"I Want to be a Part of IT, New York , New York...."

As I walked into Grand Central Station today, a thought walked across the forefront of my mind – a thought that was at once a question formed on the framework of feeling unconditionally in love with New York City and the ever-present curiosity surrounding such a soulful and comfortable sentiment.

And again, after class, as I walked across the main floor of Bloomingdales, smelling my sample of the new Channel parfume, swinging my medium brown bag satisfiededly from my fingers, and feeling myself a veritable goddess of my Manhattan, I was again struck by the city’s sheer power to transform the attitude with which I walk through it. Where before I was slumping, now I was skipping.

Maybe it was the shopping, but I doubt it...I think it’s this – New York is a world unto itself, full of stories. Broadway at 6 p.m. is a veritable buffet of bodies, flowing in seemingly endless abundance, providing ample opportunity to disappear within them, or to stand out amongst them. My mind matches the mass of Manhattan’s streets with a plentitude of words, a constant stream of language, bursting to be written out, so much so, that I stopped beside a Strawberry’s on 43^rd and Lexington to scribble all this out, purging my mind of the fear that I’d forget the sentences that were scrambling to be freed.

And yet, I love the country and find parts of myself, inaccessible when within the city, on the shore, looking out on the Long Island sound and discovering in the crevices of my mind memories long forgotten. Or at the barn, where every smell recalls to me semblances of self, forgotten on the city street. But in the end, it's New York that pulls from me the creative fruit of each place’s past. Lessons learned long ago, and memories of my childhood, are recovered by Manhattan’s movement and my place within it. New York is like my Hogwarts, I move through it magically, meeting full on its many faces, and seeing myself reflected in its ever-open eyes.

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.

Heart of my mind
Beats hard

Solidified shell of engrained thought
How to let go and loosen
What years of practice have formed

I’ve forged fear
Now to forgive

Constantly checking, pulling up and minimizing
My feelings,
My real doubt
And perceptions of your personhood.

I look to you to be the one
Who doesn’t disappoint my heart,
Who comprehends my mind,

But time and again
It seems you are more comfortable with the safety of straight hair
Simple, seemingly uncomplicated.

It was in vain that I tried to suppress the free curl of my soul
The spirals that I now allow to dance, allow to alight,
Static sparks of inspiration, underscored only by the shadow of a question,
Light laced with shades of fear,
And I, comfortably alone, silently speaking my doubt to the empty space
Wondering what man could ever match me -

The Burden of Proof – Thoughts on a StormyValentine’s Day

This Valentines day has unexpectedly provided me with significant opportunity to think about expectations, not because I am questioning my own but because I am playing silent observer to those of others. It’s snowing like mad outside and a pink heart shaped balloon, lost by someone’s Valentine, just flew by my window. This is one day out of three hundred and sixty five that is designated especially important to those who are in love. I am not at all sorry to say that I just don’t get it.

Why do we weigh down love with the burden of expressing it in a mere twenty four hours? Love is not a chore nor is it something that needs to be proved. We spend so much time “shouldering” each other that we forget that we are all connected and that love is what binds us! It’s a beautiful reality and one to be remembered and trusted not on one day a year, but everyday.

I spent this afternoon with my mom, a person whom I love not for what she does for me or for how she it, but for the person she is independent of me. In comparison with the more elaborate Valentine’s day plans of certain people in my life, my spontaneous and laid back afternoon spent cuddled in the empty movie theater with my mother would seem loserish and pathetic. There was no elaborate display of affection designed to prove that we think only of each other – rather there was an effortless coming together of two people’s lives for a few hours and a equally effortless parting of ways. That is what love is, being fully your own person, so much so that you allow others to be fully themselves, without the pressure of your desire burdening them.

I am sitting here, typing away at my computer, watching the city outside my window and feeling love course through my form, fully realized in my writing. In this moment, I want nothing from anyone and expect nothing. I have fallen in love with others and I have fallen in love with myself, to the eventual realization that the latter kind of love is the more lasting.

So on this year’s Valentines day, there will be no mournful bemoaning of my single status, but another day spent living my life and inviting others to live their own irrespective of my actions or what I think they should do. It’s quite liberating and I find that in allowing and letting go I have more energy than ever before to find any ol kind of love I like, literary, motherly, romantic, poetic, you name it.

What a beautiful day.

Through fiery fog flutters and flies
The most resilient of spirits -
My soul

I think of you now,
My feathered wings of black and blue

Healed by a four beat cadence
Hoof on hard earth
Or beats of my heart
and your head on my shoulder

Cradles for my gentle essence
Hope for the healing of my bruised wings

Younger Than the Sun...

Sometimes my mind jumps into the past, landing on a specific point in time, thrown backwards by a certain song or by passing by a certain old place.

The present moment finds me sitting at my desk, highlighting passages on Foucault as my roommate argues with her father in the background. I am here and simultaneously, I have been transported by Van Morrison’s whining rendition of Into the Mystic, back in time to the summer in between my freshman and sophomore years of high school. It was my first show season with Ham, and I was spending a great deal of my time on my own thanks to my parent’s preoccupation with their divorce. I wore overalls non stop that summer and spent most evenings whipping around the New Hampshire seacoast in the passenger seat of crazy Anna’s Toyota corolla, trying parrot bay and Hawaiian punch and thinking myself dangerous, smoking pot and wondering weather or not I was high…in essence, feeling my freedom. It's funny how songs can move from the present moment, inciting specific emotions and oftentimes glossing over intricacies felt, focusing on one overall sentiment that we've associated with a specific time in our lives. God knows I wasn't all smiles and joyous rebelliousness during my Van Morrison summer, but i remember myself as such. Perhaps it is better that way.

And when that fog horn blows I will be coming home
And when that fog horn blows I want to hear it
I dont have to fear it
I want to rock your gypsy soul
Just like way back in the days of old
Then magnificently we will float into the mystic

Were I a tree I would sink my roots
Deep down into the core of your heart
And there I would find my growth

My knotted branches are entwined in your veins
And to let go would be to the cutting of my own core

To the exposure of the green blood beneath my bark
Jealous and alive

Timber!

Each night my dad takes up an old and un tuned guitar, props it on his knee and slowly strums on the sagging strings. My father is a natural musician with a voice that is warm and comfortable and a talent for stringing together sentences into silky streams of song lyrics. In short, he was born with a gift and though he has yet to master the guitar, slowly but surely he is realizing that gift through a persistent pursual of the instrument.

For the past few weeks I have been floating through my own life, feeling more an observer than an active participant. I wonder what the deal is. I feel displaced, uprooted and unsure and I find myself looking around for resolution and some sort of absolution.

The older I get, the more I come to realize that this sort of thing happens from time to time. In the continual ebb and flow of existence there is natural variation, and along with it, a tendency to allow ones understanding for oneself and others to wane, or expand.

At present, I am watching myself operate as the epitome of the inconsistent and superfluous female, relentlessly worrying about everyone around me, apologizing for everything, and furrowing my brow at each new thought that floats into my mind. It’s quite frustrating and despite the fact that I understand my current state as transitory and temporary, I am confused and tired by the added effort it has required.

You may be wondering how dad and his guitar tie in here. My father is a person who has dealt with considerable emotional and situational fluxuation in his life. Such has not been easy but has certainly left him with lessons learned and stories to tell. When I watch him take up that guitar and strum away, his importunate approach serves as a solution to life’s uncertainty. Though the path be unclear and its destination unknown, put one foot in front of the other and, irrespective of whatever else may be going on or how poorly you employ it, pick up that guitar, and keep strumming away -

you might just wake up one day and know how to play.

The Court and the Spark~

My mom says that there is something in the female brain that chemically affixes itself to a man; a natural means of preserving the will to procreate. I curse this. I also wonder, why is it that this hormonal surge crops up selectively (as if the field wasn’t narrow enough to begin with) and refuses to dissipate without significant struggle.

Other people seem to fall in love and hop into relationships at the drop of a hat. I am not such a person and find that whenever I have tricked myself into thinking that I can do such a thing, I inevitably come to my senses and hurt another person in the process. Maybe my independent nature is to blame and I am destined to live a single and fabulous life littered with amazing and short-lived love affaires that sexually satisfy and do little else. Or perhaps I refuse to settle for anything but Spark- the electric connection forged by locking eyes with another; the feeling incited by the company of a person whose presence causes time to slip away and thoughts to be set on fire.

I find magic in myself on a regular basis and there is no doubt that to find it in the eyes of another has been amazing in the past and will be once again should a willing partner present himself... so long as it is a wait full of my independent enchantment. But I do hope that I am woman enough to trust that it will come and face it when I find it. Funny how something so real can be so complicatedly frightening all at once.

For now, I guess I’ll settle for the love affaires and await the Spark.


Addendum:

...All of this thinking on the nature of loving, courting and sparking brings to mind a fabulous piece of writing by a poet after my own heart:

O Tell Me the Truth About Love

Some say love's a little boy,
And some say it's a bird,
Some say it makes the world go around,
Some say that's absurd,
And when I asked the man next-door,
Who looked as if he knew,
His wife got very cross indeed,
And said it wouldn't do.

Does it look like a pair of pyjamas,
Or the ham in a temperance hotel?
Does its odour remind one of llamas,
Or has it a comforting smell?
Is it prickly to touch as a hedge is,
Or soft as eiderdown fluff?
Is it sharp or quite smooth at the edges?
O tell me the truth about love.

Our history books refer to it
In cryptic little notes,
It's quite a common topic onThe Transatlantic boats;
I've found the subject mentioned inAccounts of suicides,
And even seen it scribbled onThe backs of railway guides.

Does it howl like a hungry Alsatian,
Or boom like a military band?
Could one give a first-rate imitation
On a saw or a Steinway Grand?
Is its singing at parties a riot?
Does it only like Classical stuff?
Will it stop when one wants to be quiet?
O tell me the truth about love

I looked inside the summer-house;
It wasn't over there;
I tried the Thames at Maidenhead,
And Brighton's bracing air. I
don't know what the blackbird sang,
Or what the tulip said;
But it wasn't in the chicken-run,
Or underneath the bed.

Can it pull extraordinary faces?
Is it usually sick on a swing?
Does it spend all its time at the races, or fiddling with pieces of string?
Has it views of its own about money?
Does it think Patriotism enough?

Are its stories vulgar but funny?
O tell me the truth about love.

When it comes, will it come without warning
Just as I'm picking my nose?
Will it knock on my door in the morning,
Or tread in the bus on my toes?
Will it come like a change in the weather?
Will its greeting be courteous or rough?
Will it alter my life altogether?
O tell me the truth about love.

~W.H. Auden

Something in the eyes of an old friend once turncoat
On the road to forgiven,
Makes my memory twitch as it traces the lines of the past,
Padding over patterned pathways of pain,
To end up in the now.

If this moment is the only one we have,
What purpose does our memory serve?

If love is forgiveness,
If we are love,
Better settle into the security of this moment
And abandon times gone by-

Instant is the only now we can really know.

New York City, an urban sprawl of infinite indulgences and seemingly unlimited income to throw at them.

Nowhere, is this excessiveness more apparent than within the realm of the various spa and beauty services, which are unabatedly offered on every street corner in every neighborhood. Indeed, you need not walk more than a block to find an available nail salon jam packed with women (and some men) from every imaginable walk of life, be they flipping through last month’s Vogue or down on hands and knees vigorously rubbing away other people’s dry skin.

Maybe it’s because of the stress that the city inevitably incurs, but for some reason, the spa has a magnetic draw for us Manhattan mavens. You can imagine my unmitigated glee, therefore, upon discovering a spa-week-esque special offering fifty-nine dollar spa treatments at select salons for one week only. Overtaken by glee, and acting like any wry New York woman, I pounced, making an appointment post haste. What I failed to remember however, was another golden rule of city living; namely, you get what you pay for. Even though for my fifty-nine dollars (well, actually, sixty one fifty with tax) I got an exfoliating body wrap, manicure and mini facial, the circumstances proved to be less than ideal.

