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: