Something good happened to me today. I don't want to get into it in case it falls apart and I'm devastated. So I'll update tomorrow. But it could be good, if it works out. Really good. I think my zest for life may have a brief comeback in the future. Or maybe it's just that I'm due for my biennial moment of uncensored pleasure. I mean, I even caught myself humming the bars of "I feel pretty" from West Side Story today, which is totally unlike me. Though I did a mean impression of Macavity back in 6th grade. Maybe tonight's the night (another biennial favourite) that I'll do Tom Cruise in Risky Business in my bedroom...you know what I'm talking about.

The heat-wave occupying the midwest moved into the East Coast yesterday, and today it chose to center itself in New Canaan, CT. I felt disgusting the entire day, sweat oozing in gross little beads all over my body. I wore my skimpiest clothing - which isn't really all that revealing anyway, since it is me after all - but to no avail. Unlike everyone else with half a brain, I spent a large part of the afternoon on the streets in Greenwich with my friends, hastily pottering from one air-conditioned venue to another.

**I had a much longer entry here but deleted it because it was really a self-pitying moan. But here's something from today's readings that managed to comfort me a little. It's where I drew my bookmark:

Sailing to Byzantium

I
That is no country for old men. The young
In one another's arms, birds in the trees
--- Those dying generations --- at their song,
The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas,
Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long
Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.
Caught in that sensual music all neglect
Monuments of unageing intellect.

II
An aged man is but a paltry thing,
A tattered coat upon a stick, unless
Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing
For every tatter in its mortal dress,
Nor is there singing school but studying
Monuments of its own magnificence;
And therefore I have sailed the seas and come
To the holy city of Byzantium.

III
O sages standing in God's holy fire
As in the gold mosaic of a wall
Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre,
And be the singing-masters of my soul.
Consume my heart away; sick with desire
And fastened to a dying animal
It knows not what it is; and gather me
Into the artifice of eternity.

IV
Once out of nature I shall never take
My bodily form from any natural thing,
But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make
Of hammered gold and gold enamelling
To keep a drowsy Emperor awake;
Or set upon a golden bough to sing
To lords and ladies of Byzantium
Of what is past, or passing, or to come.

-- Yeats, but you knew that

Hmm. Not much to say really. My mother left yesterday for India; the house is quieter without her, although now that my father and I have picked up all her day-to-day chores, I realize just how much she does for me and for all of us every single day of her life. It's kind of exhausting and rather guilt-inducing, to tell you the truth. I feel like an ungrateful wretch. Is this what being a parent is like? Doing things constantly for other people that you don't enjoy doing, but sticking with them because you care? Crikey. My parents really do take care of a ton of things. I can't even manage my own finances let alone dust the wainscoting.

Yesterday I heard from one of my old bosses about the exchange she had with one of my interviewers at PUP, from which I gleaned that everyone thought I was reserved and shy. Just terrific. This is the one country in the world where being reserved and choosing not to sound like a self-aggrandizing tool is a fault. 

Sometimes I think I need classes on believing in myself. But there's so little claim for self-validation at the moment that it all becomes a vicious cycle. This girl Eva from my Spanish class - she's really great. She told me that all the hard work I put in during college would pay off, it wouldn't be wasted in the end. Because at the end of the day, that's how I've begun to feel: that I made the stupid decision in studying what I did, and that any work I did was worthless because it didn't lead me to a job. I'm not saying I want to work in banking. Nor do I sincerely think that my relationships with my professors, my knowledge of art history and literature, my work with KK on my thesis are things I would sacrifice. But I never planned ahead enough, and took a lot of things for granted about my future. They don't prepare you to make real-life decisions in "Baroque Italian Art," that's for sure. 

On Thursday afternoon I heard back from the interview people who asked me to pass on my references. I cited KK as an academic reference and he's so terrific, he wrote to me almost immediately, describing what they had asked him about and what he had in turn told them about me. Being KK, however, he didn't refrain from spilling all the tiny chilling details of the job and the fact that he suspects I have "stiff competition." Splendid.

Still, being the cuddly old stiff he is, he did offer to let me visit him in the fall: "If you have a worst-case scenario, you're invited to drop by my office this fall, even though you've graduated, to practice wailing. I'd enjoy seeing you." You see? Someone who understands my constant need to have a long self-indulgent moan.

On Friday I went into the city to visit Katy one last time before her departure to Japan. I was so looking forward to this trip because I really missed her and didn't even register until a week ago that she was leaving so soon. We had a nice, low-key day in which we searched unflaggingly for souvenirs for her to present the 30,590 people she'll be working with in Japan, all of whom are expecting gifts. Only in the last hour or so that I was with her did I feel very choked up (the cramps didn't help) about saying goodbye. 