My roommate and I arrived at the salon and were ushered into a chaotic world of Russian speaking women, all of whom were barking at one another over a intricate series of intercoms.

As I received my manicure, I found myself alternating between staring out the window and casually glancing at the hands of my own manicurist, which were harboring some unfortunate looking substances beneath the nail. I had noticed her eating a knish right before being assigned to my nails and I deduced that the aforementioned food had remained lodged beneath her nails.

My manicure turned out sub par which is somewhat expected, so I ventured towards my body wrap optimistically, never having received such treatment before. In a cubicle sized room I stripped naked, put on disposable underwear and awaited treatment. When Gladys, a sixty something, red haired, tracksuit clad woman came in, addressing me “skinny baby”, I smiled encouragingly. Alas my happiness soon turned to certain dismay as Gladys slathered me all over with scalding hot brown goop, refuting my innocent pleas against the burning sensation it incurred. Lucky for me, the pain of treatment didn’t last too long for as soon as she finished, BAM, down goes the entire massage table with a goop slathered, naked me on top of it.

Once the table was reinstated (Gladys had to call for reinforcements while I stood there, awkward and uncovered) she proceeded with my “facial” which was basically her telling me that I had very dry skin whilst rubbing aloe vera on my face in circular motions.

To make the rest of a long story short, I ran from the place, sixty one dollars poorer and still covered in the reminisces of my body wrap but wiser one more essential New York City rule of thumb: for as fancy and indulgent as the city can be, when it’s bad, it is extremely so…beware the “spa special”

Considering the Voices of a Nation...

I just discovered the coolest thing. Surfing around checking out interesting news stories on the national public radio website, I happened upon a sidebar titled “Voices of NPR”, complete with detailed biographies of each and every NPR host and more importantly, their photographs. I am happy to report that Robert Siegel looks just as he should, learned and accomplished with a twinkle of humor lurking somewhere behind scholarly glasses and suit.

I am very satisfied. How often have I wondered who housed the familiar, familial voices of my childhood. Indeed, I grew up listening to my local NPR station, from “ Morning Edition” on the way to bus each morning, to “All Things Considered” playing in the kitchen as my parents prepared dinner in the evening. NPR has changed very little over the twenty years I’ve been listening to it for, and that is probably the primary reason that I love it so. The voices of the radio’s most noted hosts are also voices of my past that can still be found in my present…and such is a rare and happy occurrence.

In the Eyes of Equus~

There is something in the eye of a horse. The soft penetrating stare of an animal whose eye falls at a level height with your own. I cannot say why I place such a degree of importance upon establishing an eye to eye relationship with a horse, be it my own or another equine friend whose care I have been charged with, but I make a point of meeting eyes until the stare can be held, unbroken, for some time.
Ham and I spend much of our time looking at one another. Our mutual gaze is not starry eyed or glossed over, but is one between equals.
In the eye of my horse, I can see my own reflection; I fit with perfect ease into the frame of his deep brown pupil. It is the only mirror that I can look into and know myself inside and out. I wonder if Ham feels the same way. I am quite sure his emotions do not categorize themselves with such complexity, but I do know, somewhere…in my heart I suppose, that he derives comfort from my stare, and through it, understands the deepest contents of my heart.
Up until this point in my life, I have had difficulty meeting other people’s eyes. It oddity of which I am aware but unable to shake. It is as if, when my eyes are locked with another person’s, I am vulnerable, a position which is admittedly uncomfortable for me. I learned at a young age that people are oftentimes not whom they initially appear to be, a fact which disappoints me, disappointment being a feeling that I will take great strides to avoid. To allow another is see into my eyes, is to expose my vulnerability, and risk feeling let down and hurt.
Perhaps I truly know that I love someone only when I can hold their gaze and think nothing of it. There are some with whom this is a reality, my best friends and my parents. Yet it remains to be true that even with them, I am aware of the challenge that meeting eyes presents me with to varying degrees in regards to anyone, be they family or stranger, save for one. Ham.
There is no hesitance in the eyes of my horse and I meet them with all my heart. Perhaps then, it is the horse who is the embodiment of the purest form love, fee of judgement, and trustworthy. Perhaps I knew that all along. Perhaps that is all the unbound eye contact I really need.

