"The men felt overwhelmed by their most ancient memories in that paradise of dampness and silence, going back to before original sin, as their boots sank into pools of steaming oil and their machetes destroyed bloody lilies and golden salamanders. For a week, almost without speaking, they went ahead like sleepwalkers through a universe of grief, lighted only by the tenuous reflection of luminous insects, and their lungs were overwhelmed by a suffocating smell of blood."

-Gabriel Garcia Marquez, One Hundred Years of Solitude

On "Maria" again

"These tints of feeling indeed were doubtless but the iridescence of his idleness, and they were presently lost in new light from Maria."

--Henry James, The Ambassadors, 12.iii

because

"The awful tragedy of this life, as of the next, is not suffering. It is "suffering in vain." Or worse, it is suffering that could have been the elixir of nobility, transforming us into a godliness beyond description which, instead, has become the poison of bitterness and alienation.

"But this is equally certain: from the smoldering rubble of our lives, stricken and agonized though they be, there can arise, through Christ, an incredible shining joy, a joy in the image of Christ who is the image of God who overcame all things."

-Truman G. Madsen, Eternal Man

On Resurfacing (Again) only to Plunge Deeper

Humblegrumblemumble. It's November, the month of much-work-to-be-done. Much work to be done, not much discipline, it's going to be a month where I'll be doing a lot of work by myself. So when I go out to be "social," I'll just have to make the most of it.

This is what my life should be like. I'm alone and there's no reference to any surrounding world. So I wouldn't even realize it - it - so I feel like there's nothing to be missed. (A lie I whisper to myself at night to compensate for the fact I'm missing everything.) Solitude, T.A. Harrison.

Musings: An Aesthetic Experience with Andrea Bocelli

So, I'm reading loads of Henry James right now, taught by an intellectual whose capacity for making connections and tying things together is supernal. I've been thinking about "aesthetic experiences" which art can elicit, and earlier I had an aesthetic experience--being moved by "Time to Say Goodbye," sung by Andrea Bocelli and Sarah Brightman. I'm not sure what I understood, but I was moved, almost to the point of tears, because something bigger and grander was behind me.

Listening to Bocelli and Brightman, and also being reminded of coming across Pavoretti's "Nessun Dorma" a few months ago, and I had the feeling that these songs, what they are trying to say, is reality. I don't know what they're saying (literally; I don't understand Italian!), but whatever it is, it's true and real. Just as much as the things we see, feel, deal with daily.

Maybe that "something bigger and grander" is life, real life.

Updates, On Breathing, and Dissatisfaction

What is that song they sang on Glee, No Air? Gasp, that might actually express how I'm feeling. 

It’s time to come up for a breath and recap what I've been doing (and please Bonanerz in the process). After leaving New York City in mid-August, I went Home for a grand total of four days and then was off and away back to College. And jolines, was it back to College. I wasn’t even doing schoolwork for the first two weeks, only doing training and then helping out at Orientation. Everything since… June… has been filled, busy, a whirlwind.

Now, I am immersed in the depths of schoolwork yet again. Indeed, with this wonderful, dreadful thing called thesis looming over my head, I always have something large, something bigger than myself to work on.

I see this photo and think "Little Secrets"

Immersed is the correct word to use in this case. I have been wading through possible primary sources, and taken a look at the vast ocean of information which exists about my subject. It’s thrilling, I get to engage in this conversation, perhaps even suggest something new. I get to direct my own studies. The feelings I have now are akin to those I had back in Scotland, where I was responsible for the direction and depth of my own education.

Now, the trouble will be balancing out those directions and policing myself.

In one sense, I’m incredibly satisfied with the larger project of thesis I have going on—I wish I could spend all my days researching for my topic, interspersed here and there with Henry James and occasionally Augustus and even Homer, to break it up every now and then. I wish I could shut myself in a room lined from floor-to-ceiling with books and a big table. And that my living space was separate from that space, and that I could shut myself up in there without feeling like I’m missing the world that’s bound to pass me by.

Though in other senses, too, I’m feeling unfulfilled. I wish life were more like Edinburgh, where I felt more of a separation between work/school and home-life. Maybe life as a graduate student is calling me? Probably not.

I’m also getting a feeling that I need to leave, to run away. This has happened before, possibly even been mentioned on this blog, but the enchantment distant lands hold is calling me. Somehow, the life I am living seems disenchanting. I am the same lackluster person--not that running far away will fix it.

"Finally Moving" outside of the LACMA.

Some nights, when you want to have a dance party by yourself in your room, you put in your ear buds, only to realize that the music on your iPod does not reflect your tastes, who you've become, except maybe the Coldplay (Viva La Vida was a good album) and the U2 you own (because it’s U2). I suppose I feel simultaneously too young and too old... for whatever it is that I'm trying to do.

Maybe I need a different place to grow for a while (New York, Chicago, Seattle, Boston)? Or perhaps just different music (Passion Pit, Baths, MGMT). This time, on my iPod.

Quick List of the Past Seven Days

So, my days - in reverse chronological order - have contained some neat experiences. It is almost too much to process completely, and I am barely scratching the surface when I give you my quick recant:

Sunday - I spent a wonderful day catching up with one of my closest friends as she visits in New York.

Saturday - I toured Philadelphia with two wonderful College friends! We saw the Magic Gardens of Isaiah Zagar, which were fantastical and deserve their own post, Independence Hall, the Liberty Bell, and Ben Franklin's grave (which also deserve their own posts), and then walked around and discovered Philadelphia.

Friday - I went with my sister and two friends to a production of Romeo and Juliet by the Royal Shakespeare Company at Lincoln Center. It was the best Romeo and Juliet I have ever seen; truly, world-class poetry performed by world-class actors.

Thursday - I saw Metropolis, a 1927 silent German film, with two performers orchestrating the music, with yet another wonderful College friend in Brooklyn.

Wednesday -  I tried to go to a Mets game with a friend from high school. We had some pretty superb tickets, but were rained out.

Tuesday and Monday - I either did nothing, or I can't remember that far back.

Elevator Etiquette

In any large city with high rise buildings, you are bound to use elevators frequently. Some of them are the size of dumb waiters and can uncomfortably squeeze in two, while others are the size of cattle corrals and can hold twenty people.

I haven't been in a high rise city for very long, but I have come to a few conclusions about what constitute polite behaviour in the elevating area.

Talking: Take this on a case-by-case basis. I'm pretty shy, so my modus operandi is not to engage strangers at work - or even in my building - in conversation. It is acceptable to talk in the elevator to a friend in the elevator, if you do so quietly.

Other people's dogs or babies makes things easier. You can comment on how cute their child is, or ask to pet their dog. What could be an awkward 45-second ride has suddenly turned into painless pandering that's over before it's done!

Looking at people: It's kind of awkward. There are usually mirrors, so look at yourself, or if you're into taking risks, check out the hot guy in the elevator next to you. It's always a safe bet to look at the floor numbers.

Oh goodness, this is a recipe for making people boring. Don't do this stuff, don't do any of it. Talk to people in the elevator! Engage them in conversation! It doesn't matter, even if you live in the same building, because you'll either never see them or see them so rarely it won't matter.

Holding the doors: Obviously, hold them if someone is in your direct line of sight, of if they call out to hold the elevator.

It becomes tricky when you keep holding the elevator for someone who is slow, or you jump into the elevator in the nick of time and in turn hold the door for someone else - essentially, you've doubled the waiting time for the other elevatees. Be nice anyway, and ignore any prickly feelings on your neck inspired by their glowers.

Crowded elevators: I haven't mastered this one yet, but squeezing in if there's a small gap is permissible. If there is a moving company stacking things in the elevator, though, it's easier to take the stairs.


Pushing the button: If someone is getting out, don't push the "Close doors" button until they have completely exited from the elevator. Hovering over the button with your thumb as the doors are opening is poor behavior.

Avoiding all of these elevator woes: You can take the stairs! Though, depending on how your wide your stairs are, a whole new set  of etiquette may be required.

Living in New York City: Cockroaches 102

This evening, it happened again. A cockroach infiltrated the apartment.

It was scuttling around the apartment as I was on the phone with a close friend of mine, and she was subjected to my piteous wails as I watched it patter about. After a few good whines, I got out a newspaper, heavy book, and my game face, then went cockroach hunting.

I cornered it in the bathroom, waiting for my opportunity to strike. I got the heebie-jeebies when it almost ran over my toes, but a toss of the newspaper, followed closely by the heavy book, got it.

I tried not to register the crunch when I pirouetted on the heavy book.

Still on the phone with my friend, after the episode I tried going back to my dinner. Whatever was left of the roach was lying under a book - The Fall and Rise of Angelshut - and the Investment section of the Wall Street Journal.

Growing One's "Personal Brand"

Here in the city, I've become acquainted with someone who talks about "growing one's personal brand." The personal brand is essentially now-speak for being or doing something which distinguishes you from others. For example, popping out code names for everything and everyone you meet, or priding oneself on wearing interesting garments on the lower half of one's body, helps to establish a personal brand.

To me, the idea of a personal brand isn't very useful. To a certain degree, we market ourselves to other people by choosing what to show of ourselves, but putting mental energy into creating that image just isn't worth it. I am what you see, and more, and my experiences - some of them consciously chosen, others heaped upon me - have shaped this "brand" of mine.

Now, the rest of this post has nothing to do with personal branding.

Instead, it's about professional branding! Let me tout the fact that I've made my BBC debut. Given the circumstances of my summer, it is unsurprising that I've had a short post published by BBC Travel. Check out my article on the Cross Egypt Challenge.

You're getting quality writing here without having to pay a subscription or sit through advertisements. Think about that for a while.

----

Unrelated to anything said above, oof, I'm on the cusp of something. I'm not being mysterious on purpose right now; even I don't know what I'm thinking or what will come out. But something is coming my way, indeed.

Ideas: The Gathering

Eesh, "The Gathering" sounds like the title to an atrocious video game sequel. All video games aside, unfortunately, I've been thinking ahead to what I want to do. Firstly, there's thesis, which has taken a back seat to this other idea I'm working on. It involves New Zealand, and I'm at a point where I'm reviewing how creative other people have been.

I want to be creative, too. I want to be intelligent and intellectual, too. A while ago, I felt I had cracked intellectualism and creativity (there's a post about it somewhere); I still think I have got it, but I'll need a lot of practice.

Hmm. Ideas. Not ideas, half-baked ideas. Fledgling ideas, is more like it. And it just takes time and concentration, loads of energy, and a little luck.

hmm, enigma

Allison Krauss in Connecticut

A ticket to the Allison Krauss and Union Station concert came my way, so I nabbed it and headed to Connecticut with my sister and an acquaintance of hers. I'd never listened much to Allison Krauss, and typically I don't care for female vocals, but her voice was so sweet and clear, that it was a pleasure to listen to live.

As an added bonus, I discovered Union Station! If you live under a cultural rock like me (which is a running theme of this blog and should be made its subheading), then you may have heard - or even seen! - the popular film O Brother, Where Art Thou, with George Clooney, Morgan Freeman, John Goodman, etc, and directed by Joel Coen. Well, Union Station are the real Swampy Bottom Boys! The lead singer, Dan Tyminsky, introduced himself as the singing voice of George Clooney.

The songs, though twangy, were refreshing. When I was younger, I told myself that the only kind of country-honky-tonk-bluegrass I could listen to happily would be the type sung by the musicians from O Brother, Where Art Thou (this has been revised for some time). I enjoyed the concert, and from the first chords my pulse quickened a little bit. As the concert went on, some of the songs started to sound the same.

But when the group took a break and let Jerry Douglas play his stringed instrument, the dobro (it looked like a guitar turned on its back), the concert changed for me. He didn't sing but plucked at the strings so rapidly it was like he created a waterfall in sound. The music moved me; I could see a future for myself in the music he created.

Most of the concert sounded like bluegrass to me, but they shifted to a few gospel songs and two songs from OBWAT. It was beautiful and chilling to hear "I am a man of constant sorrow" and "Down to the river to pray" in-person, and another song written by Rob Block about suffering.

Overall, the concert was a good time, and a good investment at a beautiful location (Ives Concert Park near Western Connecticut University) in the midst of trees and nature. I couldn't imagine a more wonderful concert.

Things I Have Learned so Far, Part Four

Anytime is a good time for reflection, and I was reflecting on some of the things I've learned and which have been on my mind. This is my New York City version. Read my first or second versions of what I learned in Madrid, and then my non-site-specific summary of things I've learned.

• There will always be Shakespeare. Especially in New York City, especially in the summer.
• Never turn down a glass of water. Especially in 90+ degree heat. You can bond over glasses of water - just like anything else, really, that you have in common.
• I'm in an apprenticeship, and have been for some time, actually - only I just recently found out what kind of apprenticeship it is.
• Always carry a not-empty water bottle, a book, and something to write in.
• We meet some people for a reason. Believing in people and being interested by their passions opens the pathway to possibility.
• Walking home through the city after a play or concert means enlightenment.
• Columbus Circle is magical at night, with the lights and the water.
• I've found that I am happy wherever I am at the moment. The patch of grass beneath my feet is transportable. People are very important, but time and distance matter less because I'll get to see them again someday.
• I've been reminded that I need better support for the balls of my feet. The blisters are returning for round 48, it seems.
• I can fit lots of activities and commitments in - even a concert in Connecticut - but not everything.
• Honey goat cheese or Crunchie candy bars make any day better. Crunchies especially help the work day go faster.
• The world does not have to remain in the same state it appears. It won't look the way I will envision it, because nothing works out perfectly, but it can be changed for the better.
• People. Are. Important.
• God is very aware and active in our lives. I had forgotten that.
• I allow myself too many attractive distractions here. The plays, the lights, the food, the music, is all too much. I need time, lots of time, to think about thesis and grad school and whatever else is coming down the bend.
• I need more sleep.

Review: The Silver Tassie

Lincoln Centre's The Silver Tassie, performed by the Ireland-based Druid Theatre, hit home on many levels. Though the play does not have a solid plot line - it is more a series of brief snapshots of several characters from an Irish town during World War I - it managed to draw out feelings I had not felt for quite some time. With my very casual and brief knowledge of expressionist theater, where the play is supposed to express a feeling, the scenes certainly created a mood and tone for these events. Like all good theater, and good art, it helped me to glimpse into the head of someone else and feel for a moment what they might be feeling.

We are introduced to the inhabitants of a small Irish town, where Harry the rugby player has just won the prize cup (silver tassie), celebrating with his friends, best girl Jessie, family, and neighborhood wife-beater. No, not the shirt.

The play almost felt like a musical, particularly in the second act. Every few minutes, the dialogue was punctuated with songs, short scraps of folk songs and music. Many of the songs, sung by soldiers waiting to be sent to the front, asked "Why are we here?", while others memorialized the dead or made fun of a prissy soldier. Without the music, the play would have not had the same force in any degree.

The play was a hodgepodge of what can only be very true snapshots of real life. There were contradictions, such as a chilling prayer sung to God and to the larger-than-stage tank which took the scene. In the aftermath of the war, the protagonist was left in a wheelchair and the wife-beater blind; their roles and positions in society were completely reversed, yet none of the fellow characters sympathized with them as broken - but still full, feeling - people. The play was very, very bitter.

Sound like a lot to take in all at once? At times, it was, particularly while getting used to the words and cadence of the Irish tongues, but the play's pacing was slow enough to let a thick audience member like me follow. And indeed, some heavy themes were casually thrown on stage. Because the characters took such things in stride, the audience was forced to, too - rather unwillingly.

But from the mother holding her son's empty coat in front of him before he goes to war, to the dismissive cruelty of a former lover, to the final scene where the blind man wheels his paralyzed friend home away from the swinging party, this play elicited a sense of injustice, suffering and pain. Of course, there were the lighter moments, too, of soldiers knocking cups on their helmets and rear ends making fun of war, but I thought this play gave me a cold, hard look at who and what humans are: careless, selfish, broken, and contradictory.

It was painful, beautiful, ugly, and brilliant all at once.

Shakespeare in the Park Round II: Measure for Measure

Yesterday, (instead of going to Philadelphia or Rochester, as I had planned) I fulfilled a youngling New York City experience: wait in line for tickets to Shakespeare in the Park on a hot summer day, hang out, and then go to the play later that evening.

I already wrote a hasty post on the other Shakespeare in the Park play, "All's Well that Ends Well," but in that scenario, two wonderful friends of mine waited in line and got me a ticket. This time, however, I joined them at 10 am, waiting in the line that already curved through Central Park.

And let me tell you, at a blistering 95 degrees Fahrenheit, it made the three-hour wait until tickets were given out arduous. The shade didn't do much in the 60% humidity, but I'd certainly and gladly take it over being in the sun. We talked, and secretly I would have liked to talk more - or shut off completely and read my book - but my friends used the three hours in part to catch up with their family members (which is important), and I kept getting distracted by sounds and conversations around me. I would have liked to enter into the discussion with the group of intellectuals behind us in line or the couple who was playing Scattergories in front of us, but I didn't.

Lessons for next time.

After getting our tickets, we headed to the American Museum of Natural History, saw the brain exhibit (super neat, possibly pictures to come), and then ate at Spice, a Korean fusion restaurant, and then headed over to the theater. I saw the play in its entirety, spending a grand total of 16 consecutive hours away from the apartment in the day, and arrived home absolutely beat and sweaty, because the heat did not let up for a moment once the sun had gone down.

Eating in New York: Khyber Pass

An interesting little joint in the East Village, Khyber Pass serves up some very tasty Afghan cuisine. I had some pumpkin kourma, which deliciously fell apart in my mouth, as I'm learning pumpkin is wont to do. I had some of my friend's butter-and-garlic pasta, which was a bit runny and slimy; flavour-wise, her entree beat mine, but texture-wise, my pumpkin kourma took home the prize.

We split some Afghani baklava, which was more like a crunchy, sweet, honey pastry, opposed to the less-sweet millefeuille-like pastry you find at Greek festivals. I was pleasantly surprised.

In terms of decor, the restaurant was close and cozy, filled with sultry red light against the red-brick walls, deep rich tapestries, and drawings that reminded me of the Bayeux Tapestry. Seating was largely at tables, but there were two window nooks where you could sit cross-legged on pillows and admire the passersby: great for a party with your twenty-something friends.

Overall, a good restaurant, which I would happily return to. The only drawback is that they allow hookah. For a non-smoker like me, that's fine so long as the hookah's on the other side of the room. It's not so fine when the table next to you lights up and fills the air with cloying smoke. We were there pretty early, and I imagine that hookah-smokers would appear later in the evening as more of an aperitif, so if you're ever in the East Village area looking for food off the beaten path, specifically on St Marks Street, give it a go.