A year isn't a long time, but the first year out of college is going to feel incredibly long. Every month I'll be remembering milestones during the "school year," a shedule that I'm sadly no longer following. It's not as if our friendship is going to collapse or anything. But Katy, Abby, Lina, Karin, oh, just a whole bunch of people, are essential to my stability. And now Katy's gone, seriously gone, thousands of miles worth of gone. Soon Steph will have left as well, and where am I? Still stuck at home, fruitlessly searching for a job and losing confidence every day. Post-collegiate life isn't really the blissful, gin-soaked vale of glory that I prayed it would be. Although these days, I'm off gin, which is rather a disappointment as it's meant that I've had to curb the whole "gin was mother's milk to her" routine, and I'm so fond of that.

Katy just wrote. She says "Take care of yourself and try to be optimistic!" Thanks for the love. A long time ago, I told Optimism, "you're dead to me, boy." Still, I can't help but hope that something really good happens to me (in the job line) this week. Of course, Laguna Beach returns to television, so that's a close second. The lives of the tanned and depraved - I just can't get enough, I just can't get enough.

My parents are still acting chilly towards one another. I had hoped that they would be talking again, but my mother keeps skulking into my room for depressing conversations and my dad acts cheery around me and ignores her. If they wanted to find a way to effectively ruin my life, they've succeeded 100%. I mean, it's uncomfortable for all of us and I wish they'd get over themselves.

The interview was fine. It was an hour and a half - I met with 6 different people! Oof! The company and the atmosphere are nice - they pay horribly and they're located outside NYC which is not ideal, but maybe other things will make up for it. Everything was fine until my dad and I returned home. Then I felt all the resurgence of yesterday's bitterness. I miss my sister and wish she were here to take the edge off. But she only has access to her company email and I don't want to send her a message there whining about family politics. Still, I feel like I'm getting screwed just for being alive. Anything good right now in the way of family peace or job satisfaction would be a miracle.

Today I woke up to the sound of my parents screaming at one another. It's funny, you'd think that being 22 I'd be more accustomed to their fights, but I'm not. I feel sick to my stomache, I hover at my door wondering if someone is going to get hit so that I can rush in and intercept, and I feel even worse hearing the things they say to each other. Great, I'm crying now. 

It's awful every time this happens, because things just go sour and bad. The house is clouded with anger and bitterness and you can't move an inch without worrying that my father's going to say something sarcastic or criticize yet another thing you've done. Seriously, when I see this kind of stuff, it makes me wonder why people think marriage such a necessity. I don't come from a broken home, but emotionally, my family is really complicated. My parents are so wrong for each other - I really think that but for their very old-fashioned abhorrence for divorce, they would have and should have split up years ago. Years and years ago. I don't like criticizing them as a bad model of marital contentment, but looking at their problems makes me want to run away from the idea of ever entering a serious relationship myself. Wait, that's not true. I would like to meet someone and create committed relationship, but I'm not going to do it until I'm certain, until we've had time to figure out each other's faults and to accept that they can't always be remedied.

Arranged marriages are good and bad, but the example I've grown up with is in part a huge failure. Do you know how awful it is to feel that way? That your parents aren't that weird but generally close couple you hoped they would be? That they, their relationship, part of the "family" you've grown up with, is a crashing failure? I feel heartbroken. Part of me wishes I could escape, that I had a job and could move out immediately, but the other half is terrified of not being here, in case...well, in case it gets seriously bad. My sister learned to turn her back to this but the problem is, my parents don't keep their fights to themselves. Everyone gets involved, everyone bears the burden and discomfort. And there's never been a solution. I really wish that they could somehow learn, after 25+ years of marriage, a way in which to get along. Maybe I'm making too much of this. We've survived all these years despite the strain. But I feel so horribly alone dealing with this, and as much as I hate them for what they do to me and to one another, we're still bound in the same circle.

Tomorrow I have another interview. I feel so awful right now and I have a 3-hour drive with my dad just to get to the interview. I hope I don't fuck up because of this. Because I can't stay in this house for too much longer. I just can't.

On Saturday I did not, as I anticipated, either buy or begin Harry Potter. My father called from a store and said he could buy it for about $15, and since he volunteered, I figured I would let him. I know how silly this sounds, but I really wanted to go and get the book on my own. I wanted to gleefully stand in front of the bookcases, admiring all the green and purple glory of the sixth installment, and then take my place in queue amongst the other fans. But my parents don't really understand this kind of take on life. They're (especially my dad) pretty practical people who use coupons and dislike wasting anything, including emotion and sentiment on things they don't understand. That sounds harsh, but well, I love the Harry Potter series and there are so few events that I'm interested in attending. Anyway, that was that.