It’s raining outside, and droplets pelt against the window panes of my father’s house in bullet like spattering splats that make me shiver with gratitude for my position at the kitchen table. I am sitting here, hair down and sweatpants on, scalding hot water bottle leaning up against my belly. Its heat is buffered by my bulky sweatshirt, which keeps me just warm enough to make the absence of a fully functional oil burner a tolerable situation. Gusts of wind beating at the house’s exterior, an introspective state of mind, dog snoring on the sofa, and the weight of sleep bearing down upon my eyelids…I cannot think of a more beautiful way to ring in 2007…and I have a feeling, this year will be one for the books.

For the past three days in a row my mom and I have frequented the local Megaplex, smuggling in our contraband sodas and snacks, standing in line, resolved to spend the holiday break soaking up a series of cinematic blockbusters.
Usually, I plan to arrive at a movie precisely on time, not so early that I end up sitting in a empty theater waiting for the screen to alight and not so late that I miss the coming attractions (I confess to loving them as they appeal to my slightly ADD sensibilities)
My mom, however, enjoys arriving early…very early, early enough to give me plenty of opportunity to observe native Connecticut High Schoolers in their natural habitat. The result was a veritable parade of Abercrombie mini skirts, Ugg boots, polar fleece, straight hair and glittery lip-gloss. Needless to say, I found myself out of place.
I spent the majority of my high school years shuttling myself back and forth between Northfield Mount Hermon and the barn, with occasional stops at my mom and dad’s respective residences. Sitting in the Branford movie theater, watching high schoolers do what I presume “normal” teenagers do, I found myself wondering: had my family and I stayed in Connecticut so many years ago, rather than move to New Hampshire, would I myself have been a typical teenager? Would the Saturday nights I spent cooling out horses have been replaced by straightening my hair, applying glittery eye shadow and scheming a “coincidental” bump into my crush at the seven o’clock movie?
I don’t really mean to paint my teenage self as abnormal, I wasn’t, nor was I an inordinate nerd. But I also wasn’t one of the crowd. I didn’t date in high school, nor did I spend any measure of time online, on AIM, at the mall and so forth. I read a lot, worked hard and took AP courses. But mostly, I rode. I suppose some people’s mall is another’s barn…and such is a matter of one’s nature, not their location. So although it seems that every high school student in Branford Connecticut is out and contributing to the sexual tension existent at the theater on any given Saturday, there are also kids at the local barn, hot walking their best friend after an evening of training, or seated around a circular table at Game World, painting their pieces and preparing for battle…or even curled up in the classics section at the local Barnes and Noble, spending long hours reading ahead just because they feel like it. In my younger years, I was pretty embarrassed by my nerdy sensibilities. But upon surveying the social scene of typical high school life with older, wiser eyes, I find the knowledge of dissimilarity refreshing. In a world supplied endlessly with jean mini skirts, cell phones and hair straighteners, all of which have been branded normal and desirable, a little variation is refreshing.

For My Dad~

In a moment
Her layers are stripped away and she faces his stroke stricken form.
She, fearful and frantic-
A shrieking skin surrounding a body

From an outsider’s stance
This is life-
And there is no time to waste

Sirens are muted
Shrieking ceased
Life is afloat in a sea of happenstance
A hysterical twist of too little time
And nobody gives a damn about misplaced brake pads

“How is your heart”, you ask me,
And I wonder, how is yours?
Peaceful warriors, you and I,
Living our lives by the contents of our collective hearts

And the shrieking, stroking, pounding pulse of this life.

I soaked last night in a good tub,
Joni Mitchell singing For Free,
And I, looking out the window at a white light lit Christmas tree,
Standing alone in somebody else’s yard.