A Virginia Jaunt: Luray Caverns, Shenandoah Bluegrass Festival, and Washington DC

I'm finally catching up to what happened the weekend of the 4th of July. My sister and I took a wonderful trip down to Virginia, travelling through six states in one day to the Shenandoah Valley. We arose early in the morning, took the train from Penn Station out to Newark airport where a rental car awaited us. Getting the car in Newark - my sister's idea, and a brilliant one - made getting out of Manhattan an absolute breeze and then continued drove the six hours to Virginia.

Meet our trusty caravan, the Pearl.

She took us down the road, singing the songs from "Muppet Treasure Island" and listening as we tried to impress each other with our knowledge - or lack thereof - of our nation's states and capitals. 

Our first day of three on the road, I ate more at McDonald's than I would ever like to again: once for lunch and then again to grab snacks. The rolo-McFlurry was thrust upon me because of the situation; though I was full, I had to get one because of the sheer rarity of the dulce delicacy. As the sweet caramel dribbled down my gullet, my innards wept with joy.

Not Central Park, if you catch my drift.

Onward. We passed through six states (New York, New Jersey, Delaware, Pennsylvania, West Virginia, and Virginia), and arrived at the KOA we had reserved. 

Note to self: never stay at a KOA. It's obviously not real camping. There were flush toilets, showers, laundry - which are tolerable - and a swimming pool, lodge to play billiards, buy popcorn, and rent movies, plus organized events like juggling and pancake breakfasts.

Worst of all, it wasn't very private. The place was packed. Couldn't commune with nature a whole lot.

After the tent was pitched, we took a jaunt over to the Luray Caverns, which I'm going to gloss over right now, just saying that it was beautiful. If you don't believe in God, believe in the power of nature and let holiness into your soul for a little while when you visit this natural cathedral. 

Dream Lake

 Note: if you want to become a real custard aficionado, forget a place like New York City. Go out into the country, drive around, and stop at every custard place you see. My sis is the real custarphile, and although she hasn't driven around on trips specifically for custard, her opinion is that the best places are in the country.

Addendum: my sis is a smart cookie. Trust her advice, especially when it comes to custard.

Stalacpipe organ

Afterwards, we went to the First Annual Oak Leaf Bluegrass and Mountain Music Festival in Luray, Virginia. It was my first time hearing bluegrass live! They can really get you going, make you feel the music in your blood. Some of it was much twang, other was not.

After the bluegrass festival, we spent a night on the hard earth - amidst the rain - then drove in the morning through Shenandoah Park and took a few hikes. Neither of them were very arduous, despite all of the waring about "strenuous mountain hikes" surrounding us.

We climbed the highest peak in Shenandoah Park, the Hawksbill. The short but steep trail was about 1.7 miles, and the round-trip was expected to take two hours. Intrepid, proud little me, I did want to see how quickly we could get up the hill. Armed with the knowledge that we've done in the West whatever the East has to offer, the sis and I started up. Twenty minutes later and through vast hordes of gnats, we arrived at the top.

It was awesome, except for the gnats. When the winds were still, the air was still thrumming with their sound. Multiple decibels were discernible to the sensitive ear; the closer the swarms were, the higher the pitch. Listen long enough, and your skin would start to crawl, but you cannot escape from the noise or the knowledge that there are so many insects in such close proximity to you, seeking you out and swarming around you.

After a rainstorm

The pictures above are misleading. They are not from the top of the Hawksbill. The pictures below, however, are from the Hawksbill! A portion of the longer, easier trail to the top actually joins up with the Appalachian Trail. Did you hear that? I hiked part of the Appalachian Trail! No, I wasn't pulling a Mark Sanford and secretly popping down to Argentina. I hiked the Appalachian Trail for about a mile! 

I also learned on that trip that the Trail is very, very long. Difficult to do the whole thing in a season.

It took us a good few hours to drive the 100 miles through the park, seeing as we stopped at every other turnoff to take pictures.

Once through the harrowing camera-trap of the Park, we started cruising up to DC, where we spent the night with my sis' friend, woke up late, went to lunch with another friend of hers, and then drove home just in time to watch the 4th of July fireworks on TV.

Oh, and something about diet Coke, rooftops, and bottle rockets. Perhaps mints of an unknown brand were also present.

Why Do I Blog?

Blogger Buzz recently asked the question, "Why do you blog?" My answer has nothing that is life-changing in it. It's not like Post Secret, which has saved lives and erases the loneliness inherent in being human. But my answer is meaningful to me, my answer is as complex as my blog, my thought processes, my personality.

I started blogging back in 2009 because I was talking with my friend Max about his blog; he told me that I should record my thoughts because he thought they were worthwhile. Based on his recommendation, I started blogging, too. In the beginning, it had no direction, no theme - it was just a place to record my thoughts.

My backyard, 2009

I went through periods of activity and inactivity. In one of my more creative and feeling-inspiring moods, I thought the blog needed more direction, so I started two social experiments as a sophomore in college. Inspired, undoubtedly, by things I was reading in my classes and discussing with my peers.

I stopped shaving my legs and covered my mirrors so I wouldn't have to look at myself. I wanted to think and feel like myself, not see what other people saw me. I never cared so little about my appearance - but I have never been less vain about my appearance. The no-shave experiment lasted about four months, and the no-mirror experiment about a week. Nothing revolutionary happened, my blog did not gain a hundred thousand hits in a month, but I gained a few social insights. And realized that some intellectuals and theorists go too far: I realized and understood in a more profound way than ever before that many theories have little practical application to real life.

Albion Basin, Utah, 2009

Then, I got an internship in Madrid, Spain, and this blog suddenly had a different purpose. I shaved my legs because my mother disapproved and said that though it was fine for an American at a women's college not to shave, it would be different in Spain. Note that I could have gotten along fine; giving in was not one of my braver moments) In Spain, I used my blog as a way to keep touch with the folks back home, to hone my writing skills, and to make up for the fact that I was quite lonely. I was in a country where I didn't speak the language. Aside from my bumbling attempts at Spanish while at church, my fellow interns, and some of the language-class people, I didn't make any friends.

