustrating. Not to mention disappointing.

I'm trying to remember when I used to do things that I inherently enjoyed, that did my mind and body good, because nowadays both are becoming increasingly restless. My intellect is slowly atrophying and my physical self is just plain bored. I think I'm finally ready to explore new hobbies and maybe revisit some long standing old ones as well. The hardest step right now, though, is picking myself (all of the scattered pieces) up off the floor in order to do so.