It was there, amongst the suds and in between bubbles,
That I found myself changed,
Felt myself fully a well-timed woman,
Something I had never been before.

And it came to me then,
Amongst the suds, and in between bars, thighs, and folded skin,
Where I could find my ever-elusive heart.

Before I knew, I had looked for it there, in the tub,
As one searches for a lost bar of soap,
Finding it, only to feel it slip through my fingers.
Elusive heart.
Amongst soap suds.
And Joni Mitchell’s songs.

Perhaps,
It is not so lost as I had thought it.

This morning came earlier than I had anticipated, ushered in by the familiar clack of a dog’s toenails against the hardwood floor and the cold, attic air upon my nose and ears. With a rainy drizzle steadily dripping along outside my bedroom window, the circumstances were ideal for sleep long into the early afternoon hours.

I recall being a little girl and waking up in the middle of the night, sick to my stomach and scared. Clad in a little blue nightgown and clutching a stuffed animal, I would totter into my parent’s room awakening their sleeping lumps with an apologetic whine for help. This morning, it was my mother who approached my slumbering self with news of unease.

Where her stomach had been quite upset the day before, today the situation had worsened and she had received orders from her doctor to visit our local emergency room. “It must have been the almonds I ate” she theorized as I maneuvered her Prius onto 1-95 towards the shoreline emergency center, memories of a more menacing sickness brewing in both our minds.

About seven hours later, after an all to familiar foray into the world of MRIs, Morphine, EKGs, Catscans, and waiting rooms, here I sit, processing it all. My mom’s border collie, Spin-o is asking me to take him out for a walk, a lengthy one at that as he has waited so patiently all day long.

I am no stranger to responsibility…nor should I be, I am twenty years old and every day more of a woman of heart and mind than ever before. I have seen my share of hospitals, of heartache and of victory and have taken it all in stride. Yet, sometimes I feel like I am once again a timid, nightgown clad, little girl, looking for someone to hold her hand, and whisper reassuringly, that it’s all going to be ok.

Sex and the City~

My radiant roommate and I went and sat in the basement of bobst (you know, in one of those little private rooms) for almost four hours today. After a short stop at Upstein for chick fil a salads, we returned home. Since then, I have been stapled to my desk, studying law and society, natural science, language and society, and my aim buddy list. I am going mad and it's a Saturday night.
Somebody get me a cocktail.

Here I am, lying on my bed (which this year stands several feet off the ground) watching Seabiscut and attempting to conclude this paper on controversies amongst women within the first and second waves of feminism. Of course, I can’t. I am so absorbed in the movie that my soul aches more and more with each passing scene.

Sometimes I think my heart may break with want of my Ham, yearning for the familiar feeling of swinging my leg up over a horse’s back, settling back into my saddle, its seat imprinted to my butt and legs, a perfect fit and silence but for the measured breaths of my horse beneath me and the beating of my own heart. There is only a little more than a week left before I am free of finals and homeward bound, but in this moment, a week feels like forever.

Home is where you find yourself more complete than anywhere else. For me, I am more myself on the back of a horse than anywhere else in this wide world. As an artist draws her brush against canvas, moving paint over paper in fluid waves, I have been moved to move in union with another animal. Each movement, an expression of unified intention.

I am ready to go home.

Cold blue steel…
And silence, save for the measurement of your shotty breaths;
In and out, your voiceless calls for love against the ticking of a black handed clock.

I find myself standing in an empty space filled with folding metal chairs and sharp edged desks.
Thinking of a strangled blue blanket that always leaves you shivering.

Bare foot on a blue tiled floor, cold and incrusted with soap scum memories of
You, lonely and faceless.