Madrid, Spain, 2010

Immediately after, I studied in Edinburgh, Scotland. Naturally, I continued to use this blog as the way to communicate with my family. It morphed into a public journal and repository for a lot of things I found to be interesting. It turned into a way I could promote my church. Quotes and ideas found there way onto the blog column. Have you seen how many quotations I kept in November/December while I was writing papers? My posts were fewer and shorter because I had more to keep me occupied in Edinburgh than in Madrid.

Sterling, Scotland, 2010

For the past six months, I've blogged less because I haven't been out of my element. I've been happy and content at college. Some of my thoughts may have been caught like dreams in a dream catcher, but in no way systematically.

And now, I'm in Manhattan for the summer doing another internship. I've tried to use it as a public journal and to keep my friends updated as to what I'm doing.

Roosevelt Island, Manhattan, 2011

That answers what I've done with my blog, but not why I keep it. I keep it because a blog lets me be indulge my narcissism, lets me share things I think are worth sharing. I keep a blog because it's a place to keep my thoughts - when I have them.

Sagrada Familia, Barcelona 2010

So here we are, back at the beginning. This blog has no point or theme other than to be a repository for what I'm doing and thinking, possibly to help the stray who comes across what I write, and to expand and change as my needs expand and change. I will always need writing, and I will need to share what I write - do - am - so congratulations, spoony driftwood, it looks like you'll be in business for a while yet.

On Reading My First eBook

I'm reading my first eBook for pleasure. I downloaded Craig Cliff's A Man Melting a few nights ago, and am proceeding to read it via Kindle's program for PC.

And I hate it. I hate that I can't turn the pages, that I have to use the Highlight tool, that I can't scribble little notes in the margins,that it tells me what percentage I am through the novel - like I'm back in college, counting down the number of pages until I can stop.

I hate the formatting (because there is no style! It is lifeless!), I hate how staring at a glowing screen is making my eyes go cross-eyed, and how my fingers mechanically hit Ctrl + t when I need to look up a word I don't know. My mind turns off instead instead of savoring this new word for my vocabulary, enjoying not knowing what it means and pondering what it might mean, not stretching my memory to see if I really do know what it means.

I balk at the aspect of having an eBook most particularly because of having to read it via my computer. Maybe having a real Kindle would change my experience, but I loath reading it on my laptop. I stare at a laptop for eight hours a day at my internship. The last thing I want to do is get on my laptop again to enjoy reading a book.

Accessing the book, though, was a breeze and I cannot complain one whit. Mr Cliff is from New Zealand, and although his book is available in NZ and Australia, but living in the US makes it a little difficult. With one click, I got the book instantly. Perhaps getting the novel instantaneously is worth not having it in paperback-form. Enough talk about the technology, though.

The novel so far? Spectacular.

Drive-by Floral Spotting

On my way home from work, I passed a flower shop on 46th Street, between Park and Madison. It was a small nook of a place, its window crammed with flowers. It was a sunny, bright, organic splash in the heart of grey Midtown.

And it was completely suspicious.

I won't publish the name of the place in order to avoid slandering it, but it looked like the perfect cover-up for shady business dealings. Behind the counter was a large, tough-looking man talking to another large man. With tattoos. I'm sure they're perfectly nice people, I just wouldn't want to test out my theory and be wrong. Despite my education against stereotyping and my continual quest against it, I still draw vague conclusions from the little television I've seen about mafia or shows where the young, naive protagonist thinks they've uncovered some of the mafia's activities. It's too good an opportunity to pass up for imagining some vague, noir story involving the poppy trade and a son who really only wants to be a florist (throw in a girlfriend who wants to be mob boss, a Jewish mother who's not really Jewish, and a few orcas, and you have a pulp-fiction smash hit).

The flower shop was about as unassuming as this zoo...

...or this old Wilson-esque picture of me in Belgium. Suspicious Belgium, I'm on to you. And your vanishing fishermen.

Ahh, how I love saying outrageous things on the internet. In this post, I have successfully channeled the outrageously funny tone of the Oatmeal. Whoo.

Living in NYC 101: Cockroaches

Our apartment I live in is fairly clean (especially when we, erm, clean it), and so far in my stay we've only had ants, but the other day I had another experience entirely: the cockroach.

My sister had been warning me against finding cockroaches; the other day when I was sweeping under a chest of drawers, she said that last time a cockroach had scuttled (I always thought scuttling was slow, like a crab walk - can cockroaches scuttle if they move at the speed of light? can they hyperscuttle?) from underneath it.

Well, I came back on Thursday from an activity and was about to enter the bathroom when I stopped dead. Just underneath the sink was a flat, black-and-red cockroach. It was supine, its disgustingly long antennae flat and its many feet sticking up in the air.

Eep.

I let K come over and "deal with it" by putting down the WSJ and then Popular Hikes Near New York City. She stepped on it and cleaned it all up (she's so so so nice, isn't she?). The cockroach, if not dead before, was now no more.

And promptly put in the trash. There will be no more cockroaches, I hope.

New York City Tasters

Because everyone knows pictures are easier to look at than text. So much has been happening, and it's a lot to digest and contemplate.

Mermaid Parade, from three weeks ago

It's an amenemone, amenome, anenome...

Artistic photo

Me at a Yankee's game! Obviously I didn't get the memo about what you're supposed to wear....

The beloved Bubble Battle, same day as the Mermaid Parade

Nat'l Parking it, "Melmouth" pose

See a resemblance to Caspar David Freidrich's "Wanderer above the Sea of Fog"?

Living in NYC 101: Staying Sane

A key element to living in a highly compact city is knowing when to leave. Stepping onto the street is incredibly exciting; there is something undeiniable in the air, an energy, a vivacity. It perks you up like a shot of java at 3 pm. There is always movement, always people, always sights and lights and things to see.

And it can be exhausting.

After the first week, I think I was exhausted without knowing it, which is why for the past few weeks I've slowed down a little in all the places I've been trying to hit - though I must admit, I've been busy in other ways. (And there are a few more directions which I need to be busy in, like where my future is headed... eep. But enough of that.)

And what better way to keep sane in New York City than reminding yourself that there is a world beyond it (which does not start on the other side of the Atlantic or in California)? That's right, we left the City, pretending to be like other good New Yorkers who clear out of the city each weekend.

