rainy days and mondays always get me down...

so say the Carpenters, but no, Karen, this is not true for me. Though i'll take shine over rain any day, today is the perfect rainy day. It's not sticky, hot rain like we get in the summertime; it's not icy, sharp rain that punctuates grey winter days. This is spring rain: clean, cool, mild. Just a couple of layers and an umbrella will get you through the day, and after yesterday's perfection, this feels like just a minor setback. 

as for mondays? they're not so bad... it's wednesdays that get me. Mondays are like mornings: they come sooner than I want them to, but when they arrive there's a hope that this day (or week) just might be the best one yet. By Wednesday, i've resigned myself to the very real probability that nothing life-changing or defining is going to happen this week, and all i'm left with is a caffeine high and frizzy hair (by wednesday i just stop caring). but for now, it's monday. there is still hope...

so stare out your window and listen to one of my favorites:

Alfie - Marian McPartland

or

Alfie - John Scofield

the same song, in two totally different ways.

I'm just not that into he's just not that into you

Last night, I went on a date with the gorgeous Kaysi Franceus. Yes, folks, that's her on the right. And yea, she's single (please stop drooling, you're getting the keyboard wet).

As two single girls are inclined to do on a friday night, we decided to go see a chick flick. We had been planning on seeing He's Just Not That Into You for months, so we figured since we finally had a date night set, we should check it out.

Armed with Red Vines, Junior Mints, M&Ms, Diet Coke, and popcorn, we took our seats, expecting to be entertained. And we were, for the most part.

But as we left the theatre, a strange, overwhelming panic set over us. So much so that we decided (seeing it was a beautiful night) to walk it off.

25 blocks later, we were more confused about men than ever before (which is saying A LOT). 

Were we in denial? Did we make excuses for boys? Did they really just not care? Were we feeling sparks when there were none (or no such thing)? Were we supposed to let boys decide if the relationship was going anywhere?

The problem with the movie is that it portrayed women as desperate and men as oblivious, which is only half true (men, oblivious, yes). These were all beautiful, smart, kind women who were screwing with their own image and self esteem to lure a man. What the hell kind of woman is that?  Yes, we are beautiful, smart and kind (at least the ladies i know). But no, we are not desperate; we just give a guy we like a lot of chances, maybe too many.  It's in our nature. Women will more often than not give a guy the benefit of the doubt, and more often than not a guy will take that for granted...he'll take that for granted as much as he can, or, if he's worth keeping, he'll take it for granted until he realizes he's taking it for granted. 

one of the biggest points of the movie is, i think, the realization that despite the fact that everyone is trying to figure out what the rules of the game are, we're all out of luck because there are no rules. Everyone is an exception, in a different way. No relationship is the same. No boy and no girl is the same. 

so. i'm back where i started...I still don't know what to expect, i still don't know what's expected of me; i still don't know what is caring too much or not caring enough; i still believe honesty and transparency are the only way to stay sane; i still believe that's impossible between boys and girls; i still think boys are too much for me, they require too much mental and emotional energy. and i still would rather spend my friday nights watching movies, eating junk food and going for long, romantic after-the-rain night walks with pretty girls than by my phone hoping for a call. 

what a glorious surprise:

welcome to the neighborhood, ts.
I've heard a lot about you-- how classy and fun you are, and fairly affordable. My friends say you're pretty sweet...they've been looking forward to seeing you again. They said I'd like you, and that we'd get along. I didn't want to get my hopes up because i've been disappointed before, but i checked out your website and i'm already starting to daydream about what we'd be like together: my feet in your shoes, your earrings on my ears...
but i'm getting ahead of myself. maybe i can see you this weekend? if you're not too busy...saturday is supposed to be beautiful. what are you doing after lunch? anyways. i guess i'll see you around, neighbor.

city stories

I've been keeping up with a new multimedia section the New York Times has been running for a few months now called One in 8 Million. With gorgeous pictures and great quality recording,   it's story telling and reporting with depth and character: everyday New Yorkers telling their lives. That's where the good stuff is. Here's one I love...Georgiana DePalma Tedone, a 90-year-old cheesemaker who reminds me of my great aunt, one of my heroes. Just listen to her voice... I love it when she says, "If I didn't have my own independence, that would be putting me in a coffin..."

topshop? oh, stop!

after hearing about this from my closest friends for the past year, all the press and the massive ad down my block, CANNOT WAIT to see what all the fuss is about...

for pollen season

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

from Fall '06

A funny thing’s been happening lately.
When you walked away that time in the park I buried my face in the grass to hide my smile (I never want anyone to know
the way you make me smile)
And my lips,
I thought the way they burned would go away in time,
I thought it was the grass. I thought it was the grass that tickled them.

But I haven’t got them to stop.
They tingle and make me smile when I don’t know it,
When I don’t mean to, but maybe I do

See, since your lips touched mine, they’ve been itching.
The only relief I get is when I press them together, tight (tight-tight)
So that no air or breath or words can pass through them,
and hold them that way, for as long as I can,
or as long as I want to.

When I was 7 my best friend was a little allergic to chocolate
But every recess we split a Hershey bar.
We met under the red slide with yellow railing, every day
And with our little dirt-caked fingers, broke the bar into pieces
And sucked the chocolate in our mouths.

We always laughed and held each other’s hands when his face started to swell up,
Sometimes I would finish his chocolate for him.
The chocolate was worth a little blushing.
The sweetness made the swelling a game.

And now, when I walk and feel the prickling
I think of how good the chocolate tasted,
I remember the red slide with the yellow railing and the blushing and holding hands,
And I know that this swelling is sweet.
Because the truth of the matter is, I think I’m a little allergic to you.

i hope everyone has already seen this

I'll Sanders your Bohlke

Sanders Bohlke. It's an unusual name, and I'm a fan of those (birds of a feather, people). This guy hails from Oxford, Mississippi and tours very little around the country... I discovered him on myspace (a musician's best friend) back when I was still living in los angeles and live music was a part of my routine. I made it my mission to hear him live one day.

...that day has not yet come, but i know it's only a matter of time. it's been over 3 years, and i still have the same handful of songs on constant rotation in my head and itunes. with a voice like soulful softened butter and intuitive lyrics that melt your insides, his music feels familiar and somehow nostalgic. listen to "rockets" on a rainy day...should take your breath away.

from class

this is just something that i wrote last semester. it was an in-class assignment: 40 minutes to tell my professor why i write (like george and joan did). this is what happened--

11/25/08
Why I Write

This morning, my grandfather came to me in my dream, just before my eyes opened at the sound of my alarm. He told me to keep dancing, I cried, I was so happy to see him. He does that a lot, my Dada-- he comes to me in my dreams; he laughs in my dreams; he makes me cry in my dreams. He looked younger than I remember him-- the last time I saw him back in April, he was in a casket, covered in flowers, a newspaper rested at his side. I always hated that that was the last look I ever got of him. So this morning, as soon as I got out of bed, I pulled out my journal and wrote what I had seen just moments before, what I had felt just moments before: my Dada, with his silver hair and straight-toothed smile, embracing me, telling me to keep dancing.
The journal I wrote it all down in is this beautiful Italian notebook with turquoise, white, and fuchsia print all around it. I saw it for the first time last December, in Kate’s Paperie just 2 weeks before my birthday. My friend Nami and I had been browsing for wrapping paper when I saw it on the shelf. I don’t know why I was so struck by it—the brilliant colors in a paisley design crawling like a vine across the little book. It was so beautiful, I was afraid to touch it. When I finally did, in order to sift through the soft, lined pages, I held it like a little egg with both my hands. I turned it over, and I saw the price tag: $40. I quickly put it back on the shelf. I was used to writing in old school notebooks and on stray pieces of paper that eventually wound up in the abyss of my desk, charred with black and blue ink. There was not a shot in hell I was about to throw away $40 away on a notebook when I could barely afford groceries.
Nami had been admiring the notebook with me, as I cooed over its leather binding. When she saw me put it back on the shelf. She suggested that I splurge a little, treat myself to something I really liked. I laughed, and told her, “I could never write something beautiful enough to scribble into a $40 notebook…” And we went on shopping.
Two weeks later, at dinner with my closest friends (The Core, we call ourselves), after tapas, drinks, and dessert, Nami placed on the table a box wrapped in lovely purple printed paper with a bow on top. I smiled at my friends in the candlelight. The box was big enough to hold any number of things—a sweater, maybe, or a scarf? No, a book—I couldn’t wait to see what was inside. As I slowly peeled away the wrapping paper, I discovered exactly what I had expected—a scarf! A lovely scarf, the most beautiful, sparkly, my-name-all-over-it scarf I’d ever seen. I smiled, thanked my friends and began to put the box away, when I noticed that there was something else tucked underneath the lavender tissue paper. I looked up at Nami, she smiled back. Before I could even take the notebook out of the box, I began to cry—no, weep. Blubber. Sob. We were all surprised by my reaction. As they comforted me, and I gathered myself, I told them why this gesture meant so much to me. This was Nami—this was all of The Core—telling me that even though I didn’t believe I could write anything beautiful enough to scribble into a $40 notebook, they did. And they knew that this was my first step in writing beautiful things.
I think of that night every time I go to write in my notebook. I only open it up if I know I am ready to write; if I am moved, if I know my body is only a husk and that something inside me needs to find its way out. When I wrote about Dada today, it had been over 3 months since I had put a single word in that journal. I only want to put beautiful things in that journal. I still write in my old notebooks and on scraps of paper—in them, I write thoughtless, silly things; I write angry, doubtful things; I write curious, confusing things. I know that even these words help me grow and keep my fingers dancing on paper. Keep dancing, like Dada said. That’s why I write, and write, and keep on writing: so that one day I can write beautiful things that last.

