have some chai when you read this.

never before, next to nothing, now-not-never, nuanced nesting, new.

 I am here I promise. Newly graduated, newly unemployed, newly moved, newly many other things. I have finally unpacked my life from boxes and bags and things are finally finding a place in my home. It was a strange, stressful task, physically packaging up my life so that I only had to worry about one thing at a time. Books in one bag, jewelry in another. summer clothes, winter clothes. and the things I had to throw away! It broke my heart to toss out shirts from high school and middle school, the letters i would never send and the books i couldn't get money for. No matter how hard I try to compartmentalize, things always get messy. My mom says that's because I'm too emotional; My dad says that's because my mercury is weak; My brother says that's because I got the inferior genes. Whatever the reason, there's always going to be clutter, no matter how regularly I make my bed or how carefully I fold my clothes. Because I'm just messy. And I'm not just talking about moving. 

I've been rediscovering this mantra my grandmother used to repeat to me when I was a little girl: Om Namah Shivaya. She used to lull me to sleep whispering it under her breath as she patted my back with the palm of her firm, papery hands. It appeared to me again after so many years in a book I read a few weeks ago, Eat, Pray, Love (which is far superior to any other chick lit I've come across). In the book, Elizabeth Gilbert translates the chant to: "I honor the divinity that resides within me," which isn't literally what it means, but is the essence of it. Literally, the words mean "I honor Shiva," the creator and destroyer of the universe; but in Hindu scripture, Shiva is also the name given to the one thing that remains intact even when everything else goes away...the self.

Is this too zen? Sorry. My point is this: I've been relearning how to feel, fear, love, and trust this whirling magnetism that I was born with-- that we're all born with. And an amazing thing is happening... I'm learning how to let go. This is no easy task for the girl who can't bear to let anyone else stir the brownie batter and refuses to let go of the remote control. This feeling isn't new, but it's rare and fleeting. I know it like I know a great pair of jeans or a good haircut or a beautiful conversation...I hope it stays for a little while. Paring my life down to some boxes proved to me how much I need and don't need. Because when all this goes away, I just have me.

But who I am is made up of all these people and lives and loves I'm experiencing now. Me is what happens in the middle. And I guess that's why I'm okay with letting go a little bit, not holding on so tight to what happens next...because tomorrow I won't be what I am today.

im here, hello

I've been negligent. For that, I'm sorry. So much has happened in the past week: Nami and I got the keys to our place (it's official, we have an apartment). Finals FINALLY ended! Meanwhile coping with brief episodes of anxiety attacks about graduation (it comes in waves, I tell ya). Meanwhile coping with my mother in town (she's a handful, I tell ya). I can tell you one thing I haven't been doing-- Sleeping.  So, in the midst of all the glamour of packing and cleaning bathrooms and sweeping floors and writing papers by day and painting the town red by night, my secrets have been more in my head than out in the air. But I wanted to stop and say hi. I miss you. Do you miss me?

 Just in case, here are some pictures of me and my lady loves (taken by the brilliant Nicole Tung, as promised) to hold you over until next time:

My new place

Today, Nami and I signed the lease to our new apartment (!!!). I was surprised by how empowering it felt, to sign my name, claim something as my own, to know that I'm willing and excited to commit myself to another year in this place. I feel grateful to know that I can. Just a few months ago, when my future was even more uncertain than it is now (I can hardly believe that), I remember I sat with Nami at Think, nursing my coffee with one hand and holding hers with the other. We were so upset at the thought that our lives as we knew them could be over.

*******

I saw a movie this weekend called, "Salt of this Sea"  for the Tribeca Film festival. It's a modern-day take on the Israeli-Palestinian conflict through the eyes of one Brooklyn-born Palestinian woman, Soraya (played by one of the most powerful poets I've ever experienced, Suheir Hammad). And back in January I saw the brilliant and moving "Waltz with Bashir." Okay, first thing's first: I don't know enough about the history or politics of these cultures to understand the intensely personal and complicated conflict between them. All I know about either is the friends I've made who happen to be Israeli or Palestinian in heritage. In a lot of ways, seeing films or stories about it makes me feel ignorant and naive; these are histories that have shaped the world as I know it, yet I know so little about them. But sometimes I feel lucky to hear these stories and see these faces with clear eyes. Because I don't know enough to make judgments, I have no biases; they're just people. They're all people who have lost land and lives and stories and heirlooms and time because of... I don't know. Maybe I don't know the reason because there are too many to count; maybe I don't know the reason because there aren't enough.