Read more about what I did here (link pending)!

Not your concrete jungle.

New York Observations: Sweatshirts

One of these things is increasingly becoming like the others.

During my second week living in New York City, I noticed a habit which had been steadily becoming more solid. I had gotten a lovely green cardigan while I was at Home, and considered it as a dressier article of clothing which spiffed up my wardrobe. I had been wearing the cardigan fairly frequently since arriving in the City, and so it had become quotidian. It wasn't quite as dressy anymore; I needed to keep wearing it to maintain a certain standard of presentation.

As I was running out the door one day, instead of grabbing my IFSA-Butler sweatshirt as I thought I had been wont to do, I intentionally grabbed the cardigan,my new-found favourite article of clothing. It struck me that I hadn't seen anyone wearing a sweatshirt, really, since arriving in the City, unless they were blatantly a tourist. It is indeed summer, and sweatshirts are too warm right now, but I don't think that is the only reason for this dearth of nylon and polyester blends.

My sweatshirt has lain forlorn and forgotten on my chair, buried deeper and deeper beneath my more frequently-donned, dressier articles of clothing (well, I took it camping, so it's received some love). This is a City which appreciates the put-together and the eclectic, eccentric. And what about those who like sweatshirts? Being passed by-the-bye - but hopefully in favour of more adventurous options. Not like these jumpsuits, though.

As time passes on, though, almost unconsciously, I've adjusted myself to fit my surroundings. If it's possible, I'm increasingly becoming like the other people around me.

Well, only becoming like the others by so much.

There is Too Much To Do (A Lament)

And not enough time to fit it all in. I wish I could divide myself into five and go and have all these experiences and make it to everything. But if I started off with five Lizzles in New York, then it would rapidly expand to a hundred Lizzles, not just taking on a city or dotting a country, but covering the entire globe.

I'm slated to go to a Yankees game tomorrow night, and then I've committed myself to activities on Wednesday and (possibly, still thinking about it) Thursday. But look! There are so many other things to do! Inconveniently scheduled at the same time, hence the need for a multi-corporeal unified experience.

Welcome Back Mr MacDonald seems like an interesting film - I'd never heard of it before, but after reading a brief synopsis (a radio actress wants to change a small part of an otherwise perfectly acceptable script, which results in all the other members of the cast and crew wanting to change parts of it - on air - and a completely different drama) I really, really want to see it.

Or see Jeremy Chan, who plays the likes of Stravinsky, Schubert, and Arvo Part. I'm half in love with Part's music; not like Stravinksy and Schubart aren't masterful, but Part's music is so compelling. The 39 Steps is playing in Bryant Park tomorrow, there's Steindler's Thanks for a Good Morning (also something I hadn't heard of), Rufus Wainwright performing... There are opportunities for Saturday afternoon activities, like surf lessons(!) and jazz parties (among other things). Not to mention I still need to see the Alexander McQueen exhibit at the Metropolitan and the Alhambra exhibit at the Botanical Gardens. Somebody kick me.

Thus, lament, oh lament, that I am just one singular person in this singular cacophonic slurry of lights, sights, sounds, breaths, and sighs.

Fireflies in Central Park

No, unfortunately there were no sightings of Nathan Fillion or Gina Torres, but something much more common.

Just as the title says, I saw fireflies in Central Park last night, little glowing lights flashing every now and then, hovering above the grass in the dusk. Sporadic, estival,, organic. Green, simple. Magical.

All's Well That Ends Well: Not an Unrelated Title

I actually did see All's Well That Ends Well on Friday with three friends, and it was a delight. Two of my friends had waited in line for four hours at the Shakespeare in the Park office, and graciously got two extra tickets, one for me and another for a friend of mine.

The show had very, very fine acting. It retained the Shakespearean acting, but some of the inflection and delivery on throwaway/transitional lines (i.e. something flippant a character might say as s/he was exiting) was very modern. Never having seen All's Well before, the delivery made the lines understandable. The ending, too, was ambiguous - did he really fall in love with her, or was he resigned to make the best of the situation? That's one for contemplation and discussion.

The best part was the setting. There was the stage, and just beyond it was a pond with rushes and algae covering  part of the lake. But the set of the play - a double collonnade hung with a few curtains - was beatufil. So simple, yet so elegant, and it was like living alfresco and having a constant view onto the lake.

And the very best part? Getting to see fireflies light up every now and then, either above me or over the water. Truly magical.

Living in NYC 101: Blisters

Living in New York City, there are many options for public transportion: subway, bus, taxi. But the cheapest, and by far the most frequent, way of transportation is walking. Most of the time, wearing comfortable shoes is not a viable option when working at an office, and so I've been wearing simple but appropriate shoes.

Which still thrash my feet. I walk almost a mile to work, and then any activities I do after work is just icing on the cake. Of metaphoric blisters. I didn't know that the skin on my toes could bubble so much, or how many layers of skin could be worn away.

The remedy, the blessed remedy - or at least source of relief - is the Duane Reade, the druggist which dots the street corners. There, I purchased for a grand total of $13 Dr Scholl's arch support insoles and heel cushions and the generic Duane Reade corn and bunion cushions. (I was in Sports Authority the other day and saw foot support for runners; would probably also help, not sure if they'd go inconspicuously with your 5-inch stilettos, and didn't check the price point.)

These things help. Help. Not cure. There is no cure to blisters, other than completely staying off your feet and letting your cells work their regenerative magic. Even then, when you do decide to walk outside again, the problem will just reappear.

I suppose alternating shoes, and thus the areas which are rubbed raw, should ease the concentration of pain on any one area, but that would be spreading the "joy" of blisters to all parts of the foot. Monday and Tuesday might be pain-free, but by the end of the week I don't know if I'd be able to walk...

En fin du compte, blisters constitute a ceaseless struggle with the City. To be continued?

Eh, Can't Move... Mermaid Parade and Bubble Battle on Coney Island

I took myself down to Coney Island today and met Melody and Vicki there to watch the annual Mermaid Parade. We arrived about 1:45 pm for a parade that was supposed to start at 2 pm, stood around until the parade actually started at 2:30, and then left around 3:45 - though there were many lovely mermaid costumes (and just as many less-lovely costumes), there are only so many mermaids I can handle in a day. And there wasn't any end of mermaids coming any time soon.

