Marcel the Shell...be my friend?

No words. Just Puppies.

a roof over your head

I often say that to live in this city is to love this city, because no one in her right mind would pay rents like these to live in a smelly, dirty, loud, crowded town like this one for no good reason. That's how i know i really love New York-- because i can't bear to part with it. the apartment i live in is just a roof over my head; the city is my home. The NYTimes City Room blog published this awesome piece recently after asking readers for some of their worst nyc apartment stories. Some hilarious, some humbling and some outright horrifying, these make me grateful for my place, especially as the weather starts to turn (ahem, 60 degrees on December 1st whatthehellisgoingon). A couple of my favorites...

After I broke up with my live-in boyfriend, at 22, I wanted the camaraderie and company of roommates above all else. I thus chose to live with eight people in a “duplex” (read: first floor and dank, dark basement) on 6th and Avenue C after they wooed me with a backyard BBQ. My 8 x 8 subterranean room was $500 but also wet and cold, and one morning I woke up to find an ant line marching from the window (which was near the ceiling and looked out into the dirt of the garden) across my duvet over my chest, to a muffin on my nightstand. I did have company, though after all: A giant African bullfrog one of the roommates had freed in the garden would mush itself against the windowpane at night, and croak to me at all hours. Unfortunately, not the prince I was looking for.

— Sarah

2002, South Side of Williamsburg.
The apartment looked great, 3 bedrooms, eat-in-kitchen, one bath and a walk-in closet! Except:
– It was a former crack house. People would come by and reach through our windows asking for god knows what.
– Water pouring from light fixtures because of leaks in the building.
– No heat (my shampoo would freeze in the winter); I would turn the stove on and sit on top of it with the door open for heat.
– No super. One awful winter our window was stuck open for a month.
– Roaches
– Mice
— southsider

"I write only because
There is a voice within me
That will not be still"
— Sylvia Plath

because cool cameras make everything look good...

my old hood...

steps make me taller.

from the archives...

here is one that really has a hold on me. look at him, lying there with his fingers laced in mine, resting his forehead at the nape of my neck, on my shoulders, my arms, my hands. look at him, his green-brown eyes watching me as i turn and twist into his body. here, he takes my leg and wraps it over him, pressing his chest so close to mine that when he inhales it feels like i am breathing. listen to him sing into my ear, softly, out of tune, and hear me sing along, filling in the words he forgets. see me feel his rough cheek under my palm. watch him take my arm, and raise it over his face, and watch him gently bite the soft, light flesh on the underside, because kissing is not enough.

no, it is not enough. this isn't enough; to hold him now and let him go. it isn't enough to ask and touch and learn each other for only now not for long.

So just watch me wait for him. watch me while i close the door behind him and fall back asleep, and go on to hold and kiss and learn someone else. watch me forget the feel of his lips and the color of his eyes and the sound of his voice. watch me let him go, but just watch me wait.

Sore but Zen

By Eve Ensler, c/o my yoga instructor

"Maybe being good isn’t about getting rid of anything. Maybe being good has to do with living in the mess. In the moment. In the frailty. In the failures. In the flaws. Maybe what I try to get rid of is the goodest part of me. Maybe good is about developing the capacity to live fully inside everything. Our body is our country, the only city, the only village, the only every we will ever know. Our body is the carrier of the stories of the world, of the earth, of the mother. Our body is our home. We live in a good body"

On growing up: a dialogue

The following is a lengthy excerpt from an email exchange between myself and the older brother (A) and father (J) of my dear friend. I'm sharing it now, months after the fact, because thankfully, I feel like I'm beginning to step out of the terrible puddle I was in back then. I think they've got some really interesting insights, as a brilliant but struggling law student (A) and a successful businessman and father of two (J). Then there's me, who just had to throw her two cents in. Enjoy (If you can make it all the way through)!

**names have been held to protect identities (just in case they don't want the 6 people who read my blog to read their ruminations)

A*:

They should seriously have a required class at all large state universities that everyone has to take final semester of senior year titled "Real Life Sucks." College is the end of the fairy tale. Happiness genuinely takes on a completely different meaning once you graduate. I don't know a single individual that was prepared to cope with life after college. People can tell you over and over and over again that college is so much different (read, worse) than the rest of your life. You hear it, and you just don't have the perspective to understand it. Your entire life, as far as you're concerned (whether you realize it or not), has been college. You find yourself in college. Psychologically, the only person that you know is the person that you are today, and the person that you are at high school graduation is not yourself (perhaps that is slightly oversimplified, but I think the conclusion is clear). Therefore, your subjective perception of reality is based purely on the experiences that you have encountered as "yourself." As a college student.