Resurrection~

Today, when riffling beneath my bed in search of a certain pair of winter snow boots, I came across one of my most treasured possessions; a neglected tool whose weather-beaten body has served as a medium through which I express myself.
I first purchased my Canon A-1 mechanical camera in high school, a time in my life when the darkroom served as a sanctuary, offering refuge from the stormy twist and tangle that was my life.
With college came the distraction of friends and classes to an extent that somewhat elbowed out my photographic pursuits. For the past year in particular I have been excavating other areas of my life and have left my camera lying dormant, collecting dust beneath my bed, replaced by its spiffier and speedier digital counterpart.
Given the somewhat revelatory nature of the past few days, it seems only fitting that today I finally took my camera out from beneath my bed and separated it from the wealth of dust that had gathered about its carrying case. The Canon's body felt like an old friend in my hands, and I smiled at the familiarity its sturdy mechanics struck beneath my fingers. In that moment I recalled why the sensual and graceful nature of a mechanical device, despite being slower to produce than its digital counterparts, is timeless and to be treasured. There is something grounding in the nature of an instrument whose form represents the fitting together of interlocking parts through a process of manual assembly; a means of construction that is increasingly rare in this world of superfluous speed. Our fast paced world brands a mechanical approach to just about anything “out dated” and “sluggish”…I wonder if such is why I value it so. Perhaps I am craving constancy, a metered way of moving through life. I drive a standard transmission, shoot a mechanical camera, watch old movies, ride a horse…yet I live in a city considered to be one of the most hectic urban jungles. Indeed, I find peace in solidity, in cause and effect, in the weight of my camera, and the mechanics of cogs, each piece fitting together with fluidity. Perhaps the old balances out the new and the sturdiness I favor in certain areas of my life allows the inconsistency of others.
My appreciation of mechanics and manmade devices must be, in part, hereditary. I think of my grandfather, a great sportsman and a manufacturer of firearms; I picture him holding in his small hands weaponized works of art, guns of finished wood and inlaid hand tooled silver, each piece representative of one individual’s dedication and devotion to the instrument he was building. I then think of my father and his life long love of the automobile, his understanding of the way each piece of an engine unites and connects to motivate motion. Or my mother, the artist whose pastels painted fingers can trace form over paper, weaving women’s bodies into existence with ease, how the reins fit into my hands, interlaced with my fingers ability to subtly signal…I could go on and on, in short, my family finds ourselves in manual, palpable forms. Our hands and our touch, interacting with other physical forms yields emotion and inspires us to explore.

Inspiration is created by connection; this afternoon, holding my heavy bodied camera, feeling its parts move beneath the surface of its metallic exterior as I advanced the film or clicked past stops on the way to a fitting aperture, I felt as if I held a little part of myself, a part of my potential not yet recognized and a unifying actor along my ever winding way to self knowledge.

Turn a cartwheel,
Feet over hands over feet.
Turn the world upside down.

The shaking of my perception,
Changed the way I looked at life,
And low the life I looked at changed,

Correlating into a continual cartwheel,
Tumbling through tumult,
Cycling through calm,
Lacing life together,
Feet over hands over feet.

At times it seems that if I don’t write, my core will burst in a silent explosion contained within a white-washed face and vacant expression. Inside me, tension builds into a boiling blister in want of a voice, whose instrument of burst is my pen, my keyboard and the freedom they allow me.
Yet, in light of my aforementioned recent bout of writer’s block, I find myself worried that a lack of literary fluidity will take a toll on my sense of balance. As a result, I am much less concerned by the fact that any writings I have produce of late have been rambling. If sprawling sentences and disconnected discourse is what it takes to get words out and onto the page, so be it.
Thus, for the meantime, tight thesis papers shall be sacrificed for erratic sixty-second sketches drawn by my mind’s eye and thinly sewn into a scattered semblance of my state of mind.

Out the window of a second floor Silver center lecture hall I watch and old man sitting on a park bench in Washington Square Park, his navy blue crewneck clashes against the deadened yellow leaves left littered about, piled up against green trash bins, and gathered about the legs of benches. My navy sweatered subject holds his balding head in his hands, leaning forward and to his side, body propped upon the bench’s armrest. I wonder if he is cold – his picture is so pleasing from my place in this college classroom so far removed and I must remind myself of my own freedom, the fact that, should I so desire, I could leave this class to sit beside my balding man, whiling away long hours amongst carelessly discarded coffee cups, squirrels, and pigeons, all within a frame of falling yellow leaves.

