Be Silent, Be Still...and May the Force Be With You

I write from Connecticut on a rainy Saturday night. I’ve slowed down, left the city, and am situated on the sofa, fireplace bubbling away, Star Wars is on TV, computer on my lap, and tea on the table beside me. I am doing some thinking here in my sanctuary, in a space where I am with myself alone and therefore am myself completely. Usually, such is when I am most content, answering to no one but myself and my dog, two beings who I know will never disappoint. I am worlds away from the flashing lights and deafening music of the nighttime environment that I’ve occupied of late, an atmosphere that simultaneously speeds and slows time. Feelings of freedom manifest in so many different ways. At times, it is on the dance floor that I am alive and in step with my own sense of self. Right now however, it is in the slowness of Star Wars and sleepy time tea that I find my own thoughts the most organized.

Yet tonight, with each passing hour spent in my own company, I recognize feelings of frustration that I have with myself, ones that have been clarified by slowing down and sitting still. I am exasperated with my continual repetition of familiar and unfruitful choices and my simultaneous hesitance to trust.
I wonder though, if those feelings of dissatisfaction directed at my own personhood are also upsets with others that are easier directed fully at myself. Is it that I cannot trust or that others are untrustworthy? Perhaps, but maybe there’s more to it. Time and again, as I move through my life, I find myself wondering what happened to getting to know one another? People are so anxious to get what they want from others that they throw the process of forging friendship into hyper drive. The result is a handful of relationships in which nobody really knows each other. I suppose it is ostensibly easier to project your desires onto others, making people into who you want them to be. But so far, my experience tells me that such never yields lasting connections.

Here I am on the sofa, spending time with myself, comfortable going slow and sitting with the unabashedly honest workings of my own unfiltered thoughts. No loud music is necessary now to numb my words, no vodka cranberry to ease my anxious mind and make conversing less awkward. I’m not busy and I won’t feign an impending assignment or appointment to give my silence an endpoint.
Outside the peepers are chirping, a sound I enjoy with a bit of surprise and a great deal of content as they are the heralds of the warmer months, evenings of balmy breezes and solstice moons overhead.

I’m ok in this space, alone and ok, two sentiments that are oftentimes seen as contradictory. I place a great deal of importance upon being able to be alone, possibly because I know I have a tendency to hold others at arms length and partially because I think it impossible to connect with others before you can do so fully with your own self. It’d be interesting, however, if we all did this more with each other. If we behaved in the company of our friends and lovers the way we do when we’re alone on the sofa watching Star Wars. Maybe we don’t trust one another enough to be silent; maybe without the music and mayhem of this month’s hottest club, or the distractions and discord of a New York City weekday, we’re afraid of what we might let in.

An acquaintance recently grabbed me by the shoulders and asked, “when are you going to let someone in?” – I was taken aback by the realness of the question and have thought of it several times since then. I wish I knew the answer and admit that I do not. I think, however, that it will happen when someone is willing to sit on this sofa with me and forget I’m here, sharing their stillness and silence…and Star Wars of course.

Venice~

I slept last night in a hotel with silky off white sheets and fresh oranges on the bedside table. Outside was Venice, a world beneath my window more alive and full of art than any I’d seen before.

Sitting in a café, watching women’s hats go by, blending my impressions with espresso foam, each sip stirring the scope of my soul.

Canals support the city, feeding in spirit just as the veins pump life into my heart. I feel each pulse, magnified by Europe and slowing only to sleep, soft, safe and understood, upon silken sheets and empty orange peels – spirals of spirit, juicy slices of my soul.

An Adventure to Italy~

Our journey began in February when first we decided to travel abroad. Initially, our intentions had been to visit our friend Ari who is studying abroad in Berlin, but since neither of us really wanted to go all that way just to stay in Berlin, we began to consider going first to France or Italy, and then onto Berlin. It turned out, however, that the cost of transit between countries was higher than we could pocket and so, our vacation became dedicated solely to adventures in Italy excluding of course our experiences in between connecting flights at Charles De Gaul, but that is jumping ahead.