One day, everyone wakes up at 7:00 AM, gets in the shower to get ready for work, and thinks, "Really? This is what my life is now?"

People say that just as your perception in college is skewed, as you move further away from college your perceptions of fun and enjoyment are shifted back, closer to "real world reality." Think about that for a moment. Some person has the audacity to tell me that my perceptions of fun and happiness were at too high of a threshold, and the only way that I will shake my self-loathing is to forget how much fun I can actually have. Seriously? That is the world that we have to dive back into?

Now obviously the transition from college back to the real world isn't this catastrophic for all people. There are two sides to examine how precipitous your decline in happiness will be: (1) how much fun you had in college (Were you in the greek system - clearly not a pre-requisite to fun, but let's be honest, it just presents you more opportunities to do fun things - Did you have a lot of friends? Did you always have something to do, every night of the week? Was a stress in your life deciding which party you were going to have to skip? Did you get outside and do stuff? Take trips with your friends? Skip class to do things that may have been dangerous (skiing)? and (2) what your real life experience begins as (Are you living at home "for a few months?" (don't); Are you going to be doing something you really enjoy? Are you going to be well compensated? Are you living in a town where you know a lot of people? Do you have to work weekends? Is your boss an asshole?

Maybe I am such a pessimist because law school sucks. Maybe I just speak the truth. I don't know, but I lean towards the latter.

J*, A's Dad:

I think you're speaking the truth. There is no shortage of art (plays, songs, books and movies) that deals with the issues of personal dissatisfaction, alienation and malaise. The transition from childhood through adolescence to adulthood is too rarely an easy one. Happiness is unquantifiable and elusive. The one thing that age lends, is perspective. I can see from here that I wish I would have gone to college in a better place than Boring Green, Ohio. Frankly, doing anything, anywhere, would have been more fun than that place, so I started with the bar so low that things were bound to improve. All I knew was that I had to get away. No more Ohio. Wound up in Phoenix, then Atlanta--both significant geo-upgrades--having a blast. So, one solution to avoiding the precipitous decline in post-graduate happiness, is to go to a mediocre Land Grant college in the rust-belt.

Perhaps an advantage of going to school in Boulder is that you can see the possibilities of living an exciting, fulfilling life. Of course you have already elucidated the disadvantages.

The reason I counsel anyone who asks, "Do what you love, and you'll never work a day," is precisely because waking up at 7 AM to go to a job you hate is a no way to live. Most people are not fortunate enough to have a passionate interest in something tangible from an early age. Nor do most recognize that, say, enduring the pain of law school while young, guarantees options when older. Fact: life is short unless you're stranded without an income, a place to live, or the talent, temperament and training to get those things. Then life is long. And tedious.

I think what we're looking for is control of our own destinies. A successful life might be one that allows us the freedom to generally be where we want to be when we want to be there. Few achieve that. Even fewer achieve it early in life. The thing is, you both have the native tools (intellect, formal education, social grace, etc.) and the work ethic to get there sooner rather than later if you want to. All I ask is that you not lower your expectations; that you work toward a happy and fulfilling life--whatever that may mean to you--and that you not give up because it's hard and occasionally disappointing. It's not always fun, but should be on balance. Something else a little life experience will put in context for you.

Me:

Might I chime in?

I'm learning now the significance of doing what you love; pretty much because I'm not doing it. These days I'm enduring the throes of underemployment (a perk of graduating during a recession). I have a degree in journalism and economics from a competitive private university; I've traveled around the world; I have so much to learn. And yet, I spend an inordinate amount of time updating my boss' outlook contacts and making restaurant reservations. When I get a spare moment, I whip out a finance textbook from the shelf behind my cubicle and study, or write freehand in a notebook tucked away in a drawer. THAT'S how much I miss college. For me, the question doesn't come in the morning. Rather, it's when sit at my desk in the middle of the day, in a deafeningly silent office, job hunting on the down-low, that I stop and think, "This is what my life is now?"

I was lucky enough to go to college in a playground. New York City is the place to have a blast in school--almost dangerously so. I say that because college in New York is a different kind of fairy tale, complete with glamour and accessibility and a lifestyle that no one should get accustomed to without earning. And I never did get accustomed to it; in fact, I lived in a constant fear that it would be taken away from me at a moment's notice. But I realize now that that was kind of amazing: to be so painfully happy that you were actually afraid it would end.