Went to Annie's party in New Jersey. It was fun, although Meredith was right, it really did feel like a scene from Garden State. I'm baffled by New Jersey. The whole thing turned into a 'drinking in the basement' affair, which was pretty reminiscent of my high school days. I mean, we sat on a huge comfy couch, watched bad tv channels over which no one would agree, and failed to make interesting conversation. Then a piece of soundproofing foam collapsed from the ceiling and on its second bounce, hit Sarita's head. It was around the fourth time that I had been told "you're at the Koski's, you have to drink here or you get out" that I suddenly felt that basement culture had lost some of its old-world charm. Nonetheless, a few shots and a game of ping-pong later, I was back in top form. I think Annie herself had a good time, which was really the most important thing. Her family had made this cardboard cutout plastered with pictures of her in all ages. I could never see my parents doing something like that. And Annie looked so happy in all of them. It pleased me to see so many faces of a girl I know, all of them beaming out at me with the same sense of goodwill.

The 6th Harry Potter is coming out! I am wildly excited. 

I have a vivid memory of reading HP the first time around. I was an intern at Norton and kept sneaking off for long lunches to read as much as was possible. But I saved the last 60-odd pages to read without interruption, and I went to this tiny edge of Bryant Park at the front of the New York Public Library. I think it's one of those charmed spots where few people go, with these small green seats under ferny trees. I read about Sirius' death and Harry's rage, Dumbledore's confession and the unmasked prophecy. I felt like my own life was crashing (I've never been good at detaching from books) and I later went through what I labeled as "Post-Potter Depression" until my sister told me to get over it. I don't know what draws me to the HP series and no one has adequately explained just why Rowling is so successful at what she does. Maybe I'll figure it out one day.

If you're already reading the book, I hope it's wonderful! I'm shortly about to push my little Adithi dinghy off shore to join legions of other readers. At moments like this, when there's such solidarity, I start to think the world we live in is OK. HP, the antidote to human evil. :)

I love Grand Central -- it's a beautiful train station, with gorgeously architecture and a classy design. These days, however, I generally skulk through the platforms, trying to avoid eye contact with people in case they register that I'm on my way to a job interview. The greater concern, however, is that one day I'm going to run into a kid from my high school who will interrogate me and cast me into shame because while they're madly successful and already targeting their next position within the ranks at Morgan Stanley, I'm *gasp* unemployed and still trotting out the pearls.

Now I know this is a projection of my own insecurities, but you don't know my high school. It's full of wealthy kids who live off of privilege during their entire lives. This isn't to say that they have poor morals or that they don't work hard. But they dicked around in school, got into good universities through contacts, or ended up at mediocre colleges and used their family contacts for a great internship. I know I sound like a prat, but honestly, I was on that internship A-track. I just don't know why I'm now in the ignominious position of having to shy away from people whose opinions shouldn't matter. It's horrible to feel ashamed of what you are. Really horrible. I'm so regular about judging myself against impossible standards that I imagine everyone else is also constantly appraising and censuring me. This makes every day quite exhausting on the mental level, to tell you the truth.

I got a chance to speak to Katy on the phone, a small bonus for the day. Katy is all kinds of terrific, even though we have a lot of 'disagreements.' Every year that I've known her I start to like her a little more for very different reasons. She's a good friend in general, and one of my favourite people. I'm kind of hoping I'll pass away before her because she'd know how to handle my death with aplomb and humour whereas I would simply bawl at her grave like the usual waterpot that I am. She's leaving for Kyoto on July 23rd and I will miss her tremendously, even though we've been in touch only off-and-on since graduation. Katy is small and studies Russian. She goes a lovely shade of pink when she's tipsy and couples a schoolmarmish demeanor with a real penchant for 'partay'-ing. She performed Blanche Devereaux (from the Golden Girls) for about 10 seconds freshman year, and I'll never forget it.

I have the greatest friends.

This will be a fast second post. Tomorrow's going to be busy. I have an interview downtown at 2  and a test in spanish. If you have any semblance of sympathy for me, spend your next eyelash on wishing me luck. It seems as if everything I do these days is suspended in mid-air with that eyelash, hoping to strike gold somewhere on the ground. Noel once said that he's the kind of guy who's always wishing, even in non-eyelash moments. Now there's my idea of the true romantic. 