manahatta

Greetings from mile-a-minute, mighty mistress, midnight minx, menage-a-million, manhattan...

it's been a crazy week back from spring break, with round 2 of midterms (do they ever end?!) and my soul sister visiting me from my hometown. Many late nights and early mornings. So, naturally, i thought i would waste a little more time by reading some blogs, heating up some chicken noodle soup and waiting for my laundry. While perusing the blogosphere, i came upon a dear friend's recent post  asking her readers to tell her the one thing that they would wish to possess forever. It got me thinking: What is the one tangible object that, if given the choice, i would keep?

i feel like i live such an impatient life in this town. From the moment i bounce out of bed in the morning to the very last moment before i crash into my pillow, the whole day is a series of flashes. i cross the street as soon as i can, as quickly as i can. i rarely stop to talk if i run into an acquaintance in passing. Sometimes i forget entire days, they went by so fast. Nothing stays the same, nothing is something you can hold onto for very long.

And yet, i feel like despite--maybe even because of-- the fact that we (i don't think I'm alone in this) live this impatient life, we savor differently. We walk fast, but we think fast; we see and listen harder and closer, we feel more and hold on tighter. This town, this impatient life, makes us braver and a little more foolish...thank god for that.

But back to the question. What would (will) i keep forever? A card i received from a stranger (an old friend of my father's, i'm sure, but a stranger to me, nonetheless) just before leaving for new york that says: 

Dear Foram,

Believe in the beauty, the goodness, and the wisdom that are uniquely yours. There is only one you, and this world needs you, just as you are.

I look at that card whenever I feel like this city is going to chew me up and spit me out. It makes me brave, and I want to be brave forever.

Good bye Spring Break, Hello Spring!

In just a few hours, I'll be on a plane headed back to NYC neck-deep in work I've been putting off until the end of spring break. I'm not planning on sleeping much on the plane. I'll be outlining, note-taking, and reading until my eyes burn. Welcome back to the real world, Foram. 

Though I'm not looking forward to the exams and articles that await me, I am so excited to ring in spring with NYC. When I left for LA, I hoped that I would be greeted to a little bit of sunshine upon my return to the city. Daffodils, picnics, puppies and brunch! This is Manhattan Spring time... I can feel city on my skin already. 

Long-Awaited, Live Action,  Larger-than-Average, Love 'em and Leave 'em Artists, Late Always, La La Land.

I'm in beautiful Southern California, spending my lazy days watching Happy Gilmore with my windows open, soaking in the sun, going for walks, doing lunch, doing dinner, doing coffee; this is how the Los Angeleans do. 

In NYC I can smell the difference between human piss and dog piss (that's how you know you're a new yorker). City air is profound, sometimes violent; Valley air is different. It's mild, fragranced with honeysuckle and leaves and concrete, with just a hint of smog. On night drives, I roll down my window and let the cool air in, the way I used to when I was in High School driving home late. I swear, as soon as my hair starts flying, I'm 16 again. I'm 16, dreaming about what lies over the mountains, painting my life in my head--the people I would love, the memories I would learn, the person I would be-- as soon as I got to new york city. LA was where I was born; New York was where my life would begin.

Every year when I come back here, I seem to leave looking a little different. Last January, when I came back to LA for winter break, I left freshly inked with a feather on my left foot. 

This year, during my brief visit here for Spring Break I've punctured new holes into my body...ok, I could get pierced in more scandalous places, but still! My ears will never be the same.

I'm beginning to think that I make these marks on my body when I come back here as a sort of commemoration to my hometown. New York has changed me so much on the inside, it has marked and scarred and healed me. Los Angeles was for so long the place I wanted to leave, but lately it's turning into a place I am relearning, reliving, reloving. I want it to leave a mark on me...

25 things

Yes, we all love facebook-- even those of us who don't like to admit it. but this adorable, funny, charming kid (an internet crush? it was only a matter of time.) named Julian Smith made this video about the 25 things he hates about facebook, a spoof off of that chain note that has been going around, "25 things about me that you didn't know" or whatever it's called. the way it's made is smart and funny. watch it. love it. 

secrets for strangers 2.0

Thanks to last night's snowstorm, I got to sit down and do some spring cleaning...on my blog. I've had this thing since 2004, since I was a sophomore in high school, when blogging felt like a display of sheer hubris, so I kept it private until now. Now that the print world is turning into a digital one, and i'm taking a class to actually learn how to keep up, i decided it was time to make secrets for strangers public. 

that said, there was plenty of shit on this thing i had posted as an angst ridden teen for my eyes only. so i deleted that stuff, for the most part. hope i got all of it. 

the point is, starting now, this blog is reborn. welcome, strangers!

when life gives you lemons...get married!

Now I know why I can't get a guy to stick: this woman is marrying all of them
What I find really disturbing, though, is the fact that this woman is openly acknowledging the fact that she's kept up her serial nuptials for the sake of publicity. While I don't think it would be healthy for her to be under some delusion that she's married for love every time (signing your life away 23 times!?), I find it offensive that she's making a mockery of marriage in this way. Marriage wasn't invented to help you get air time. Now, I'm not saying that I believe in all that one-true-love bullshit, or even that "i'm gonna love you forever" is a reason to get hitched, but marriage is a promise-- i feel like it's the biggest commitment two people can make to each other, which is why it kind of is like signing your life away, at least part of it.
What's more, by throwing a proposal around like it's a coffee date, she's abusing the right that so many people in our country are being denied. She gets to marry 23 times, for no apparent reason other than, "it gets lonely," while fully committed couples who want to honor their relationships-- and who happen to be homosexual-- don't get to? There' s a disconnect there. 

At least she's making light of a potentially upsetting situation. yea, she's gotten 23 men to marry her, but she's also lost 23 husbands. 23 failed marriages is a lot to handle-- hell, 1 is a lot to handle. maybe this is just another way of making lemonade?

some thoughts on valentine's day

I don't hate valentine's day; i resent valentine's day.

Sure, it was invented by hallmark. Okay, everyday should be valentine's day. the commercialization of showing you care isn't what gets me; i am not worried about the mortality of chivalry and romance. I'm mostly mad about feeling discriminated against.

In a lot of ways, valentine's day is like a party that single people aren't invited to. Sure, I'm relatively cognizant of my singlehood every other 364 days, but i feel like each year invitations go out to couples everywhere, and if you're not on the couple train by february, you're out of luck. 

So, your friends get invitations, and all around you, everyone is asking,  "are you going to the party saturday?!" and if you say you have no plans, they say, "oh, thats ok," awkwardly, kicking themselves for not realizing that you didnt get invited. 

and then...THEN.  they say, oh, you should celebrate anyway, even if there's no special someone in your life. they might as well be saying, "oh, you didn't get invited to the party? it's not a big deal, you should come...come! it'll be fun! it's not a problem, we're all going, just come with us!"

the last thing i want to do is crash a party i wasn't invited to, especially if the last-minute, make-shift invite comes out of pity. "no, thank you," i say. " i actually got an invitation the other day to clean my bathroom, watch movies online and eat cold pizza by myself."

What boggles my mind, though, are those girls who manage to have a valentine every year. they're the girls who slip into relationships every year just in time for the dreaded v-day. 

they make it look so easy... 

