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!)