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.