"...I slid the picture of us between the layers of books on my shelf. I wanted to forget it ever existed, and sitting at my desk it was too much to see, swept up between old magazines and envelopes. It caught my eye on a regular basis, and it never got easier to look at. I thought it would, god, I prayed it would.  when you left and I told you i was fine i held my breath when i buried my head in your shoulder, because i just knew if i ever smelled the scent of your hair again i would never get it out of my head. so i let you leave, and didn't turn my head to look back, because i thought i was being brave. 

do you remember the picture? i took it on an old disposable camera, there were only 4 or 5 shots left on the roll and we were sitting next to each other on that big couch in your living room. i think you were having a party. even then, when i barely knew you (the way your hands, your lips, your head feel rested on the nape of my neck), i knew that you hated having your picture taken. so i pulled you in by the shoulders and snapped one quick. you're making a face in the picture, only half smiling. my cheek is pressed to yours, the first time ever. it looks like one of those shots that couples take on vacation, trying to get the background in, but fail because the angle is all wrong. sometimes i look at that picture just to see your face close up. 

but this is not why i'm writing to you. i'm writing to you because i told you i would  write when things changed. you told me in those last days, that if i ever changed, you wanted to know, because one day you would come back for me and you would want to know if my hair was shorter or if i grew a few inches or if i started to like "better" music. you held my hand, do you remember? and you whispered it to me, like it was a secret or something that was too important to say out loud. and then you laughed at yourself for sounding like such a girl and you made me swear i wouldn't tell anyone that you softened so much when i held your hand. i said ok.

i've waited, impatiently. but the days are hard and the nights are worse, and i can't keep this light on without beginning to fear the dark.  you said this is something you have to do. and i understood, i still do. but there is only so far you can go before you forget how to find your way back..."

“…And two years later, I’ve stopped crying. Not because I don’t want to cry anymore, well, not just because I don’t want to cry anymore, but because my tear ducts physically can’t take it anymore. See these dark circles?” she pointed to the shadowy patches under her eyes, “these are the result of rubbing tears from my eyes too hard. My doctor said if I kept going the way I was I might actually go blind from popping too many vessels around my eyes.”
She said it all so casually over her pad thai, as she balanced her chopsticks between her index and ring fingers. She watched her hands carefully as they fidgeted, eventually giving up and resorting to the fork rested on her plate (just in case).
For some reason I wasn’t uncomfortable the way I usually am when someone is so honest about her pain, especially someone I’m supposed to look at as a sort of caretaker. Her candor was somehow humbling, somehow made her more human to me, somehow made me more human to myself

Her raw sores were beginning to callous, slowly. The things she was telling me about so coolly, I’m sure were the things that brought such poisonous tears to her eyes just a few months ago.

How brave she must be, I thought, to still be sitting in front of me, after losing a life she had loved so much. Not just a man, or a house, or a weekend routine, but an entire life…
To lose the life you had, and halfway through, have to start over, and rebuild from empty scraps—an old couch, dusty carpets, unused china. The thought was almost unbearable. It still is.

It only bends


She said, The mourning never ends,
it never stops hurting
but over time,
you change.
And because of that, the way you mourn changes.
The sadness doesn’t end,
it only bends.

But I just couldn’t get over the thought
of knowing a face so intimately,
so unbearably close,
Remembering what it was like to hold it in your lap,
rested between your palms,
and to know every hair on it.

And even more,
To know that you’d never see that face again,
Never feel that head in your lap,
It was almost unthinkable.

Old memories would be changed
Somehow,
because every sensation would be veiled
by a pang of loss,
like it was now.

I saw her eyes glaze over a little bit,
And I knew in that moment,
She could see her
Feel her near
and I knew that her lap was weighed down a little,
her palms rested at two cheeks.

In that moment, I felt her
Bruised spirit molding
around an instant of utter happiness,
Bending.
Behind those sad
doe eyes
was this enormous
Looming Love
of what had been.

Her love was so vocal, so real,
so alive.
And maybe by feeling it so vividly,
so desperately,
she was proving that she hadn’t lost
anything at all.

“Just go,” she said, so resolutely. “Don’t think about it, because when you think too hard you stop doing. Do while you can, and then think about it later.” Two hours into our coffee, we were jumping from place to place in her life, from her time in Tibet to South Africa to India to New Zealand to Portland back to New York City. She spoke effortlessly about each adventure, not hesitating between locations, hardly taking a breath. I was overwhelmed. I couldn’t wrap my head around each place, I couldn’t fathom breathing in such different air, hearing such different languages, being so far away from everything, alone. Only not.
Having the courage to leave is something I’ve been holding onto so tightly, something I held so close to me, to think that now I’m struggling with it all over again is both frustrating and exciting. It’s a familiar anxiety, but one that reminds me that I’m growing. This is when the stretching happens.
I am astonished with how easy it seems. Maybe it is that easy, when you stop thinking so much.
She sounded so sure that I could do it, that it was right. After so much skepticism and disbelief I thought I was asking too much of myself, too much of the world. But she made it so real. I feel like she’s someone I’m supposed to know. Dad says that’s because she is.
There was a moment when we were talking, maybe it lasted longer than a moment, I don’t know, where I realized that this was a turning point. This moment, this meeting, this person collected, was a catalyst. She was placed in front of me, with her “to go” cup rested next to my “for here” mug, to remind me of the beauty in uprooting myself, of letting go of what you know and holding on for dear life to what you don’t. Some moment of clarity reminded me that there never was a choice…what a familiar, overwhelming feeling.
It was like someone just woke me up, like someone just told me the truth. It reminded me of what it was like for my life to change—for it to mold and bend in and around an instant, without excuse or warning. I am so excited about my life.

“Our greatest fear is not that we are inadequate, but that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness, that frightens us.” These compelling words by Nelson Mandela will always be relevant to us, yet they take on even greater meaning now in some of the most formative years of our lives. And as we approach the end of a school year that has battered and bruised us, bothered and bewildered us, intimidated and inspired us, we are now faced with something even more daunting than the past: the future.
For soon-to-be sophomores, juniors, seniors, and high school graduates, the cycle continues; as time slowly charms us into moving forward, we continue to move, learning that letting go is a necessary aspect of surging onward. Releasing ourselves from our own securities- our friends, our families, our favorite restaurants- we are forced to be alone with ourselves. Perhaps what scares us so much about being alone is the idea that we might be better off that way. That maybe, despite all outside influences, we are extraordinary individuals. Because, really, once you realize you’re extraordinary, you can’t let it go to waste; you’ve got to realize your potential. Thus, we are thrust into the spotlight of our imaginations: fearful of failure, but even more fearful of mediocrity. It’s easy to get lost in that light.
But the exciting thing about getting lost is that it is when we are alone searching for something that life gets interesting. And it is the fact that we are never truly certain what we are searching for so constantly, so endlessly, so painfully, that keeps us discovering ourselves.
So as the year ends, embrace all of the things you have learned and take them with you as you brace yourself for the knowledge to come.
We are chameleons, extraordinary magicians, who continually surprise ourselves, and have “power beyond measure,” if we allow ourselves to see it.
We know no boundaries, only those we set upon ourselves that desperately need to be stretched in order to prevail. So as we pack our things and head off for vacation, or school, or work, I hope that after all this time waiting for your departure from home, you are more excited about your arrival into the world.

Newton’s First Law of Motion states that an object in motion tends to stay in motion in the same direction unless acted upon by an external force. Tell us about an external influence (a person, an event, etc.) that affected you and how it caused you to change direction.

I was born with a curse; his name is Deep- my overbearing, overprotective, over-everything older brother. Of course, my brother has always toyed with my thoughts. Growing up, he told me that having brown hair meant it was made of beans, that squinting was a fashion statement, and that showers were actually completely unnecessary and only adult rituals. He so heavily influenced my thought, that as his impressionable kid sister, I was at his mercy. And he knew it.
I was raised by boys, and by the tender age of seven, I could out-wrestle, out-curse, and outwit any boy in my second grade class. I was a competitive video game player among my boy cousins, and insisted on playing ghost busters over tea party. My brother relished in my being a tomboy; he’d always wanted a little brother. But by being more of a little brother than a little sister, I never got a chance to be myself.
This insecurity grew with me over time. I constantly second-guessed my decisions because I was afraid of making the wrong one. I didn’t have the confidence to believe that I could reach my goals. I was afraid of letting my loved ones down and I was afraid that I would never fulfill my potential. All these stigmas inhibited my actions- I didn’t feel like I could do anything as well as my brother could.
Becoming close to my brother was something I had never anticipated. As similar as we were in interest and age, our differences made it impossible for us to understand one another. As I grew and became more of a girl, he grew and became more of a boy, and we went our separate ways.
Somewhere along the line, something changed and some mystical, unmistakable, undeniable force brought us together. Perhaps it was a shift in the cosmos or a new balance between good and evil. Maybe it was something we had eaten that morning. Whatever the cause, my brother began to reach out to me. Whether it was by inviting me to watch television with him, or simply asking for my advice on what to wear, my brother slowly emerged as a friend: my best friend, in fact.
We are still incredibly different; everything about us- our humor, our style, our opinions, our personalities- seems to conflict and complement simultaneously. While he watches football games we discuss the latest celebrity gossip; while I shop at the mall he tags along and looks for video games. He has managed to be the most supportive yet most grounding source in my everyday life: he’ll readily admit how proud he is of me, but will just as quickly belittle my confidence. I think only a big brother can do that - only my big brother can do that.
His moments of support linger in my mind when I’m riddled with insecurity; I simply say to myself, “If Deep thinks I can do it, I bet I can.” When I’m racked with guilt, I hear his words of approval. And when I think that I’m the best I can be, I always remember that there’s someone waiting for me to be better.
Somehow we find a balance between brother-sister and best friends. We fight, we argue, we quarrel, we give each other the silent treatment. And along the way, we learn from each other. From him, I’ve learned one of the greatest lessons of all: that some curses can be blessings.

so here i am, grateful to feel anything because for some reason theres this overwhelming numbness that i cant seem to get away from. i've dubbed it my 1/5 life crisis. ripe ol' age of 17 and 11 months, ive let the rain start to fall a little. a little more than a light drizzle- a few puddles here and there, and occasionally a little blue in the sky. i cant seem to do anything but dream but dreaming is what scares me most right now. i dont know. theres something so terrifying about "laying all your cards out on the table"- its a strange feeling of triumph just for having the courage for doing it at all. even if it hurts a little. the strange thing is, the things i love, the things that are so deeply embedded in my blood, pumping through my veins, are making me hurt. but something about the hurt is comforting, because i know that hurt is better than nothing at all. and the hurt is only temporary, i hope. i hope that soon i wont have to close my eyes to smile.