A long time ago (oh, when I was about 12 years old and I avidly read Whitman and Rossetti) I used to be terribly idealistic. This has definitely dissipated over the years...but for tomorrow, I am renewing my ardour, trust, and my willingness to suspend fate on the fragile eyelash. So think good things for me, and hopefully I will one day in the near future be able to torch my slate-grey interview suit. All thanks to you, beloved reader. :o)

Spanish lessons are pretty good. We have our first test on Wednesday, and I'm nervous. It seems silly to be able to speak in the past tense if you don't know how to say "She's at the supermarket now." Still, this is something I'm doing entirely for myself, without the pressure of needing an A at the end of term. I'm learning, and that alone feels great. Yesterday I stood up in front of my class and blithely declared: "On Saturday I went to a barbecue at the beach with my girlfriend." A giant leap for mankind...

The other kids in class are overall nice but of a totally different calibre than I've been around for years now. It's nice to meet people who want to coach PE in elementary school, or who are doing something that isn't geared towards reaching that upper echelon of New York society. I feel like the odd man out, which is amazing, because for once I just shut up and listen to everyone else's thoughts. A new guy came to class yesterday - Jonathon. He wore a shirt with cutoff sleeves. He's of Cuban descent. His accent is spot-on. Instead of saying "yo fui" he says something like "zjho fui" and despite my irritation with him at being a constant wiseass, he did know who Arantxa Sanchez-Vicario is, and even knows that she's not a singles player anymore but that she competes on the doubles circuit. I struggled not to be swayed by his tennis trivia, but it was hard to remain aloof. I don't know what this says of me. Probably that I'm a fool, and not in that 'charming quirkiness' kind of way.

This entry is dull and I'm losing steam on it. Plus it's hot and I have to practice using the preterite. I love Spanish!

Visit to New Haven was fun. The Yale Art Gallery is really nice - I don't like it as much as the Frick, but as with all small collections, it has a great atmosphere and a certain degree of intimacy with the paintings that you can't find elsewhere. 

My best friend called, which was nice, if a tad awkward. We're moving through the 'figuring out postcollegiate friendship' stage, pressing out wrinkles here and there. It's strange to think how poorly acquainted we suddenly are. There's so much she doesn't know -- how hard it was to get all the rejections, to go through interviews, my visit to the ballet, 4th of july fireworks, spanish lessons, citizenship, etc. How can we be friends if such things - some of them so major - have to be news? Are we now those people who see one another once a year and engage in superficial banter? I feel like I've lost a certain kind of friendship that I took for granted, a bond I expected to endure. But maybe such relationships were only possible during the 4 years of heated experience that characterized college. Without the dorm circumference, we are just humans - not students, not roommates, not confidantes -- not anything but individuals trying to relate. 

After attending Caroline's barbecue at the beach (yay to swinging on the sand and making smores! yay to heavy ocean air!), I drove home at dark. If you know me at all, you'll be aware that this is one of my favourite things to do. Driving at dark, listening to my music, feeling a strange predatorial sleekness as the car & I plunged into the darkness, watching the trees burn blacker against the sky. I love that feeling of oneness with my car, of being in control, forward-moving, and powerful. I feel like I'm cutting into the night with sharp and knowing teeth, unafraid (mostly) for a little lapse in time. 

On nights like this I blow kisses at the stars and give thanks for balsam in the air. How stupid that sounds. I expect if you saw me, you'd think I was crazy. I am, I know it. But I'm happy to realize that there are moments when I'm content to be by myself, when I can stop the chatter, and gladly embrace the solace of trees, music, and velvety darkness outside. It's a moment of pure correspondence with myself and my surroundings. 

The bombings in London were all over the news. I felt a strange mixture of compassion and detachment. At points during the day tears just started streaming down my cheeks. At others I felt relieved that this time I wasn't near the scene, unlike 11/2001, when I was a freshman at Columbia. The more you think about it, though, the more you realize how close you are to people directly impacted. Around 4 in the afternoon I suddenly panicked, thinking about the scores of people and friends I know in London who went to school with me. I could see my sister growing anxious, calling friends in Cambridge, and feeling responsible but helpless. Mostly I felt upset, wondering why on earth any group thinks this is the manner in which to address a cultural collision, an inability to intersect two apparently polarized ideologies.