We left on a Thursday, heading out for the airport around 5:30 p.m., dutifully early in accordance with guidelines of international jet setting. Everything was easy peasy on our first flight, at which point, I wrote in my journal the following:

We are airborne, settled soundly in our seats, watching James Bond pout in Casino Royale. I can see the moon out my window, she is flying alongside me. Magic white light moonbeams. Inspiration is unlimited at such great heights. Clouds form characters in my mind’s eye, mythical and magic. I think now I see angels and wonder what the difference is
between them and my own heart’s sighing song.

After six long hours in flight, we landed in Paris ready to move right onto our next and significantly shorter trip to Florence.

But too much primping in the bathroom and a complete underestimation of the size of Charles De Gaul found us running for our connecting gate, missing our flight and sitting begrudgingly in a crappy airport café eating stale sandwiches and sipping four-dollar sodas.

When we finally arrived in Firenze however, it was all the sweeter and the sun kissed hills surrounding the city welcomed us like all embracing Italian mothers. Where in actuality, we found the Italian women to be exceedingly rude, the landscape itself never proved anything but radiant and encouraging.

Stephanie, Richa’s closest friend from high school lives in Florence for the time being and attends classes there through FIT. Naturally, we arranged to stay with her and she proved herself the hostess of the mostess. Richa was so excited to see her beloved girlfriend and for my part, I was ecstatic to get to know her better. A win win situation all around.

We arrived at Steph’s place, number 27Via Guelfa around 5:30 p.m. We were pretty pooped from all our journeying but the sight of Steph and the welcoming warmth of her beautiful apartment had an energizing affect on us. The best parts about the place are the oh so Italian glass doors that serve to separate the kitchen from the bedroom and the adorable little balcony complete with potted plants, spiral staircase, and laundry line adorned with one old pair of sweatpants which apparently have been hanging abandoned for months.

We oohed and ahed over the apartment, freshened up and went out for “apertivo” with a few of Stephanie’s posse including the adorable Francesco who is quite obviously smitten with our charming hostess. The lounge we went to sits riverside, and we sipped the city’s best mojitos whilst gazing out over the Arno. Apertivo, as we were to learn, is one of Italy’s most lovely traditions. In short, during certain hours of the day suitable for apertif (otherwise known as cocktail hour), the price paid for one drink buys you not only the cocktail itself but also unlimited access to a bountiful buffet of Italian specialties.

Jet lag having caught up with Richa and I, we all opted to turn in early that first night and fell asleep side by side in Steph’s big bed, gabbing and giggling about our experiences with boys, our cities, and our beautiful selves.

The next day dawned fairly early and was ushered in by our wonderful hostess as she manned the skillet and made us all Italian omelets. We set off from there to Steph’s favorite café for the first of what would be many Italian espressos. We saw quite a bit of Florence that day, starting the day with a visit to David at the Academia. Let’s just say, he is more beautiful in life than I could have imagined. Best part was his hands.

I was able to sneak a photograph of his backside, something I did in an attempt to capture Richa and Steph’s reflection in the glass divider between David and the public. Alas, my attempts were in vain.

At the Academia we toured a smaller room full of sculpture, seeing the pieces bathed in the sunlight, which streamed from the ceiling’s open windows. I found the sculptures of the upper class women, which filled the museum particularly beautiful. They posed, gazing over their own shoulders, caressing their own skin, exuding a comfort with themselves interpreted as vain by some of my company. Maybe so, but beautiful in my eyes nonetheless.

The rest of the afternoon was spent strolling around the Duomo. Steph and Richa climbed the bell tower, something I opted out of in order to shuffle about the Church, light a candle, and pop a squat on the steps in order to sit and watch people prance about their lives. The rest of the day was littered with gelato, bruschetta, vino, espresso, visits to the central market, and its accompanying side walk vendors. After dinner we went to the famous Ponte Vecchio, an old bridge famous for being the best make out spot in Florence. We all hugged at its center point and I made out with my hand…

After the love fest, we walked past the closed up jewelry carts, which look like beautiful finished wood desks with their covers pulled down.