I think the scariest thing is believing that you have some sort of perfect approximation of your own capabilities. Some people take comfort in it- i think i did too- but lately i've been hoping more and more to prove myself wrong. Maybe theres some sort of deep-rooted self-deprecation that we all take part in by imposing our own understandings of our limitations; by setting a sort of barrier between what is possible and impossible, there's no way we can get hurt, right? No harm, no foul. But the thing is, having these sort of barriers kind of freaks me out- it's probably the same reason organized religion kind of freaks me out- because it's almost like slapping a post-it on your forehead that says, "you can dream as much as you want, just dont pass this line: _____." and every morning when you look in that mirror, you see that invisible post-it in your reflection and though part of you takes comfort in knowing something for certain in an all too uncertain world, the other part is secretly dying, just hoping that you're wrong about who you think you are.
i think i'm beginning to rediscover that internal struggle that everyone talks so fondly about- i want so badly to be bigger than i actually am, i can almost feel myself on proverbial tippy-toes. and i almost feel like a spectator in my own life, taking part in a sort of audience-interactive play, where i can tell the characters what to do, and occasionally take part in the performance, but for the most part, i know that i'm pretty much helpless when it comes to the outcome. i just wish someone would let me in on the secret, you know? what an awful feeling it is to expect rejection.
so i'll take one day at a time (i dont have much of a choice), and try to take the advice i've been giving to everyone else for far too long. i'll just keep doing what i love, and hope that the people that hold my future in the palm of their hands see in me what ive always seen in my reflection, sans that bloody post-it.

been a long time. sorry. this summer has been the worst, but im starting to ease back into myself, slowly
dancing is really helping me do that

around this time last summer, i heard sarma sir hum a little tune to my teacher, an idea he had for a thilana. i remember so vividly listening to him and not blinking. i know i didnt blink because the second i took my eyes off him the rest of the room was dark. i also think i must have been smiling, only because whenever i think about it now i smile.
we learned the dance in about a week. i say about because i think it was more like 5 or 6 days of intense, exciting, exhausting 4 hour classes where all i thought about was dancing. im pretty sure thats all that was running through my mind, i was happy that way. i still wonder how we did it, not just myself and my fellow dancers, but sarma sir. how did he create something like that in such a short time? not only that, but literally in front of our eyes. he would take small breaks from us, i could tell, he would close his eyes and sing to himself and i knew that his mind was racing with numbers and counts and rhythms and hand gestures and all we could do was stand quietly and wait. and then he would come back to us with another piece of creation.
and then he went back to india, just as swiftly as he came and left us with the dance
he came back this summer and made a few changes, which was expected. he made it harder, which was expected. and yesterday we did it again, in its entirety, for the first time in a long time, and for some reason it felt like we had never taken a break at all, as if he was in front of us, with his eyes closed, nodding with approval at our sloppy aramandis, as we desperately tried to remember the intricate rhythms again.
and all i could do was smile at the fact that we had watched this baby being born, experienced this art being created. for as long as i live, as many times as i watch different dancers bring this piece to life, i will be able to say that i was among the first. it gives me goosebumps

A few months ago, in a sincere attempt to take initiative and bond, I promised my father that I would soon join him on his evening walks. This evening, when he returned home from work, he entered my room and asked me to walk. With his laces already tied, I was bound to my word, so I grabbed my shoes.
Heading down the street, the heat was almost unbearable and my father began to chat about his priestly endeavors, discussing the significance of a marriage license. I smiled and nodded, concentrating mostly on the designs of the cracks in the sidewalk. Before I knew it, there was a small dog at my feet; a short-legged Jack Russell Terrier, stout and rambunctious. One of those small dogs that’s born convinced she is bigger than she looks. Though we couldn’t help but laugh, I couldn’t help but admire her.
She passed us, and we walked on. My father said to me, “Up the street you’ll see Anju and Manju, they’re dying to meet you. Every day they ask for you.”

What? I looked at him like he was crazy.

Before he could answer any questions, I was greeted by a girl on a scooter, Anju, or maybe it was Manju, one of the eleven year old Sri Lankan twins adopted just two years ago by a kind suburban family living in Kansas. They moved here recently and since then my father had apparently developed with them a relationship of sorts.
I saw the girl run to her mother and say my name, pointing at me. I walked to the girls and introduced myself.

“Today is my birthday,” one of them said, “I’m eleven”
Happy birthday, I said to one, I forgot to mention it to the other.
As I walked down their driveway, a strange sensation came over me; I can only believe it is the feeling of being loved by strangers. My father saw my face, unchanged, still utterly confused
“See how much love they have?”
I didn’t answer
“That’s the way love is.”
And all my questions vanished.

We turned the corner, and Sir Geoffrey greeted us. He was knighted by my father not long ago, this crazy old man. Every evening he asks my father if he can walk with him for 100 steps (“no more, no less, I promise”), and chat. The trouble is, every time he joins my dad, he becomes so occupied with counting his steps that all conversation is lost. I walked a little behind the two of them, two crazy old men in different ways, and mused at the humanity of it all. There was Sir Geoffrey, my father’s knight, who would occasionally turn to me and call me princess. And there was my dad, laughing with a man most would turn away from.
Geoffrey had headed back a few paces ago, and my father spent the last quarter of a mile droning on about the art of shoe insoles. As I absentmindedly nodded, I looked at the neighborhood I had spent my entire life in, a neighborhood I knew nothing about, a neighborhood made up of different worlds, different universes. I looked at my father, my tour guide through this vast place, and saw his chest swell with pride. Had I done that? Had my mere presence on this Monday evening ignited that glimmer in his eye?
I wondered if he felt my love in my silence. I knew he did. I guess that’s just the way love is.

after too long away from my sari, i put it on today, trying to remember the perfect number of pleats that always made it fall just the right way, and the perfect length it needed to be to tie around my waist. i started to get nervous as i wrapped myself up in this sort of inherited wrapping paper, worrying that i had been out of practice for too long, that maybe it would be easier to just miss one more class. but as i willed myself into the yards of fabric, still embedded with the familiar scent of washed-out sweat stains mixed with scented fabric softener, i began to feel a little more like myself.

when the dancing started, i stopped thinking. i forgot how beautiful that is; how my spine tingles when the music starts to play, and how my toes begin to twitch as they remember the movements to the dances i thought i had forgotten.

by the end of class, my back was sore, my face was red, and my feet were throbbing, the way a baby feels when she is born. maybe the way we all feel when we're born again, in different ways.
it's funny to think that i almost forgot about this part of me; it's scary to think that i almost wanted to forget about this part of me. it's comforting to know that regardless of how far i get away from it, i'll always come back.

i think if, for one solitary second, i ever thought that i was in over my head, i proved myself wrong. and im so happy i did. its funny that going into something thinking "if i can do this, i can do anything", i never thought what it would be like afterward. i didnt even consider what it would feel like to actually do it. its incredible. i've still got a lot to do, but i feel so comfortable with the challenges ahead of me. they dont scare me as much as they did before, and that feels good-- to feel just a little bit taller after so much work, so little sleep, so many challenges. i like that this feeling isn't wearing off, and i hope it never does. this is cool.
and it doesnt hurt that after nine months of no real social life, i finally get it back

so, i just watched garden state for the second time in two days-- i've found that when im not watching it, i'm thinking about it. not because it changed me, or because it affected the way i see or think, but because it told me what ive been thinking. it told me exactly what i posted about before (which is kind of weird)(see 10/2/04). the thing is, whether you're 17, or 27, or 57, we all have this common link-- we're all searching for something, constantly, endlessly, painfully. but theres this beautiful mutual understanding that we all have with one another and with ourselves: we know that in order to find home, we've got to get a little lost. and being lost is where life gets interesting; its where we make the stories we tell our kids about, its what we think about right before we go to sleep in our safe, comfortable beds. and its the fact that we change our definitions of what is security and what is uncertainty so often that proves that we're growing.
i guess this movie did that for me.
there's no "between the lines" crap to think about. it's all there, sincerely, wholly, candidly.and before i knew it, i found the best and worst parts of myself in each character, and i connected on an entirely knew stage: i connected with myself.