Of Choice, Passion, and Potential Sacrifice~

Home for any reason automatically means Ham. When given the opportunity to spend any time whatsoever in the country, I immediately prioritize the visitation of my dearest friend, a horse named Ham who just so happens to be my soul mate. Not once have I returned home to see him that I have not proclaimed my intentions to take a break from city life, move out to the country and once again, throw myself into horses with complete abandon.

My high school years were so horse crazy that I basically sacrificed all semblance of a social life in order to train with complete focus. It may not have been the most balanced of approaches but it certainly served a purpose and allowed Ham and I to achieve our greatest goals. Yet as with most intense undertakings, I experienced a bit of burn out which led me to place NYU at the top of my desired colleges list. It was one of the best decisions I have made to date as my beloved New York City has enabled me to open my conception of self above and beyond that of a self contained and single minded barn rat.

Three years down the road, still loving NYU yet missing Ham and my horse girl identity, I find myself at a crossroads. Two proverbial paths stretch out before me, one in the direction of horses, New England weather, my little blue car, long days at horse shows, and giving riding lessons. Down the other way I see myself embraced by Manhattan, walking fast and full of life, finding excitement around each corner. In my heart, I wish I could do both and wonder how such a dualistic scheme could be implemented. I cannot be in two places at the same time and to try and split my time evenly would surely result in a reverberating fragmentation throughout all areas of my life. Yesterday a dear friend said to me, “I know what I am doing, but not where I am going”; I recall thinking that, with purpose, location does not matter and will surely fall into place. As of now, however, it seems that, location does in a way dictate what it is I will be doing…and I wonder which path I will chose to wander, knowing that is it implausible to travel down diverging roads at the same time. Will choice automatically mean sacrifice?

Lately I have had such writer’s block. The only words that I can seem to produce in any synchronistic fashion, are through poetry, a medium I admit to being a bit unsure of. My inability to feel inspired by any essays that I begin is perhaps rooted in confusion…lately I don’t seem to know where to focus my attention.

Energy is moving in my world, and with so much action comes hesitation and some fear. There are times when I am so sure of who I am and others when I feel at a complete loss as to the true nature of my character. At these times I genuinely wonder if I am the same person on the outside as within? It seems that people look at me without seeing me whatsoever. Perhaps I am completely binary and only truly myself when alone and free to be bare, ugly, sloppy, tired, and strange. Or perhaps everyone feels this way?

Dear wind,
Slip me over your shoulder and carry me.
Hold me like a hammock.
Cradle and cook for me.

I’ll put my hands in your hair at the nape of your neck,
And smile in your ear.

What does it mean to be vulnerable?

Stripped of all armor I walk naked to the street.
Fully permeable.

Pliable.
Like a dollop of paint in want of a brush.
Like soup in want of a spoon.

If you swallow me whole, you may spit me out.
If I tumble into light, will I find my entirety,
Or will I discover my downfall?

New York City, for its metamorphic nature is also quite dependable. Like an old friend, there are certain things about this city that are never going to change. For instance, no matter what, when it rains, the city streets will transform into a sea of black umbrellas. Taxi cabs will become impossible to find, and people will scramble about frantically, pushing, shoving and inadvertently stabbing one another with their umbrellas. It is a fact of the city, and something that can be depended on.

Similarly, there are people in this city who are fixtures of certain places so much so that they become representative in one’s mind of their specific hangout and by extension, of the city as a whole. Case in point: there is a woman who whiles away every day in the Starbucks on Astor place. There she sits, soaking up the sunlight, and applying excessive amounts of bright pink blush. I can always expect to see her there, surrounded by suitcases and newspapers, plastering on her color. She is a strange and somewhat sad character, one that fits well with the quirky and creepy aura of the neighborhood surrounding St. Marks Place. She is old, effusive, frightening and harmless, all at once…and she is just like New York.