(Favorite mermaids, by the way, were probably a group called the Kung Fin Fighters. They were separated into red and yellow fin fish, and they did a dance routine to "Kung Foo Fighting"... I also really liked the costume of a  pregnant woman who dressed up as a clam: her round belly was a pearl! How cute.)

I went to a Jamaican bakery (the Golden Krust?) for the first time, and had a spinach pita pocket which was tasty, and then the three of us went out to the boardwalk.

At 6 pm, joy of joys, there was the bubble battle! Free mini-canisters of bubbles for those of us who didn't come prepared (me), and people shooting bubble guns at one another, and ginormous bubble wands and the entire boardwalk filled with effervescent, shimmering spheres of summer perfection. A sea of people were thronging beneath a sea of bubbles.

It was a good day :) -- topped off with bangers and mash from an Australian pub (Eight Mile Creek) eaten in a charming beer garden in Little Italy and a cupcake from a bakery just a few blocks down the way. Charming.

This One Has Pictures IV

Here are photos to catch you up a little on what I've been doing and seeing.

First night in the city, picture taken near the UN.

More sights from my first night in the city.

Grand Central Terminal. It reminds me a little of Big Bridges, and then surpasses it in so many ways.

Tram to Roosevelt Island.

Octagon Garden

...

This is as close as I got to Yo Yo Ma. 

Evening cityscape from the Central Park Reservoir. 

The Metropolitan Museum of Art at night.

Me and K in the rain right before the Black Eyed Peas concert was cancelled.

Being incredibly gauche and eating Wafels & Dinges waffles in front of Bergdorf Goodman while it was raining. Across the way is FAO Schwarz and the Apple Cube.

Leaving Central Park on a rainy summer evening.

Other notable things I have seen: a stretch Hummer limo that was pink, a girl with bleach-blonde hair sticking out of two foot-long perpendicular planes in her head (think Rufio from Hook x7) and dyed to look similar to an owl-moth.

Um, I also met a street performer. Well, thanks to the religious connection. He plays the PVC pipes. Isn't that neat?

Also, my sister K and I were getting off the Times Square shuttle when the woman who had been sitting directly across from us asked if we were non-identical twins. Point to Lizzle for thinking that K and I look alike, and 10 points to Dumbledore and all additional parties that neither of us look our age.

"No Poem No Song" is a No Go

In my never-ending quest for cheap or free things to do around the city, I found that Club freeTime had a listing about a play called "No Poem No Song" by the Subjective Theater Company at the Kraine Theater down in the Novelito-East Village area. The playbill said it was a combination of Hindu storytelling, music, and theater; being interested in the culture that has arisen along with Hinduism, I was intrigued and so reserved some tickets.

The Kraine Theater is a tiny hole-in-the-wall venue, probably once a very deep and spacious apartment. Thus, it was intimate and probably held at most 60 patrons. It was like being transported to the old movie theaters of the 1950s, with red faux-velvet chairs and low-rise seating.  I settled into my seat next to my friend, excited and apprehensive for what I was about to see.

The play opened with some bongo-like music, and the spirit Eshu narrating about the gods and the beginning of the universe, bidding us to come follow after him into the story. An intriguing start, to be sure - all of a sudden, three revolving panels at the back of the stage opened, spitting forth about twelve more characters, and the stage was suddenly awash with people. With little further ado, the story jumped right into the middle, with the god Ganesh stepping up to confront Eshu, his ostensible uncle/spirit/guardian of "the Crossroads" to show him the way to Mom, the ultimate creator of the universe whom no one ever saw or talked to because she was too sacred. Ganesh announced that he was the god Ganesh, so the audience was able to tack a name and character to face and body, but immediately, the scene changed.

A snappy young businesswoman steps onstage between Ganesh and Eshu, asking if this were the beginning of the story, and if it were, why she wasn't in it. I suppose it wasn't the beginning of her part in the larger story, but the play did not make that clear. Instead, she goes around looking for her mom, who begins to tell her about her day. The daughter, Amy, must confront her mother about a "manifesto" her mother has written about the people who watch her and want to kill her and her family: her children Amy and Mike, who has an unexplained past which probably deals with insanity. Mike, who is a homosexual, breezes onstage (like he has breezed out of his sister's and mother's lives, Amy hints) and calms his mother down by telling her what she wants to hear.

At about this time, the scene shifts again, going back to "the beginning" when the goddess Parvati-Kali sees that her husband Shiva has killed their son Ganesh by beheading him; it was a mistake, as Shiva did not know it was his son because he had just been born three hours before. But somehow, this is still not "the beginning" and they go back to the time when Parvati-Kali and Shiva were throwing a party for their firstborn child (also somehow Ganesh). This child is also killed because a spirit attending the party looks at him and turns him into wool.

Back to the mortal family. The mortal mother details the destruction of the universe in her manifesto, saying that a god who keeps poison in his throat is controlling demons which will hang about everyone and somehow destroy them. The storyline was very similar to the creation of the universe Ganesh and Eshu mention earlier, but that connection was not drawn out. Exactly how the mother arrives at her manifesto is unclear, as well, and we are left wondering if she is a spirit in mortal form, if she has been possessed, or she is just crackpot-crazy. With further information revealed in the play, one might suppose she has been possessed by a god or spirit, but her role in the play remains unclear, as she is meets her death and is buried by her two children in her native West Indies on Grenada.

Is it about here that the storyline switches again? Or was it earlier? You can see how much whiplash this play has given me. And we aren't even to intermission yet. We still have to talk about the destabilization of the gods (when things go south, to whom do the gods themselves pray? ... Exactly, says Lord Brahma), the fact that mortal Mike is really the reincarnation of the poet Vyasa who has been lost for 3,000 years but whose soul has been hiding out in Brooklyn which the gods conveniently cannot see, Ganesh wants to end the suffering of all people and thinks that by destroying Shiva's opium fields he'll make his father hear and see clearly the pain in the world, Mara the spirit of attachment's bid for sovereignty, and Mike's attempted suicide. Oh and a war between gods and spirits, which somehow Ganesh and Mike can solve together.

There was simply way too much going on in this play. I thought about how the play had multiple beginnings, dealt with multiple narratives and whose stories are important, asked about the gods' powers and why things are the way they are, and it would have been interesting to talk about stories, narratives, and voices, and how we determine whose voices are heard. Those questions would have been enough to occupy the theoretical component of the play, but I had no time to process them before we were on to another scene and the play asked yet more half-coherent questions. It was far, far too much.

The acting was fair; sometimes it was difficult to understand what someone was saying, and better staging choices could have been made for some of the characters to make their ideas and intentions clearer. I saw the play with a dramaturg, and she was especially interested in Mara, spirit of illusion and attachment, and how much more could have been done with him. In the middle of the second act, I realized that this was a pastiche of a play - little character depth and little connection. It was more like puppets were being moved around on a stage. (For example, the goddess Parvati-Kali and Shiva were fighting and destroying each other's followers all because Parvati-Kali felt snubbed that Shiva had forgotten her birthday 3,402 years before.) At this point, I kind of checked out and was anxious for the play to end.

The ending seemed like the beginning to me. Ganesh ended up possessing Mike, and through him revolutionized the world, freed people, broke down barriers, opened their minds. It sounded like a load of hippie crap that a seventh grader would put into a play: alluding to abstract ideals without concretely showing us how those ideals were achieved. Ganesh and Mike becoming a composite being should have been at the beginning of the play, and how they "liberated" people should have been the plot of the play.

Content aside, the costuming was simple, a few motley tokens which stood for what plane of existence the character was on - be it god, spirit, or mortal. The same goes for the staging - practically an empty set except for a few chairs. Inexpensive and dynamic.

Overall, the content of the play got 1.5 stars out of 5 because it tried to do too much. Costuming got a 3.7 and staging a 3.0, and acting a 3.4.

One of the writers of "No Song No Poem" is a zen master. One of the methods of zen is to get you to let go of attachments and accept emptiness (a theme briefly touched upon at the end of the play) by shocking you out of the way you typically think. If the multiple beginnings, multiple stories, and whiplash back-and-forth scenes between gods and mortals were supposed to shock me into a new way of thinking, it was not successful. If that was the director's/playwrights' intents, it should have been clearer (let go, let go, let go of these attachments and illusions). Otherwise, the writers were being too zen and too postmodern for their own good.

This is an instance that proves the old adage, "You get what you pay for."

Rice to Riches - Experiencing Rice Pudding

I have a confession. I want to be like Lindsey Galloway, who writes about staying in a beagle-shaped motel that was made by a guy who carves things with a chainsaw. In order to practice my writing skillz, I'm trying my hand at reviewing the things I see, try/taste, and do. Most of it is for fun, which is why I go off on many random tangents. Thanks for indulging me.

Because I live under a rock, I hadn't heard about Rice to Riches before going down to the SoHo-Nolito-East Village area of New York and actually walking past it on the street. Someone in our party of seven commented that it had been in a movie or two, like Hitch, and also that it was noted for its pudding. Note to self, I need to try Serendipity from Serendipity - almost went there with a friend to try their frozen hot chocolate.

Some spacebar-esque features.

Rice to Riches, if anything, is an experience. It was like eating at a spacebar, or at least what people from the 70s imagined a spacebar would be, complete with white, black, and "That 70s Show orange" plastic seating; the only thing it lacked was more chrome. There were four or five tables to sit at, and a standing bar that looked like two surfboards had been brought into the world as siamese twins. Four television screens made a column in the wall, and I felt like Derek Zoolander at the daiye spa when a bison frise' dog spun around on the screens. Certainly, the most memorable part of Rice to Riches is the atmosphere.

The rice pudding was pretty good, too. Like any good dessert shop, Rice to Riches lets you have endless taster spoons of their flavors. I tasted the Hazelnut Chocolate Bear Hug, and thought it good but heavy on the chocolate and hazelnut for a rice pudding. This could just be me, but the French toast was lighter, less bitter, and sweeter. My taste buds felt less like I was hit over the head with a brick.

Vicki and me eating our French toast rice pudding.

I got the French toast flavor to split with my friend Vicki, as did two of my other friends, and yet two of my friends got Mascarpone with cherries. However, there were four cups of rice pudding bought and shared among seven people; we got two Mascarpone with cherries and two French toast flavors. We may simply have similar tastes, or that could say something about the rice pudding and the quality and variety of their flavors.

My experience at Rice to Riches was pretty delightful overeall, but alas, it is not the best rice pudding I have ever had - unfortunately, there are no Pudd'n on the Rice joints or blueberry-white chocolate rice pudding to be had on this Coast.

I was, however, outrightly impressed with their sizes. A small cup worth $4 got me a palm-sized cup, and by splitting both the cost and the cup with Vicki, I ended up getting what I wanted for the price I was willing to pay. Also, the cups and spoons were made of edgy, spacebar like plastic; certainly modernity coming to your cutlery, because it was like a fashionized tongue-depresser. I also liked the fact that you could ask for tops and make your pudding boat-bowl into a little space capsule for safe transportation home.

The one major drawback to Rice to Riches was some of their decor. Most of it was clever and witty enough, but some of their signage did not sit well with me. They had a sign saying something on the order of "Man invented agriculture and rice pudding. Woman invented diet." They also had on their doors "No skinny bitches." I disagree with the message of these signs because they encourage an aesthetic based on image, rather than cultivating a healthy ideal, and placing blame on women instead of citing it as a broader societal ill which males and females both suffer from. They took the idea of having some rice pudding too far; a place like Rice to Riches sells a luxury commodity and should highlight the fact that it is a luxury, an indulgence, to come to a place like this, instead of encouraging an attitude which was borderline gluttonous. It is meant to be funny and lighthearted, but I was not very amused. And to top it all off, the message their decor is sending is exclusionary. Those "skinny bitches" need to have rice pudding, too - perhaps they need it most of all to put some meat on their bones.

Overall, out of five stars, Rice to Riches gets 3.8 stars for their food, 3.2 stars for their decoration, and 4.2 stars for their service. Were I in the area, I would certainly go for rice pudding again; if I had the especial hankering after rice pudding, I'd make a trip down to Nolito just to buy it from Rice to Riches.

Disclaimer: I might just be unsatisfied with everything because this is New York City, and I expect it to be absolutely delicious and am disappointed if it is not the best food I have ever eaten. My expectations are waaay too high. For a more balanced and evenhanded review, and frankly some better pictures, check out the Eatconomist's review.