yesterday while walking to the parking lot, trying to avoid the puddles (because the rain had just stopped), i was looking at the ground around me reflecting the parking lot lights, and all of a sudden i saw heavy rain drops start to fall into the puddles just a few feet ahead of me, while i was standing, dry, rain-free. it lasted for a split second, and within moments i was drenched, but it was long enough for me to tell myself to remember that instant forever, because for some reason, after that, it didn't feel so bad to be in the rain

colin hay- i just dont think ill ever get over you

god this song is beautiful. it makes you feel like when you hit your funny bone or fall on your ass; it hurts and part of you wants to cry and the other part wants to laugh, and at the same time that your eyes tear up, you smile. its happy sadness, or, im okay sadness
i think it feels like that

its number 5 on the garden state soundtrack- if you have the cd and havent listened to this song, do-- if you dont have the cd, find some way to listen to the song.

few things feel better than feeling capable.
capable of doing anything, really, from climbing mountains, to aceing that test, to running a marathon, to living your dreams. and i think thats what i've taken away from this experience. not just confidence (because confidence can easily screw you over) (i already had confidence), but the sensation of feeling that i can do this. i think its something we love to hear ourselve say, and love even more to believe, but nothing can replace what its like to feel it. and i think its such an integral part of my life and how i want to live, that im surprised i've gone on this long without it, or at least without acknowledging it. i think that now i can always remind myself that im capable-- even if im not, i can try to bullshit my way through it-- and i can really try to move, not just forward, but in all sorts of directions, and see beauty in both my triumphs and my failures.

Now i appreciate days when the sky is so clear you feel like you can look through it, when it feels like the sun is patting your shoulders, when the clouds are moving faster than your breath, when you can lie on your back in the grass and forget yourself and hear nothing but a song playing in your head, and when a run-on doesn't feel like a run-on at all.

i really have to get a new calendar, i desperately need the perspective

in an effort to get people to look
into each other's eyes more,
the government has decided to allot
each person exactly one hundred
and sixty-seven words, per day.

when the phone rings, i put it
to my ear without saying hello.
in the restaurant, i point
at chicken noodle soup. i am
adjusting well to the new way.

late at night, i call my long-
distance lover and proudly say:
"i only used fifty-nine today.
i saved the rest for you.

"when she doesn't respond, i know
she's used up all her words,
so i slowly whisper i love you,
thirty-two and a third times.
after that, we just sit on the line
and listen to each other breathe.

-jeffrey mcdaniel, the quiet world

stole the air from my lungs

this is my year

The buzz has begun again as it has every year, arriving with the changing leaves of the numerable deciduous trees on our campus: college applications. As an insider looking around, I’ve noticed the pressure mounting for quite some time; for about as long as we’ve been in high school. It’s a frightening process: trying to condense four years of your academic and extracurricular achievement on an 8 1/2x 11 sheet of paper; and even worse, trying to sum up your intellectual, personal, and social being in 500 words or less. Perhaps what makes us most nervous is the fact that we might not be who those college admissions officers want us to be, that maybe we’ve wasted our years in high school taking the wrong classes, joining the wrong sports, or focusing on the wrong subjects. There are countless things wrong with the application process- from the unbalanced emphasis of test scores over personality to the limitations we put on ourselves trying to be the “well-rounded” student we hope they’re looking for. It is in this twisted form of prostitution that we try to sell ourselves, wrapped up in the perfect package, ready and willing to be molded into the leaders of tomorrow. But what if we’re leaders now? What if all this talk about needing to be chosen is just another way of learning to choose ourselves over everything else; what if it’s about putting ourselves first, and not allowing a letter to determine just how worthy we are of greatness. Regardless of where you start, more important is the journey you take to end up where you want to be. College is just part of that journey, part of our never-ending quest to make a difference; and while it may change our lives, may alter our futures, may even change us as people, it is only as big and bad as we make it. College is like any other test- it can make us or break us. But it cannot measure how capable we are of fulfilling our potential. It’s alright if an admission’s officer doesn’t see it, as long as you do.

Love is in the Air
J. Covarrubias

With the cold air of winter comes the sweet warmth of hot chocolate, wearing scarves, and holding hands. As the seasons change once again, we begin to experience what we as Southern Californians rarely see: winter. Rejoicing in the perfect weather to actually wear out pea coats and scarves, enjoying the beginnings of holiday celebrations, and realizing what forty degree weather feels like while wearing flip flops, the students of the RH seem to welcome the cold weather with great affability and enthusiasm. Yet it is significant that as the weather cools, friendships warm up. Recently it has become overwhelmingly noticeable to see our Regents walking two by two. Perhaps it is in the ritualistic hibernation of wintertime that finding someone to keep warm with becomes just a natural solution to keep warm. Some blame the flood of new relationships on the holidays, which are notoriously known to incite cheer and friendliness, while others see it as a “domino effect” on the populace, with one relationship provoking the next and so forth. Walking through the senior quad at lunch, however, the effect seems undeniably to be a result of “love, actually.” It has been likened to a lottery, in which during the springtime the names are thrown into a hat, and shaken through summer and fall, until just the right breeze moves in, and an unlikely person moves just an inch closer to keep warm.
You might wonder why clichéd high school romance should make this issues column, and I guess it is my place to explain the logic behind the madness, but I think Nietzsche phrased it just right when he said, “There is always some madness in love, but there is also some reason in madness.” The truth is, the friendships and relationships that grow and blossom through high school seem to capture the instance in which the wind rustling in the leaves and the warm breath from a sigh can dissolve all reason to grow up and yet give proof that we have. Having a reason to come to school, besides the thrilling adventure of a calculus test, makes each day all the more meaningful. As students, we are often so wrapped up into the ideals of teenage angst and the overpowering thought of destruction accompanying a “B” that we fail to see past ourselves for a second. The reason behind the madness is ultimately the fact that we start caring about someone else for a second. It is not in the “give a little, get a lot” kind of way, but in the give a little, feel better about yourself kind of way that we make it through the cold winters.
The Beatles knew it best when they said “all you need is love.” For us seniors, life seems to move to the beat of the newest Outkast song; so fast you forget the lyrics. Through the momentous last months of our winter in high school, I propose we stir to the rhythm of oldies, the classics, the ones you catch yourself singing in the shower. Perhaps the tune may not be about someone in particular for you, but it will remind you to love the time of year when love is in the air.

A few years ago my parents changed the locks of our front door. I don’t know whether it was out of a sense of safety or for piece of mind, but what I do know is that they didn’t tell me about it. After a couple of weeks of frustration trying to get in with the wrong key, I finally took a hint and asked my parents about it, and with an ease and nonchalance, they handed me the new key, wondering why I hadn’t asked them for one earlier.
For years I’ve come home on my own; with two parents working overtime all the time, I’ve always gotten a lot of time to myself. I’ve always entered the house with my own set of keys.
So when they changed the locks, I added a new key to my chain. It looks identical to the old one, so they’re impossible to tell apart. I know I should just take the old key out of the chain altogether- I’m sure it would be much easier. But I don’t. And so everyday for the past 3 years I’ve tried to open the door using the guess and check method. And the first key I pick is always the wrong key- and my gut always tells me it’s the wrong key. But I try it anyway. And every time I finally open the door I laugh at myself, and wonder why I don’t just listen to my gut, but then I think, at least I can hear it; that’s progress.

she's starting to believe

so this my crack at 100 grand....

"How does your American Dream compare to that of your parents?"