On our way back over the bridge, headed for home, we climbed out on one of the bridge’s points that jut out over the water and sat, wine soaked and happy. I, being a bit afraid of heights, sat further back from the bridge’s edge, but my more gutsy counterparts, Richa and Steph had a grand time dangling their tootsies down towards the water below and scaring me silly in the process. The stars were out a bit and the air was cold, we lay on our backs looking skywards and feeling free.

The next day we walked around a lot, going to the Churches of Santa Maria Novella, San Lorenzzo, and Santa Croche, all of which were mucho bella and multo multo inspiring.

We also shopped a bit in the process, Steph found a fabulous pair of flats and Richa some elephant earrings. We decided that, being our last night in Firenze, it was only fitting that we go out on the town a bit and, after dinner, we headed to a lounge called “Twice” which was, at first, positively dead. Nevertheless, we three chickies had a great time commenting on the absurdity of Italy’s men, their fashion in particular. Francesco showed up and, after a few minutes, some of Steph’s other male admirers, Luca and Urbano, did as well. We all decided to go have some drinks at a place a few streets away and had a great time doing so only to return later on to a less lively Twice, taking over the dance floor and having a grand time time for sure.

The next morning dawned early, and we all headed out, Steph to class and Richa and I to catch our train to Rome on about two hours of sleep. Despite my sleepless status, I found the train ride to Rome very fun. It was nice to sit and watch the Tuscan countryside roll by, set to a soundtrack by my ipod and the rhythmic clacking of our locomotive vehicle. We arrived at our hostel, happy to have found it amidst an array of shops and vendors. “Sergio House” was a typical hostel, barren, yellow, and a bit depressing. Despite that point, we were grateful to have a place to sleep and, after checking in, set out to see some sights.

First it was the Trevi Fountain and then the Pantheon. The whole time we were both in absolute awe that we were actually there, places so far from those in our everyday environments.

From the Pantheon we went to the Piazza Navona and sat at one of the schmancy cafes there, sitting mimosas and watching the people mill about, backlit by an amber orange setting sun. At that point, we were positively glowing with a sense of independent accomplishment and contentedness. That feeling soon waned however and as our espresso highs diminished so did our enthusiasm for adventure. We had made it through the day with flying colors of red, green and white but crashed around 8 p.m., discovered that our hostel had no hot water and came to grips with our first bouts of homesickness. Thankful for each other, we slept early, curled up side by side in our big yellow, rock hard bed.

The next day however, we were once again ourselves and followed up our now routine espresso stop with a visit to the coliseum and roman forum. If you’re thinking that we are super tourists, full credit for our accomplishments goes to my girl Richa, who sure knows how to do the tourist thing, something I will admit to being less well versed in coming from a long line of arguably overly independent explorers. Her know how served us well and we really saw it all.

Day three in Rome was the big enchilada…the Vatican. Richa was super juiced for this one and we set out on our pilgrimage with aplomb, ready for long lines and big groups of tourists sporting brightly colored baseball hats and matching fanny packs. When finally we made it through security, Richa went on to climb to the top of Saint Peters, an activity I opted out of. I got the feeling that it was an experience really special for her, all the more so because she did it on her own. As for me, I plopped down on the steps of Saint Peters to do some journaling. Some find themselves in the church, others on its steps.

On the steps of Saint Peter
Time dissolved
Left me with heart beats
Caressed and cuddled by blood and sinewy strands of myself
Inspired and in spirit

The next day dawned bright and early and we hauled ass out of Sergio House, excited to say goodbye. Rome, for all its charms, was a pleasant city to leave behind and we happily journeyed back to Florence and the lovely Stephania. Upon our arrival, we set down our bags and went right back to the train station, this time with Steph in tow. Off to Venice we went, spending the three-hour trip playing hangman and talking about sex knowing full well that our cabin mate didn’t understand a word we were saying. We had three hours in the city and spent our time touring around, having a half assed dinner (they skimped on my seafood), and admiring Venice, which has to be the most uniquely picturesque city I have ever seen. We caught an eight o clock train back to Firenze; it was either that or leave at 3:30 a.m. which was a popular option until we realized that the city appeared to be shutting down around 7 p.m.