One thing I've noticed over time, though, is that so many of my friends share this intense sense of belonging to a people and place. My Jewish friends are so closely connected to their heritage that it seems innate; my Palestinian friends voice their ties to their history so fiercely and ardently that it feels like they're defending their mothers. I wondered for a long time how they could be so impassioned by a place many of them had never been to, of a time they never knew. 

But I guess that's what happens when your land, your history, your people have been threatened for as long as you can remember. It's what you've been told since you were a kid: That this is your identity, but some people don't think it belongs to you; That this is your family's house, but not; That this is your homeland, kind of. 

I've never felt tied to my "homeland." I thought that every first-generation experience was like mine-- a limbo between two places you didn't quite belong to. I thought that the fact that I was never quite Indian enough to be Indian or American enough to be American was all part of the motions of assimilation...I had to be a little homeless now so that one day, my kids might completely belong to someplace. But here are people my age who have been born and raised thousands of miles away from their roots and yet feel a sense of belonging that is so foreign to me. It's an amazing thing, to see someone fight for a place she doesn't know but is somehow utterly connected to.

******

When I was walking home in the rain the other night, I was thinking about that...and I thought, maybe one day I'll love a place or feel so rooted to a world that I am willing to fight for it, risk for it.  And as I trudged through the rain and headed home to make myself a can of soup for the third night in a row (times are tough; we're in a recession, people!) and email my boss to tell him I'd be at work late and study for another final and call my mom to assure her that I indeed am still alive after another day in this big, bad new york city, I realized that I already do. 

That's why signing that lease for some four-story walk up around the corner matters so much. I'm deciding to belong to someplace...I'm taking what's mine.

I'm still here

No, I didn't forget you exist, dear blogosphere. I just had some finals to deal with. So much has been going on in my head, I have so much to say. I promise as soon as I get a minute I'm going to spill my guts out onto this computer screen and clickity clack my fingers into arthritis, or maybe carpel tunnel.

I'll be here soon!

I think you're an asshole, no lie.

Case Study: “I Think You’re Fat” By A.J. Jacobs

The Writer: Raised in Manhattan, A.J. Jacobs is the editor-at-large for Esquire Magazine and the author of two books. He might be best known for his month-long self-imposed experiments, which are the subjects of most of his writing. He has also written for the New York Times, Entertainment Weekly, and New York Magazine. In his first novel, The Know-It-All, Jacobs chronicles his quest to read the entire Encyclopedia Britannica, cover to cover. His second book, A Year of Living Biblically, tracks his year of trying to live literally by the every single rule in the Bible. He continues what he describes as “experiential journalism” with his new book, The Guinea Pig Diaries: My Life as an Experiment (2009). 

The Story: It was during his research for A Year of Living Biblically that Jacobs stumbled upon another story idea. While browsing the Internet, Jacobs ran a search on “honesty” in a search engine. “And up popped an article about a guy running for Congress in Virginia who refused to lie,” Jacobs said. That guy running for congress was a man named Brad Blanton. The more Jacobs read, the more interested he became. Blanton would become Jacobs’ truth mentor. Blanton’s movement was dubbed as Radical Honesty—a lifestyle that dares the practitioner to speak exactly what is on his mind at the exact moment that the thought occurs to him. Blanton’s book, also titled Radical Honesty, promises to “change your life by telling the truth.” Intrigued by the challenge, Jacobs decided he would try to give Radical Honesty a shot, and traveled down to Florida to experience Blanton for himself.

 

The Reporting: After spending a long day with Blanton, observing him and documenting his reactions to the people around him, Jacobs returned to New York to try Radical Honesty himself. Most of the research and reporting in his piece go hand-in-hand; in experiential journalism reporting and research occur simultaneously. He lived Radically Honest for a few weeks—less than his usual month-long endeavors. Jacobs writes about the highs and lows of being totally—brutally—honest. 

The Writing: The article is written Radically Honestly, complete with parenthetical candor as well as straightforward statements of opinion. When it came to describing Blanton, Jacobs didn’t have to worry too much about misrepresenting him. “I was lucky because his quotes speak for himself,” Jacobs said. “[Blanton] says such outrageous things... That doesn't happen too often, sadly.” So Jacobs relied mostly on Blanton’s quotes, “…and on his gestures,” Jacobs said, “like picking his nose and spitting.” After two or three drafts, neither radically different from its original form, according to Jacobs, the article was complete. 

During the drafting process, a conflict arose between Jacobs and his editor: Editor wanted to remove a section in his article about the implications of Radical Honesty on an ever-invasive environment of technology and social networking. “He wanted to take it out. I wanted to keep it,” Jacobs said. “We compromised by having him write ‘Bullshit -- Ed.’ at the end of the section.”

 

{Below is the excerpt from the article}:

“Now, my editor thinks I'm overreaching here and trying too hard to justify this article's existence, but I think society is speeding toward its own version of Radical Honesty. The truth of our lives is increasingly being exposed, both voluntarily (MySpace pages, transparent business transactions) and involuntarily. (See Gonzales and Google, or ask Alec Baldwin.) For better or worse, we may all soon be Brad Blantons. I need to be prepared. [Such bullshit. -- Ed.]”

 

An inadvertent moment of brutal honesty occurred during Jacobs’ writing process but was cut out due to space constraints (I wish it hadn’t been). Says Jacobs: “I asked for help transcribing the interview tapes from an Esquire intern (we only had female interns at the time). Which was humiliating in it’s own right, because [Blanton] said so many offensive things. And then, to make matters worse, the intern reported that I forgot to turn off the tape recorder while taking a pee. Three times. She had to listen to me go to the bathroom.”

It can be done!

This speaks to me on too many levels right now...

From author Elizabeth Gilbert:

"Everyone I know who managed to become a writer did it differently – sometimes radically differently. Try all the ways, I guess. Becoming a published writer is sort of like trying to find a cheap apartment in New York City: it’s impossible. And yet…every single day, somebody manages to find a cheap apartment in New York City. I can’t tell you how to do it. I’m still not even entirely sure how I did it. I can only tell you – through my own example – that it can be done. I once found a cheap apartment in Manhattan. And I also became a writer."

And check out this beautiful talk she gave at TED this year...

Home hunting

So, we found an amazing place-- 3 bedrooms on the Lower East Side, 15 minutes from campus, down the street from our favorite restaurants, exposed brick walls, lots of windows, hardwood floors, within our budget...
Nami and I were ecstatic about getting the place-- yesterday we started getting the documents ready, handed over the deposit money...
...and then our 3rd roommate backed out.
Naturally, things got messy with fees and money, and she just couldn't put up the cash...It's too complicated for us to find a 3rd roommate on such short notice, especially when we have to deal with brokers and fees and all that bullshit.
so now the only way we get our money back is if our application gets rejected. I'm praying that we get rejected

Oh, the irony...We might be the only people in Manhattan trying to get RID of an amazing apartment

I think this is beautiful (and considerably zen)

Here's a poem that my yoga instructor read to us last night during our candlelit session, just before ringing the gong (I know how ridiculous that sentence sounds, but don't knock it till you try it):

The Waking
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
I feel my fate in what I cannot fear.
I learn by going where I have to go.
We think by feeling. What is there to know?
I hear my being dance from ear to ear.
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.

Of those so close beside me, which are you?
God bless the Ground! I shall walk softly there,
And learn by going where I have to go.

Light takes the Tree; but who can tell us how?
The lowly worm climbs up a winding stair;
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.

Great Nature has another thing to do
To you and me, so take the lively air,
And, lovely, learn by going where to go.

This shaking keeps me steady. I should know.
What falls away is always. And is near.
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
I learn by going where I have to go.