For as long as I can remember, my father and I have congregated at the same place every morning- the bathroom. As I brushed and he shaved, we would take turns using the sink, never actually acknowledging one another, but always knowing the other’s presence by the humming of our respective tunes. Mine changed throughout the years; beginning as a school song or lullaby, it graduated to the newest Spice Girl number by the tender age of nine, and now varies from Broadway showtunes to top 40 hits. My father’s music choices have varied as well; I remember him humming old, unfamiliar Indian film songs, sometimes a smattering of newer numbers, and occasionally a recognizable tune that I could sing along to.
It’s no surprise that we start each morning the same way; music is a big part of our family- my dad is a musician and singer; his devotion to the tabla has played an instrumental role in how I was brought up. I’ve kept up the classical music tradition by my immersion in Bharatanatyam, a classical form of Indian dance.
My dad came to America when he was twenty-one and through a series of (chance, fateful, random) meetings and opportunities, wound up with a stable career and healthy family. He took a chance by coming to America- hopping from state to state, he worked hard at school and engineering, yet he continued to play for audiences across the country. As a young man, my father wanted nothing more than to perform, but he carried in his suitcase a greater sense of obligation and responsibility to the roots he had left in India and the seeds he would embed in this land of opportunity- and I don’t blame him; as the first in his family to come to this unfamiliar world of purple mountain majesties, to think of the pressure he felt is almost as overwhelming as the prospect of doing what he did. My dad put his dreams aside because he thought that if he could establish new roots in America, the ones he loved would have a shot at greatness, and that would make his sacrifice worthwhile.
So I know he understands when I tell him I want to perform. Despite the social stigma that the occupation of “actor” carries in our well-meaning, traditional Indian culture, he knows it’s in my blood. When I consider it, our dreams aren’t so different at all; it’s only a matter of circumstance. The twinkle in my eye is only a reflection of the stars I reach for- and I can’t help but have this feeling that he’s seen those stars before, he’s reached for them and that now, more than ever, his dream is for me to make mine a reality.
So when he joins me in singing a Rod Stewart classic, or when I try to keep up with a folk song in Gujarati, our native tongue, I hear more than just two raspy morning-breath voices. I hear music.


is it worth $100,000? please feel free to comment.

Yahoo! Photos - new york city

where i was supposed to be born

tomorrow im going to the place that i've been infatuated with for as long as i can remember. if it's possible, i feel like it's the place that i was supposed to live in. i know, it's populous- hell, crowded- for a reason: broadway, saks, the rockettes- what's not to love? but i feel like its different that i've known since i was eleven that will live there someday. it's weird but, i feel like a part of me is in the core of that big apple... or maybe its the other way around

ok, i enabled the comment thing on my blog. i'm not quite sure why; maybe it's out of curiosity or sheer hubris, i dunno. nevertheless, comment if you feel the need- if you have something to say, that is. if not, don't bother, you can post comments on my livejournal for frivolous matters. i think im a blog snob, maybe it's because i was a blog reader before anything else, and the blogs i read were really really good blogs... they were written by writers, you know? so i only blog when its important and when i mean it. so please, only comment if you mean it. you can join my elitist blog regime

from a mixed media piece by david wojnarowicz (read it aloud) :
"When I put my hands on your body on your flesh I feel the history of that body. Not just the beginning of its forming in that distant lake but all the way beyond its ending. I feel the warmth and texture and simultaneously I see the flesh unwrap from the layers of fat and disappear. I see the fat disappear from the muscle. I see the muscle disappearing from around the organs and detaching itself from the bones. I see the organs gradually fade into transparency leaving a gloaming skeleton gleaming like ivory that slowly revolves until it becomes dust. I am consumed in the sense of your weight the way your flesh occupies momentary space the fullness of it beneath my palms. I am amazed at how perfectly your body fits to the curves of my hands. If I could attach our blood vessels so we could become each other I would. If I could attach our blood vessels in order to anchor you to the earth to this present time to me I would. If I could open up your body and slip inside your skin and look out your eyes and forever have my lips fused with yours I would. It makes me weep to feel the history of your flesh beneath my hands in a time of so much loss. It makes me weep to feel the movement of your flesh beneath my palms as you twist and turn over to one side to create a series of gestures to reach up around my neck to draw me nearer. All these memories will be lost in time like tears in the rain." - David Wojnarowicz [The Estate Project]
-brilliant

i'm lucky to be who i am, and i'm grateful for it. because while i don't always like my surroundings or the place i am physically, i always manage to stay in a healthy state of mind. i'm glad i havent compromised myself or my goals and opinions. i love me. and i think that'll keep me from screwing myself over.

i forget that living like weasels means living like weasels, not just dancing like weasels, or acting like weasels. it means doing everything intensely and sincerely.. to be a survivalist in everything you do. everything

i'm really enjoying this not having much to do stuff... i keep thinking im forgetting something. and lately i've been thinking about things that evoke really specific feelings but then i lose the thought and am left with the feelings, which range from one extreme to the other, but still manage to make me feel the way i feel when someone's just told me a really secretive secret and i kind of cant help but smile and not worry about what it is that im forgetting, because, really, it doesn't matter what it is, its just how it feels, right?
that was one sentence. now you know its foram talking, lest you forget.

Last night my brother called me to tell me a little something and ask me where I was, like he normally did at home; it was the question that i most frequently hung up on him for. Anyway,
I made a list of the things I miss (which I will absolutely deny if brought up in conversation):

not having any towels in the bathroom (because he uses everyone's towels...which is just too gross to really put into words)
hearing the rumble of his running up the stairs and then the thunder that soon followed when he would fall down them after tripping over his feet
of course, the loud music that always kept me up at night, and the clatter in the kitchen at two in the morning (while he made himself a midnight snack
the fact that he was always awake in the middle of the night when I got home late, so instead of fiddling with my key to open the front door, I could just tap on his window and ask him to let me in.
that stupid whistle that i'd always hoped he'd grow out of.

So thats my list of the little things so far. those stupid little things that make me laugh and manage to put tears in my eyes. those things that'll probably drive me crazy again when he comes home to visit.

Tonight for the first time in my young life my mom told me that i will be famous. Must be the blue moon

today is my dad's 52nd birthday, and we're celebrating it the same way we've done for years... having the extended family over for dinner and the live musical entertainment of my dad, uncle, and aunt. both my father and uncle are classically trained musicians, dad on tabla and uncle on harmonium, and my aunt is a trained singer. so when they play together, sparks fly. they sing the old old indian songs that they've sung all my life, songs that they grew up with, and re-created for me to grow up with. i close my eyes and listen, and sometimes secretly sing along in my mind, and sometimes, i get a lump in my throat because the next thing i know, i feel fireworks in my stomach, and i feel nothing but love. and, every year, my clandestine emotions that stay deeply seeded in my thoughts for the other 364 days , pop to the surface, and spark my dreams all over again.

... a lot of people say that loneliness is the worst feeling in the world, but i find something exciting about it. when i feel truly lonely, i sometimes get this rush of hope, this feeling of expectation, this sense of optimism... as if i'm bursting with so much love and passion and friendship that i'm just so ready and willing to give and receive. i don't know, call it masochism, tragic optimism, whatever. i think that that's why when love does come around, in all forms, i'll able to really appreciate it and hold on to it.

i went to hillary's house a couple of weeks ago. we played with the camera 

my teacher's teacher has come from india for the summer so i've been dancing everyday for the past two weeks. i love it. i've learned two new incredible dances -- and painful. so painful. but i love every second of it. it's indescribable watching sarma sir (my teacher's teacher) choreograph. it's as if he closes his eyes and zooms out of everything and under his breath he hums the melody and on his fingers counts the beats and weaves them together into the most complex combinations... its crazy. it's so inspiring. i love this

My cousin is one of People's 50 Most Eligible Bachelors.
It's so strange. I'm very proud... and all of a sudden my parents are starting to like my ideas. Or at least they aren't objecting to it all as much, which is nice. I hope it's progress.

"My Fatal Flaw

The more things change, the more they stay the same. I'm not sure who the first person was who said that. Probably Shakespeare. Or maybe Sting. But at the moment, it's the sentence that best explains my tragic flaw: my inability to change.
I don't think I'm alone in this. The more I get to know other people, the more I realize it's kind of everyone's flaw. Staying exactly the same for as long as possible, standing perfectly still... It feels safer somehow. And if you are suffering, at least the pain is familiar. Because if you took that leap of faith, went outside the box, did something unexpected... Who knows what other pain might be out there, waiting for you. Chances are it could be even worse.
So you maintain the status quo. Choose the road already traveled and it doesn't seem that bad. Not as far as flaws go. You're not a drug addict. You're not killing anyone... Except maybe yourself a little.
When we finally do change, I don't think it happens like an earthquake or an explosion, where all of a sudden we're a different person. I think it's smaller than that. The kind of thing most people wouldn't even notice unless they looked at us really close. Which, thank God, they never do.
But you notice it. Inside you that change feels like a world of difference. And you hope this is it. This is the person you get to be forever... that you'll never have to change again. "

i didn't write it, but i wish i had
anyway, i can identify

Who knew cake could be so much fun? (Una and Jennifer did!) 

Love and Genes Can Beat Poverty -Study

Wed May 26, 6:15 AM ET Add Science - Reuters to My Yahoo!



LONDON (Reuters) - Love and genes can overcome even the most abject poverty, according to a study into the effects of environmental factors on child development.



The study of 1,116 mothers and their five-year-old same-sex twins in poor households in England and Wales found that poverty did not have to be a life sentence and the right combination of parental care and genetics could triumph over adversity.