It was a bit difficult to let go of Venice, a transition made more comfortable by the train ride home, for which we were adequately prepared with two bottles of red wine, a box of crackers and a big wedge of brie, all of which we shared with our eager and endearing Italian gentleman friend in the seat next to us. We slept that night reunited with Steph’s big bed, which turned out to be the perfect ending to our indescribably transformative and funny week touring Italy.

Our flight left Florence at 1 p.m. and we landed safely in Paris two hours later. This time around, we were hyper aware of the time it takes to get from gate to gate in Charles De Gaulle and shook our tail feathers to get ourselves to our connecting gate in time. It was a bit of a pinch, especially as French security seems to be more severe than anywhere else. We made it though, despite several pat downs and inquires into Richa’s stash of wine bottles in her carry on backpack (don’t ask)

The flight back to JFK took a grueling seven hours and we landed with relief, especially as the weather in New York was horrible. We were so excited to get there and about jumping out of our seats to go home, get food, put on our jammies and sleep. Five hours later, that was a reality, but not until we waited, grounded, for four hours before being able to get off the plane. Needless to say, the long hours spent waiting for the airport to assign us a gate were torturous and I about ravenously attacked a stewardess for a piece of bread…

Despite our initial frustration (yes, there were tears involved) we were lucky to have landed at all. Our cab ride home was treacherous and several cars spun out in front of us as our cab driver cracked jokes about crazy Manhattan drivers. We walked into our empty apartment around 2 a.m., war torn and weary and grateful to be home at last.

But that’s New York, a place where crazy Jamaican cab drivers mix with sporadic snowstorms and everything in between.

In an Age of Disconnect, Where AIM Boxes Determine our State of Mind, and Real Contact is Few and Far Between, How do I Hold Myself?

I’ve been thinking lately about the nature of the internet. I am in no ways well versed in the technological aspects of wireless communication but I can attest to the emotional triggers and responses that our twenty first century technology oftentimes incites.

We live in an era that prides itself upon offering up greater connection. Cell phones, text messaging, instant messaging, email, facebook, and a myriad of other ways through which to reach one another all exist to facilitate our relationships. But I wonder, for all the avenues of communication available out there, are we really brought closer?

For my humble part in this big mish mash of humanity, I feel more than ever that nobody really knows me. I am, instead, but an AIM box, “ham shoegirl”, an icon, a status. In fact, it’s gotten to the point that so many of my conversations take place online or via email, that the person I vocally speak with the most is myself. To be the only one who knows oneself in the flesh is a lonely state of existence. What is more, the conversations I carry out via text messaging or Iming would not only be much quicker with voice to voice action, but also less prone to misinterpretation.

Same goes for the variety of social networks available online. Through them, we’ve learned to jump to conclusions, to judge the true characters of our “friends” via a series of virtual actions and updates designed to manipulate each other’s assumptions. How hard it is to watch oneself become transformed by the facebook, morphing from the individual you know yourself to be, into a profile, defined in part by its associations with other profiles, summed up by a single photograph and dependent upon groups, wall posts, and “presents”.

As much as I detest it all, online communication is simultaneously and sneakily addictive. It’s infinitely easier to bypass real connection and settle for its imitation instead. I almost always opt to shoot someone an email or an instant message, options which enable me to multitask whilst carrying out a conversation and to terminate my discussion whenever I feel ready rather than to go through the effort of politely winding down a telephonic discourse. So I admit that it is a degree of personal laziness that keeps me from forging the kind of connection I am so hungry for.

Case in point, this little essay of mine is written in a desperate attempt to disassociate myself from the expressionless aim box into which I’ve been shoved and to break the cycle of words gone cold without the timbre of a voice to shape them. And yet, to make my plea I turn to the source of my discontent, the internet, as a means of broadcasting my feelings. Perhaps my self-expression would be better accomplished by brandishing a bullhorn and shouting my emotions from the rooftop of Palladium…but it’s just too damn cold outside for that.