London is a tolerant place, more so than New York even, though perhaps less diverse. I just think of all the innocent Muslims out there who are going to suffer for this, and for whom subtle persecution is going to become a reality. It isn't right and it isn't fair, but more and more it is the reality of the world in which I live, I guess. I just can't help but wonder what we'll do now that terrorism is appropriated into our cultural consciousness, into the idea of globalism. What is happening to the East/West relationship? I feel achingly sorry for those people in London, for the city itself. I think of London and I think of Love Actually or Mrs. Dalloway; most of all I think of happier times when I used to write bad poetry about our local neighbourhood, or of carrying my guitar to school during the autumn. I am so sorry for losing it all. I've never supported the Iraq war, but in the wake of these bombings I can't help but feel that the people perpetrating such crimes have even less of an understanding of how to negotiate for human lives than the American government. There is no comfort in an "orange alert" but I am sickened at the idea of  a man strapping arsenal to his body. The body - individual/public - is a sanctified space, or at least it should be. 

In the evening I went to my first Spanish lesson. Never mind that it's elementary II and I don't know how to say "is your daughter well?" or "have another cutlet?" I have to say, I really enjoyed it and I'm looking forward to learning more. The reassurance of the classroom was intoxicating. It gave me that familiar sense of purpose, of wanting to perform and succeed. That smacks of dorkiness, but you can't resist what you are. 

Today I became a citizen of the US. Hurrah for not having to get any more visas! We went out with family friends to celebrate at dinner.

Who said life as an unemployed deadbeat was dull or uneventful? The drama continues everyday...

You may wonder why roger federer is on my links list. One day I may even devote an entire blog to him. Tennis means something personal to me. I'm not that into sports, but this is one that just clicks for me, you know? I get it: I get its nuances and I know what it's like to think in tennis vocabulary. Anyway, the point is that I like him a lot. And though the site is a little lame in its reverential tone, it's a decent introduction to him and his accomplishments. Maybe Nick Hornby had it right in Fever Pitch. Maybe we do live through the successes of our heroes, and enjoy their triumphs without necessarily wanting to be them. Tennis is amazing. It's part of my home, whatever or wherever that is.

I don't know if writing out my mental processes is really going to help. I think it may just make me more anxious, and how fun could that possibly be to read? 

Later in the afternoon, the HR woman from S&S let me know that the position is also going to be filled by someone else. So I'm back at square one with an increased sense of doom in my stomache. I'm seriously starting to question whether or not this is right for me. I've never known what really makes me click. I mean, I loved my work in college and sometimes I felt genuinely thrilled by reading Victorian poetry, or writing a Woolf paper, even devoting months to my thesis. Austen is brilliant -- she astounds on every reading. But was that thrill of understanding actually meaningful? Or did I rely on routine and habit to make my scholarship feel worthwhile? I feel so lost. It's tough not to know what will come, feeling uncertain about how I'll fill my days in a few months' time. 

I miss college - I miss my classes, the rhythm of my work, and the comfort of knowing that my purpose was to be a student, to read, write and think. I wonder if my entire college experience can be summed up into my having gained 4 years' worth of knowledge better suited to a cocktail party than to any real consciousness about the world and any real life application. Those economics majors I criticized -- maybe they had it right. Professor Crawford said that you don't have to be a professor in order to be a scholarly person. She's right. I just wish I could interpret that into my life. I wish I could start something real, move beyond the interviews.

My sis and I saw an outdoor performance of A Midsummer Night's Dream. Later we went to starbucks and got everything you don't normally get -- clementine soda, lemon cake, a cheese platter. During our meal, however, she flipped out and insisted on leaving when she saw a young kid (maybe 15/16) smoking next to us. She's got issues about that kind of stuff, which can seem a bit weird. After Paris, it's a little hard to think of smoking as being all that serious.

My sister told me that what she really wants is for her upcoming job to last at least 5 solid years, without all that ugly shifting and unease that characterized her first years before her MBA. I want this for her too, more than anything else. Honestly, I don't know that it's easier to worry about someone else. And I'm a pro at worrying.

So I guess this is my first post. I feel like Felicity, sending her messages out into the blind oblivion on a tape recorder. There isn't much to say; I'm not even entirely certain why I created this blog. Maybe because I'm awful at maintaining a diary and I have some feeble hope that this will cover the expanse of a year in my life -- one in which I seem to be struggling to articulate the state in which I found myself the day after I graduated university. Well, wish me luck. Here it all goes. The beginning of the rest of my life and all that cacophonous jazz.

As to the title -- it's not really representative of anything phenomenal. Le Violin Dingue was the name of this tiny bar in Paris where I drank nothing but Gin Fizz and Gin & Tonic with my friends when I studied in Paris in the Spring of 2004. The crazy violin, the drunken violin...it was a good corner of the world in which to make a beginning, to reinvent myself, if only briefly.