"Children in our study experienced more than just poverty as measured by family income level, Julia Kim-Cohen of the Institute of Psychiatry at King's College in London wrote in the May issue of the journal Child Development.


"Living in the poorest neighborhoods, their homes were rated as being overcrowded, damp or in disrepair," she added.


The study differentiated between twins sharing all the same genes and those sharing only half.


It showed that genetic makeup does play a role in the ability of children to rise above their poverty and not suffer behavioral or cognitive setbacks, but it was not the whole answer.


"The warmth, mental stimulation and interest that parents pay toward their young children can make a big difference in their children's lives," Kim-Cohen said.


Fellow researcher Terrie Moffitt said they only studied mothers because in many of the poorest households the father was absent, so trying to look at both parents in families where the father was still present would have skewed the study.


"The main point of the research is that neither genes nor poverty can determine a child's fate," Kim-Cohen said.



.... fascinating... just how many mothers with five-year old twins living in poverty are there in England and Wales? (around 1,600, i guess)

The Essay I’ll Never Send

I am not a genius. In fact, I’m far from it. I’m even, dare I say it, a drama kid. I hope you’re sitting down for this one. For most of my life I’ve been labeled as “gifted” by teachers and administrators because of what I think is one of the greatest stunts ever pulled. You see, my brother is an intelligent bastard. I say this in the most admiring, caring, little-sister way. Because my brother’s impeccable ability to not only grasp information, but to use this knowledge to his advantage in argument (which is one of his greatest hobbies) not only accidentally labeled me as one of his kind (simply because we are of the same kin), but supported this suspicion (for my brother would fight to the death if I were considered incapable in any way by anyone other than himself.)
My parents are smart cookies. And I guess, scientifically, hereditarily, logically, they produced smart offspring. But like I said, I’m really not as intelligent as everyone thinks I am. But here I am, selling myself to you like so many others, wrapped up neat and clean in a little package ready to be opened. I am who you are looking for: Driven, Motivated, Determined, and Redundant. It is in this twisted form of prostitution that we all await your Judgment, the way we have been taught to await it; with the knowledge that your decision will significantly alter our futures.
Well-- let –me--tell -- you Mr. Undergraduate Admissions Honcho, as well qualified and perceptive as you may be, this is one future you can’t change. Because I’ve got one thing that you really can’t see on a transcript, or even on paper for that matter. I’ve got the thing that separates the gifted in life from the gifted on paper. I’ve got It. I can feel it in my veins, pumping through my blood; I can see it in my reflection; I can hear it in my head. I’ve got that one indescribable, incomparable, irreplaceable quality that no one can actually put their finger on. And I have every intention of being famous. I’ll win a Nobel Peace Prize, or an Academy Award-- or maybe both. You’re kids will know my name- your kids’ kids will know my name. And I will do great things in the world- you can bet on it. How’s that for Gifted?

I have a tendency to frighten people. Not intentionally, of course. And not in the Oh-my-god-look-at-that-thing-growing-out-of-her-head sort of way, but rather in the Oh-good-god-what’s-wrong-with-her sense. You see, I’m a rather excitable person, and in my mere 5-foot-1 frame, I can easily be mistaken for a rampant dwarf. While most people would consider this flamboyancy a negative trait, I find it to be the single most enhancing aspect of my life. I don’t use the term “enhancing” loosely; I mean it in the very sense of the word. I mean that I derive more pleasure from a plastic spoon than most do from a full-length feature film. I often talk to myself in my own quirky banter, pausing only to nod hello to a friend or say “excusez-moi” to an imposing trashcan. And yes, though it earns me awkward stares and muffled giggles, it never seems to make me think twice about myself-- because that’s who I am.
So, who am I? I must be pretty safe in my own skin to be able to receive such reactions. The answer is nonexistent, largely because I really don’t know who I am quite yet, nor who I’m going to be for that matter; but this makes more sense for a 16-year-old someone than for a 40-year-old someone pushing mid-life crisis. In an age where catharsis is as close by as your nearest plastic surgeon, “finding yourself” has become a staple in everyone’s diet. But what I’ve found after years of Oprah and MTV is that we are not just made up of a conglomeration of places and people and experiences, we are made of clay: malleable and ever-mutating clay. This mutability has created some of the most brilliant minds and the most innovative people- the ones who took advantage of their constantly changing personas. I guess that’s where the acceptance should be; not of who you are, but of the truth that you might not be the same person tomorrow. And maybe that’s what makes life so exciting; that you can get to know yourself a little bit more everyday, and just when you think you know who you are, you can surprise yourself. It keeps life from getting boring- and that’s one thing I refuse to be: boring.
So I continue to walk with myself, not ignoring the varied reactions from passers-by but rather acknowledging them with a smile. I’m just getting to know myself before everything changes; it’s only a matter of time.

June On The West Coast
by Bright Eyes

Album : Letting off the Happiness



I spent a week drinking the sunlight of Winnetka, California
Where they understand the weight of human hearts
You see, sorrow gets too heavy and joy it tends to hold you
With the fear that it eventually departs
And the truth is I’ve been dreaming of some tired tranquil place
Where the weather won’t get trapped inside my bones
And if all the years of searching find one sympathetic face
Then it's there I'll plant these seeds and make my home
I spent a day dreaming of dying in Mesa, Arizona
Where all the green of life had turned to ash
And I felt I was on fire, with the things I could have told you
I just assumed that you eventually would ask
And I wouldn’t have to bring up my so badly broken heart
And all those months I just wanted to sleep
And though spring, it did come slowly, I guess it did its part
My heart has thawed and continues to beat
And I visited my brother on the outskirts of Olympia
Where the forest and the water become one
And we talked about our childhood
like a dream we were convinced of
That perfect, peaceful street that we came from
And I know he heard me strumming all those sad and simple chords
As I sat inside my room so long ago
And it hurts that he’s still shaking from those secrets that were told
By a car closed up too tight and a heart turned cold
And I went to San Diego, and the birthplace of the summer
And watched the ocean dance under the moon
There was a girl I knew there, one more potential lover
I guess that something’s gotta happen soon
Cause I know I can’t keep living in this dead or dying dream
As I walked along the beach and drank with her
I thought about my true love, the one I really need
With eyes that burn so bright, they make me pure
They make me pure, they make me pure
I long to be with you
They make me pure, they make me pure
I long to be with you

When I was fourteen, I slept alone on a North Dakota football field under the cold stars on an early spring night. Fall progresses early in the Red River Valley, and I happened to hit a night when frost formed in the grass. A skunk trailed a plume of steam across the forty-yard line near moonrise. I tucked the top of my sleeping bag over my head and was just dozing off when the skunk walked onto me with simple authority.
Its ripe odor must have dissipated in the frozen earth of its winterlong hibernation, because it didn't smell all that bad, or perhaps it was just that I took shallow breaths in numb surprise. I felt him—her, whatever—pause on the side of my hip and turn around twice before evidently deciding I was a good place to sleep. At the back of my knees, on the quilting of my sleeping bag, it trod out a spot for itself and then, with a serene little groan, curled up and lay perfectly still. That made two of us. I was wildly awake, trying to forget the sharpness and number of skunk teeth, trying not to think of the high percentage of skunks with rabies, or the reason that on camping trips my father always kept a hatchet underneath his pillow.
Inside the bag, I felt as if I might smother. Carefully, making only the slightest of rustles, I drew the bag away from my face and took a deep breath of the night air, enriched with skunk, but clear and watery and cold. It wasn't so bad, and the skunk didn't stir at all, so I watched the moon—caught that night in an envelope of silk, a mist—pass over my sleeping field of teenage guts and glory. The grass in spring that has lain beneath the snow harbors a sere dust both old and fresh. I smelled that newness beneath the rank tone of my bag-mate—the stiff fragrance of damp earth and the thick pungency of newly manured fields a mile or two away—along with my sleeping bag's smell, slightly mildewed, forever smoky. The skunk settled even closer and began to breathe rapidly; its feet jerked a little like a dog's. I sank against the earth, and fell asleep too.
Of what easily tipped cans, what molten sludge, what dogs in yards on chains, what leftover macaroni casseroles, what cellar holes, crawl spaces, burrows taken from meek woodchucks, of what miracles of garbage did my skunk dream? Or did it, since we can't be sure, dream the plot of Moby-Dick, how to properly age parmesan, or how to restore the brick-walled, tumbledown creamery that was its home? We don't know about the dreams of any other biota, and even much about our own. If dreams are an actual dimension, as some assert, then the usual rules of life by which we abide do not apply. In that place, skunks may certainly dream themselves into the vests of stockbrokers. Perhaps that night the skunk and I dreamed each other's thoughts or are still dreaming them. To paraphrase the problem of the Chinese sage, I may be a woman who has dreamed herself a skunk, or a skunk still dreaming that she is a woman.
Skunks don't mind each other's vile perfume. Obviously, they find each other more than tolerable. And even I, who have been in the presence of a direct skunk hit, wouldn't classify their weapon as mere smell. It is more on the order of a reality-enhancing experience. It's not so pleasant as standing in a grove of old-growth red cedars, or on a lyrical moonshed plain, or watching trout rise to the shadow of your hand on the placid surface of an alpine lake. When the skunk lets go, you're surrounded by skunk presence: inhabited, owned, involved with something you can only describe as powerfully there.
I woke at dawn, stunned into that sprayed state of being. The dog that had approached me was rolling in the grass, half-addled, sprayed too. The skunk was gone. I abandoned my sleeping bag and started home. Up Eighth Street, past the tiny blue and pink houses, past my grade school, past all the addresses where I had baby-sat, I walked in my own strange wind. The streets were wide and empty; I met no one—not a dog, not a squirrel, not even an early robin. Perhaps they had all scattered before me, blocks away. I had gone out to sleep on the football field because I was afflicted with a sadness I had to dramatize. Mood swings had begun, hormones, feverish and brutal. They were nothing to me now. My emotions had seemed vast, dark, and sickeningly private. But they were minor, mere wisps, compared to skunk.