- Theodore Roethke

Hello, I'm a girl. That means I need things fixed.

Check out this post I came across. I don't know the blogger, but she found gold in her library...I can't believe this stuff was ever a part of social norms.

here's one

Courtesy of Nicole Tung, 2009

family portraits

Today, the enormously talented and terrifically kind Nicole Tung came over to take some pictures of me and my core (Read: Kaysi, Michalea, Nami, Ari). I sit next to her in class and throughout the semester noticed that she always had some kind of artsy photograph up on her computer screen. When I heard that she had won a national award for her work photographing Albanian refugees in Kosovo, I knew I had to look into her work. One day in class, I asked to see some of her pictures; I was so moved. At the same time, I had been toying with the idea of having some professional shots taken of me and the girls-- my family here in the city-- before  graduating. 

I thought for sure that Nicole would turn me down... I mean, why would a serious young photojournalist agree to take pictures of me and my friends just hanging out together? I was so wrong-- she was so gracious and enthusiastic about the project that she cleared her Saturday afternoon to come over and bake with us (and take pictures, of course). 3 hours and 500 shots later, we've got some pretty quality family portraits, I think. The first bright, warm day of Spring, the smell of cookies perfuming the air, the sounds of horns and air conditioning and Chi Lites mixing in the background...these are the things I want to remember forever.

I can't wait to see how they turn out. I'll post them as soon as I can!

Cute poem c/o Daily Candy NYC

the bologna sandwich theory

A few months ago I met this guy, R*, at a party. I don't remember how I started talking to him, and I don't remember what kind of conversations we had (thanks a lot, Mr. Merlot and Mrs. Pinot Grigio). What I do remember, however, was that he was surprisingly attentive and far more sober than I. Maybe we talked most of the night, maybe we danced a little, and maybe we kissed a little. Still, most of it was a haze, and to be honest, I wasn't all that interested in him. He was just some guy. 

I don't think he felt the same way. 

In the months since, he's been keeping in touch, via text. I'm never cold with my responses, but I tend to be short with him-- he's a nice guy, funny (kind of), friendly. Kinda like a bologna sandwich. But I never really had any intention of seeing him again.  And then yesterday he asked me to go out with him. Besides being flattered, I'm mostly surprised; I haven't sent this guy any signals to show interest, besides some cordial response texts. Is he just earnest and honestly determined, or is he missing social cues?

Now, here's the thing: I don't get asked out all that often. I don't have a line of suitors wrapping around the block waiting for a shot. Part of me thinks I should be appreciative of the fact that here is a decent-looking, non-serial killer type future dentist who wants to take me on a good ol' fashioned date. Why should I say no? Another part of me thinks that that's doing the wrong thing for the right reasons (or the right thing for the wrong reasons)...it's at least disingenuous and a little self-aggrandizing. Even more, it defeats the purpose of what dates are for. You go on a date because you want to get to know someone a little better, not because you're going to do them a favor and let them get to know you. 

How do I know that I won't go on a first date with him and fall madly in love? I guess I don't. But I trust the instincts I have about people and situations, and I don't want to waste his (and my) time. 

So here's the point of telling you that goddamn story: Am I being a jerk?

*Leaving names out of this

note to self

Inspired by one of my heros, Brian Andreas (StoryPeople, ZenBandit), who posted an art piece titled, "Permanent to-do list" I thought it might be interesting to make my own...i wonder why i haven't made one already. I got to thinking, my permanent to-do list would have to be comprised of things i want to do, things i can't help but do, and things i want to keep doing. So, after a few days, I've come up with these, in no particular order:

1. stop: for flowers, for friends, for musicians in the park, for tourists who need directions

2. learn to love your calves

3. stop thinking yourself out of decisions, unless those decisions involve holes or homework or blind dates

4. be okay with wet feet

5. take vitamins 

6. don't buy things you don't need; even though it feels like you're getting free cash when you make a successful return, don't forget how shitty it is to get stuck with store credit.

7. dance

8. forgive, even for little things.

9. remember, especially little things.