All that stuff they tell you-- about conquering the world, following your dreams, doing what you love-- is sounding more and more like a distant echo. I learned when I traveled to India that purpose is a luxury, and that it's a product of someone else's sacrifice. Maybe being a grown up (or being good at it) is about trying to find purpose in small ways, and compromising without settling. But it's a harsh realization, learning that you can absolutely do what you love, as long as you pay the rent. I hope I can find that balance. These days, I'm really afraid that this won't end. And I'm desperately trying to find some control over my own destiny: I want to work with people enjoy, for a cause I care about, in the city of my dreams...and pay the rent. I knew it wouldn't be easy, but, damn, I didn't know it would be this hard.

Thank your dad for me, though, for reminding me that it is the people who make a life rich. I'm surrounded by angels, near and far, who have given me the luxury of purpose: If I'm here for nothing else, it's for them.

I hope this doesn't scare you into submission; I think this kind of disillusionment is normal, to a degree. I'll snap out of it. After all, we are young, and we MUST FIGHT!

The real stuff

Danny & Annie from StoryCorps on Vimeo.

Read read read:

This:Then this:
And then this:

Oh I just love words

Here's a little something that's been dancing around the web. Makes me happy:

practice love

So why not? why not have this crazy summer fling (that will end before summer begins) with a boy you've just met, whose last name you don't know, who whispers to you in French in the middle of the night and rests his lips on you in the morning, his fingers lazily snaked between yours. Why not do it while it's fun (until it's not fun anymore), while you're young and pretty and inexperienced and smart and foolish and have never been in love so you don't have any idea what you're missing out on. (if you're missing out on anything at all.)

it's the closest imitation you're going to get; it's the california roll, the chinatown handbag, the drag queen of L-O-V-E. it's fake, but it's practice. And why not? while your heart is still strong and solid, while your defenses are brand new and only slightly weathered and you can still take a hit without falling too far from or close to the ground. This is the time to give your body what it wants, to see what it can take without asking your heart for any resources. let your heart rest. let it throb for yourself and not for someone else.

this is just practice, remember? and it will only last for as long as you want it. until your body is tired of his or your head is tired of not thinking straight or your heart just can't stand the quiet any longer. until late at night, just before dawn, just after making fake love, just before falling asleep, tangled up in eachother's arms, as the last words are slipping out of your lips, something about it feels real.

Daffodils

to honor the succulent savior, sassafrass-singing, anti-senescence,
sin-inducing, serpentine Springtime...

There's a million things I love about this time of year, and it's no secret that daffodils are at the top of my list (they've already flooded my apartment)...but this guy just says it better... his name was Wordsworth, for god's sake...

I WANDER'D lonely as a cloud

That floats on high o'er vales and hills,

When all at once I saw a crowd,

A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine

And twinkle on the Milky Way,
They stretch'd in never-ending line

Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but theyOut-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,

In such a jocund company:
I gazed -- and gazed -- but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie

In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye

Which is the bliss of solitude;

And then my heart with pleasure fills,

And dances with the daffodils.

So this is what you do: you tap into that well that you filled up while you could, while the love was pouring over you in a torrent, when you breathed it in deep and swallowed it whole because even though it was unusual it was also very real. And you knew that when a drought came, or just some thirst, you knew that that well would still be there, full, with no expiration date (thank god).

So this is what you've been doing, without even knowing it: you've been sipping from your well because that love is so good that a little goes a long way. Isn't that all you really need? A little something magical that makes the ordinary different and the extraordinary just icing on the cake. And, hopefully, there will always be a source that replenishes that well every so often, maybe when you're afraid you might be running low. It'll be the muse that floats out from the walls or the vision that you see when you blink, or the memory that feels like a dream; it'll be the slow, steady pulse under your breath, it'll keep you going. And when you're all dried up like an old bone and you think there's just nothing left in you, no chance or hope or way out (because somehow--can you believe it?-- you can actually forget the defining moments in your life) maybe there is a way, because there's a well.

My First Scarf

After 3 weeks, I finally completed my very first scarf.

It was as satisfying as graduating college, or getting my first job...maybe even more so, because upon completion I wasn't immediately crippled by fear and anxiety of failure...

It's a little short and has a few dropped stitches, but it's mine.

A few pictures, just to show off my masterpiece