~ Louise Erdrich

Jill's mom brought me back an English-Tagalog translation book from the Phillipines and it is the coolest thing. i can say all sorts of things like...

"kailangang aregluhing panibago ang karburador."

"the carburetor needs readjusting"


and

"Walang bagong aklat si Pedro"

"Pedro does not have a new book."

last night i had my dance class and it was wonderful. it was one of those classes that i have once in a while where i leave with butterflies in my stomach. the dance im learning is so beautiful, its not difficult to learn it because it goes so well with the music, its hard to believe that one came before the other, it feels like they were created together, for eachother. its amazing.
i remember watching senior dancers when i was 9 years old in awe. i used to hope to dance like them, i still do. its so weird and surprising to feel close to something like that. its amazing.

Half a mile from home, at the farther edge of the woods, where the land was highest, a great pine-tree stood, the last of its generation. Whether it was left for a boundary mark, or for what reason, no one could say; the woodchoppers who had felled its mates were dead and gone long ago, and a whole forest of sturdy trees, pines and oaks and maples, had grown again. But the stately head of this old pine towered above them all and made a landmark for sea and shore miles and miles away. Sylvia knew it well. She had always believed that whoever climbed to the top of it could see the ocean; and the little girl had often laid her hand on the great rough trunk and looked up wistfully at those dark boughs that the wind always stirred, no matter how hot and still the air might be below.

There was the huge tree asleep yet in the paling moonlight, and small and silly Sylvia began with utmost bravery to mount to the top of it, with tingling, eager blood coursing the channels of her whole frame, with her bare feet and fingers, that pinched and held like bird's claws to the monstrous ladder reaching up, up, almost to the sky itself. First she must mount the white oak tree that grew alongside, where she was almost lost among the dark branches and the green leaves heavy and wet with dew; a bird fluttered off its nest, and a red squirrel ran to and fro and scolded pettishly at the harmless housebreaker. Sylvia felt her way easily. She had often climbed there, and knew that higher still one of the oak's upper branches chafed against the pine trunk, just where its lower boughs were set close together. There, when she made the dangerous pass from one tree to the other, the great enterprise would really begin.

She crept out along the swaying oak limb at last, and took the daring step across into the old pine-tree. The way was harder than she thought; she must reach far and hold fast, the sharp dry twigs caught and held her and scratched her like angry talons, the pitch made her thin little fingers clumsy and stiff as she went round and round the tree's great stem, higher and higher upward. The sparrows and robins in the woods below were beginning to wake and twitter to the dawn, yet it seemed much lighter there aloft in the pine-tree, and the child knew that she must hurry if her project were to be of any use.

The tree seemed to lengthen itself out as she went up, and to reach farther and farther upward. It was like a great main-mast to the voyaging earth; it must truly have been amazed that morning through all its ponderous frame as it felt this determined spark of human spirit creeping and climbing its way from higher branch to branch. Who knows how steadily the least twigs held themselves to advantage this light, weak creature on her way! The old pine must have loved his new dependent. More than all the hawks, and bats, and moths, and even the sweet-voiced thrushes, was the brave, beating heart of the solitary gray-eyed child. And the tree stood still and held away the winds that June morning while the dawn grew bright in the east.

Sylvia's face was like a pale star, if one had seen it from the ground, when the last thorny bough was past, and she stood trembling and tired but wholly triumphant, high in the tree-top. Yes, there was the sea with the dawning sun making a golden dazzle over it, and toward that glorious east flew two hawks with slow-moving pinions. How low they looked in the air from that height when before one had only seen them far up, and dark against the blue sky. Their gray feathers were as soft as moths; they seemed only a little way from the tree, and Sylvia felt as if she too could go flying away among the clouds. Westward, the woodlands and farms reached miles and miles into the distance; here and there were church steeples, and white villages; truly it was a vast and awesome world.

~ Sarah Orne Jewett

i found this on a fellow blogger's blog... its an article about courtney love from rolling stone. im not a fan of either, but its engrossing and damn good work.
http://www.rollingstone.com/features/featuregen.asp?pid=2904

So yesterday my brother officially decided that he's going to go to berkeley. i fully support his decision... such a great school, in such a wonderful area... with an urban outfitters so close by! how can you go wrong!?everythngs going to be really really quiet without him though. its gonna be weird

today i had my first official swim mete as an individual swimmer. i swam the 50 free and 100 free and placed 2nd and 1st, respectively. it was so exciting. im very happy about it. its kind of weird because these past weeks ive been so bothered by swimming and ive been resisting the idea of quitting (which i wont let myself do) and ive been dealing with a couple of mean girls on the team. i wish i could say that ive been trying my hardest but i havent and now i think im ready to swim like hell.

un malheur ne vient jamais tout seul

today my brother and i decided to take two separate routes home (something we never do) because he wanted to go to mcdonalds and i wanted to go to sav-on. i always take forever in sav-on because i get so caught up with the sales and the shampoo and the chapstick and the candy that it takes me far too long to get out of the store. when i got home i expected to arrive after my brother, because he does know how to go through those fast food lines fairly quickly, and i did. i went to my room and as i was putting away my newly acquired chapstick and mentos i heard my brother screaming my name. i responded, kind of startled by the worry in his voice, and i he came to me so relieved and told me that he thought i had been abducted and was getting ready to go look for me. he told me that he said to himself, "the last time i ever see my little sister she's wearing jeans and an orange shirt!" i smiled and said, "i'm wearing purple."

these past few days have been so sad, im trying really hard to not think about the past or the future, which is really unlike me. there seems to be a permanent lump in my throat that when i try to clear away, makes tears spring up to my eyes. its kind of stupid and impossible to try to make up for all the years that we ignored eachother and hated eachother and physically abused eachother. and i really dont want to because all of that only makes me smile. i have such a good brother and he loves me and he tells me and i know it. i said it before and i really do mean it- after all these years that ive been waiting for his departure from home, im more excited about his arrival into the world.

my dad just walked in chuckling to himself and said to me (in between fits of laughter):
"you know, i'm watching this 'seventh heaven' show on tv... (choked up in laughter)... and theres some guy who... who... thinks hes... nap-p-p-olean! (with a big grin)... oh man, i just think... there's someone writing this stuff, and this is darn good writing. darn good writing"
oh boy. i cant find one thing in that that isnt funny.

today my brother and i were riding home in the car:
"foram? time?"
"brother, 7:18"
"temperature?"
puzzled, "approximately 67 degrees"
"forecast?" "partly cloudy with a chance of rain" (speaking for me)
"no, partly sunny"
"ah, the optimist's forecast, i see."

well, it was funny. i guess you just had to be there

i think im really lucky to have the friends i have. my parents always said that im lucky that i have the ability to choose good friends, but in reality, theyre the ones that choose me. whenever i go to hillary's concerts, gill tells me what a good friend i am. i never really know what to say; i dont do go because i think that its my duty or anything, i do it because i love her. after all these traumatic, divine, seemingly endless years, i still love her. because really, she's grown into me; which seems so bizarre because i dont know how many times we have stood at different ends of an issue. but the beautiful thing is, although we are such different people, she always has a way of making me feel whole. i feel so whole that it brings me to tears. the support that comes from me is something earned, something deserved. i guess my love is something that i've always had for her, and she me. innate love that will never change, because now it runs deeper than friendship, it runs through the vessels in my body. its so ridiculous and naive when i look back on my papers from school with our initials written above the "B.F.F", i still laugh at it and shake my head in shame. but while so many childhood friendships fade from years of distance, i feel like ours really can last forever. it's already been almost decade, so hell, we're already on our way there.

it's so great to ride in the car with friends at night listening to loud music with everyone quiet so you can really think without feeling alone