10. write honestly, recklessly, lovingly

11. don't be afraid to uproot yourself

12. just keep trusting

The list will grow, over time, i'm sure. but i think this is a good start. It's weird, though...does a Permanent to-do list mean it's a daily permanent to-do list? i mean, do i have to be okay with wet feet, even if it's not raining? i guess there are exceptions...it is my to-do list, after all. But i guess a to-do list is more about making sure that there are some things you don't forget. What do you want to remember?

Donne be not proud...

Sorry for the influx of videos; there's just so much good stuff online that I want to share. But last night I was up until the wee hours of the morning watching spoken word/slam poetry (not quite cool enough to know which is right) online. This is very new for me. Now, I've always been a fan of poetry, but mostly the olde stuff (yeah, olde-- Shakespeare, Donne, Keats). The not-so-olde, too (Plath, Hughes, Auden). But mostly, I thought real poetry was written by people who were already dead, so their words were serious. In my eyes, being dead gave poets something living ones couldn't have: respect.

So, I sat comfortably in my squishy academic couch and snuggled up with their words, which, still inexplicably, meant more simply because the poets themselves weren't around anymore; I didn't know what they looked like, the tones of their voices...it was all open to interpretation. On my squishy academic couch, the words rested permanently on paper like they were engrained in stone. That's what would last.

But this slam poetry thing, man, it's turning everything upside down. Not only are these poems spoken aloud, they're performed, with hand gestures and facial expressions, with not a snap in sight. Moreover, these poets are ALIVE...living, breathing, screaming, laughing, loving human beings whose voices echo off the walls. When I first saw a video of Rives, I was blown away. I needed a minute to think. I went back to that once marshmallowy academic couch of mine to reassess, but the couch felt different. It felt lumpy. Had the couch changed, or was it just my ass?

The most influential poems of all time-- Gilgamesh, The Odyssey, Mahabharata, to name a few-- were oral epics that were performed and passed down. Though fundamentally, the story stayed the same, it sounded a little different every time. And what about the monologues from Shakespeare, Tennessee Williams, or Arthur Miller that make you cry like a little bitch? Different every time. So maybe this is poetry: not just the dead stuff, trapped on paper, but the stuff that catapults out of a mouth and lingers in the air... not set in stone, but traced in sand.

The significance of 4 am

It's more than just my name

the science of love

this makes me think...

watch.

Today I was out with my cousin Shikha, who's visiting from Texas, where, from what i hear, everything is bigger. we were having drinks this afternoon (it's 5 o'clock somewhere!) with her best friend, Jas. Over beers, Jas told me about his weekly date night with his friend, Amit...they are two single, heterosexual men who spend every Friday night treating themselves to exciting new cuisine in new york city. they call it Friday Funday. cute, huh?

it gets better.

Their circle of friends started to pick up on this weekly outing, and wanted in. Soon, they were getting phone calls: Sarah, Avni, David, Josh...they all wanted to join. But this was a special night for Amit and Jas; they worked hard all week, and this time was special, no, sacred. They could talk about life, politics, books, women-- candidly and openly, in true bromance fashion.

But now their night was being encroached upon by their bevy of friends. What were they to do?

The answer was simple: they made their friends apply. The two wrote up a 25-question, true-or-false and short-answer application that took 10 to 15 minutes to finish and submit. 

Now, before you write Jas and Amit off as self-important assholes, let me vouch for them. These are good guys--i mean, highly decent, surprisingly non "guy" guys, at least upon my first impression. The application started off as more of a joke than anything else, but their friends actually loved it, and their competitive natures started to shine...after all, acceptance meant an open invitation to almost every Friday Funday.

so far, 10 or 11 have applied; 6 have been admitted...a 54% acceptance rate. that's on par with Providence College, in Rhode Island, the University of Pittsburgh, and UC Santa Barbara.

part of me wants to apply just to see if i'd get in...

hullo

A thank you to Amaya for the spontaneous guest post. Seriously, that's what it was: we were hanging out in the playroom in my apartment and I asked, 

 "Amaya, would you like to write a guest post on secrets for strangers sometime?"

"sure" 

I handed my mac (Waverly) over to her.

"...Oh....right now?"

"um yea."

And she just typed that beautiful little bloggity blog just like that, before my very eyes.

On another note, if you're in the mood to feel totally uncomfortable but utterly enthralled...

This is not a joke:

Greetings from thecoolkidlist

Hello Secrets for Strangers readers, Amaya from thecoolkidlist here. I'd like to share some secrets for all of you, and I feel like I might just be a stranger in this world of Foram's blog readers. I always like sharing secrets because I feel like it connects me to the person that I'm sharing ya know? So when I was first introduced to Foram's blog I love, love, loved the name. Now I follow Secrets for Strangers, and love Foram's writing style and amazing outlook, her passion for her friends and loved ones, mostly I really enjoy feeling connected to her through her posts, because we only see each other once or twice a week.

So, here is my secret:

I'm scared I'll never be anything of importance.

yeah, annoying right? Does everyone feel that way? I don't know, sometimes I feel the city and world passing around me, falling into holes, curling around buildings, I think to myself when I walk down the street: ... This is my catwalk, this is my life, I am alive and well and moving, that is all I can ask for.

but... when really, Im terrified that I am gonna walk off some cliff and never land, Ill land in water and spend my whole life drowning. Oy, I don't know what to do about this, I don't know how to make it stop and I don't know when Il be satisfied.

I hope someday?

See because I don't even know what would constitute importance to me... ugh, what does that mean, how would it feel to be really really important? Is that super selfish? Oy. It is how I really feel though. truly.


for now, I am just gonna sit in the grass... ya dig?

I hope this was ok Foram...
everyone can find me for more organized and hilarious posts here.

holla@yagirl♥
AMK

away

hole-in-the-wall heaven, hand-on-mine, honey-flavored happenstance, hers and hers and hers towels, hard-as-a-rock hold on me, home

In 6 weeks, I will be living in another place, looking out another window, using another closet and learning another neighborhood. I'll have to remember to lock the front door and take shorter showers. I'll probably have older neighbors who won't give me their last stick of butter when I bat my eyes. I'll no longer end every night saying "goodnight, i love you" to the girls who have become my sisters. I'll never have this view again. 

I have to find a place that's cheap and convenient. One that's close to a subway and a laundromat and a grocery store and a bank. One in a safe neighborhood with families and a police station nearby, maybe near my job. I have to sign a contract and pay a rent and buy furniture and make a home out of whatever I can afford... I might never have a view again.

So this is what I've learned: A place is only the people in it. These walls mean nothing when they're naked. This table holding my water, this shitty dorm chair, these things are just things. But hanging on the door, draped over a hook, is a pink robe that Kaysi wears in the mornings after her shower, when she puts on make up; And that vase sitting on my window sill occasionally fills up with the brightest daffodils from the deli down the street; And strewn across my bed is a scarf that Michalea wore to dinner just last week. These are not just things; they're my home. Growing up only scares me because I know one day I won't have a wall full of communal scarves hanging there, just waiting to be chosen for the day; one day I won't wake up to music playing and coffee brewing in the morning; one day--one  day soon-- the house will be quiet when I come home. 

alfie, pt 2

Did you listen to it? Did you listen to it while looking out your window? Was it raining when you listened to it looking out your window? Did you love it? I love it.

I also love that song because of the lyrics, which are included in neither version I posted. Now that you've heard the music, here are the words, which are equally beautiful.

What's it all about, Alfie?
Is it just for the moment we live?
What's it all about when you sort it out, Alfie?
Are we meant to take more than we give
Or are we meant to be kind?
And if only fools are kind, Alfie,
Then I guess it is wise to be cruel.
And if life belongs only to the strong, Alfie,
What will you lend on an old golden rule?
As sure as I believe there's a heaven above, Alfie,
I know there's something much more,
Something even non-believers can believe in.
I believe in love, Alfie.
Without true love we just exist, Alfie.
Until you find the love you've missed you're nothing, Alfie.
When you walk let your heart lead the way
And you'll find love any day, Alfie, Alfie.

Together, you get this (sung by the composer Burt Bacharach):

Alfie - Burt Bacharach

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.