Anniversary

A year ago I was sitting on a hillside in Connecticut with my family, some friends, and their two little daughters who held my hands on either side. We waited for dusk to spread across the sky, and then gazed in awe at a series of fireworks. The little girls were frightened; I just gaped with my mouth in an "O." I didn't know that I'd end up soon leaving my parents for a small town in Jersey, that I'd move into a house with 5 people I didn't know, or that I'd start a regular job for the first time in my life. I haven't been in Princeton for a full 12 months, but this is the anniversary of my blog -- a year ago, around 12pm, I sat at my father's computer, trying to draft some kind of rationale for documenting my exploits. At the time I told myself that whatever happened, it was likely that the year ahead would be unlike anything else I experienced, and therefore worthy of comment. I can't objectively say that the latter is true - my blog has been in turn adolescent, whiny, frivolous, sentimental, and pompous - but it's helped me to convert my constant internal chatter into something coherent, something communicable. I guess I think that self-scrutiny should be accorded a decent measure of self-expression.

I heard a quote this weekend by Walter Scott, in which he says "One crowded hour of glorious life is worth an age without a name." I repeated it to someone else tonight, and whatever the context, I think it holds. The past year, whenever it began (July 4th, the day I started my job, the day I moved, or the day I made my first friend), hasn't been entirely glorious, but it's definitely been a "crowded hour." If I were feeling grandiose, I'd say that July 4th commemorates my personal bid for independence, for a severence of ties with my old home and old life. But the past is always vividly reimagined and reconsidered in my present. So I'll just say that I'm glad I managed to keep up with this for a year of my life in which I've seen so much change, and in which every moment has somehow been or felt pivotal. I'd like to think I didn't do too badly by my blog's namesake: a little bar in Paris where they make a mean gin fizz. It was a good place to be; this, too, is a good place to be.

The Moon's a Balloon

This is part of the track list to a mix I recently made and gave to a friend. If you're curious about what I'm listening to, well, a lot of it is here - some borrowed, some blue, some new, I forget the rest. Odd how it all fell together. It's the kind of music I want to listen to while I'm lying in a hammock outside, under golden and green palms. I have an idea that somewhere in the background there are men and women in flannels, drinking grasshoppers. Or perhaps there are grasshoppers dressed in flannel, drinking martinis. I am an idle creature.

Al Green, "Let's Stay Together"
Benny Goodman, "Moonglow"
Peggy Lee & Benny Goodman, "Sunny Side of the Street"
Badly Drawn Boy, "Something to Talk About"
Ambulance Ltd., "Anecdote"
Belle & Sebastian, "Funny Little Frog"
Ivy, "I've Got a Feeling"
Coldplay, "Don't Panic"
Brazilian Girls, "Lazy Lover"
Astrud Gilberto & Antonio Carlos Jobim, "Agua De Beber"
Sergio Mendes & Brasil '66, "Mas Que Nada"
Mathieu Boogaerts, "Ondulé"
John Lennon, "Oh Yoko"
Suzanne Vega, "Caramel"
Beck, "Mixed Bizness"

Modern Love

I guess this post never went through -- weird! Anyway, it doesn't matter too much, because everything in here has been recycled endlessly in my head over the past few weeks...

So, I'm watching "When Harry Met Sally" right now. I probably shouldn't be doing this, because while it's a lighthearted and friendly movie, it raises again and again that issue of male-female relationships. Now, I’m not a genius at matters of the heart. Not remotely. But lately, emotional thought has been at the foreground of my life. I used to be so obsessed with my work and professional/intellectual advancement - in contrast, I'm finding this current period of personal interest kind of disconcerting. Is it right to pass your day thinking about someone you like rather than focusing exclusively on what you should be achieving? I read a profile in which Vera Wang discussed how challenging it is to lead her life. She says her kids often eat dinner at her studio, that her best hours of creativity are from 11-2AM, and that she is grateful to have a workaholic husband who matches her drive and ambition. Impressive; but how did she find him?

I have this sense that somewhere "out there," there are millions of young women like me who are so-called late bloomers. We didn't really date in high-school, had one flash-in-the-pan turbulent encounter in college, which drove us to our books, and spent our ensuing years in predominantly female circles. I idolized (and still do) Virginia Woolf, Georgia O'Keeffe, and even Jean Seberg. Dear god. I mean, Woolf was off writing about women orgasming metaphorically, Stieglitz had a pet name for O'Keeffe's vagina, and Belmondo spent all of Breathless trying to (with success, at one point) bed Seberg's character. How is it possible that there are so many intelligent, intellectually stimulated young women out there who aren't dating, who managed to entirely bypass the radical sexual bacchanal that is the American college experience?

Men are a constant source of mystery to me; I talk to them, go out with them platonically, have daydreams about them, and every step of the way, I'm stunned by the reality of our interactions. It's amazing how you can exist in two divergent worlds: the world of your imagination and desire versus the world of human behavior, human restraint. Socialization has never before been such an important part of my everyday life. I always felt so insulated from dealing with drama by living safely ensconced in the world of books and poetry. I never thought that real people - men and women - would or could be so attractive, so oddly intoxicating. I can't immerse myself in "Howard's End," and I'm unable to read even the simplest lines of poetry without hearing the echo of my poetry professor, Emily, who opened our first class by declaring that "all poetry is love poetry." I remember the immediate roar of disagreement that rose in my voice and head until I dwelt on it and concluded that she was right. Isn’t it all about love? Love of humanity, of immortality – or even mortality – of existence, of emotion, of ourselves. Cummings has these great lines when he says:

"i like my body when it is with your
body. It is so quite a new thing."

Some days I think that I could be perfectly content – happy, even – just being on my own. I’m a conscient creature: I’m sensible to emotion, weather, interpersonal dynamics, lighting, aesthetics. It would be enough to live with these things, if only because I feel that they won’t dull over time. There is so much to do and to see. And yet, I often can’t shake the feeling that it would be delightful to have a companion to whom to point out the first daffodils, for whom to bake gingerbread men, to whom I could talk for just 2 minutes after I close my book and turn off the lamp. Someone whose face I want to write about, to photograph, to trace. It's a creative impulse as well.

I recently admitted to a friend that I had feelings for him. It went fine; probably one of the most adult things I’ve done in a while. In a way, I’m glad I was able to tell him and trust that he would treat me as kindly as he always does. But in another way, I’m vaguely heartbroken. It is difficult – for me – to believe that I’ll find this kind of bizarrely tender, funny, intellectual and spiritual connection with someone else. Maybe it’s a hallmark of my youthful perspective, as he tells me. More and more, I realize an unsuspected capacity in myself to be idealistic and romantic rather than skeptical. It’s just that when I have feelings for people, even when I’m not in their presence, my awareness of beauty is so much stronger, so much more vital. I see stone curlicues carved into a wall and feel awe, study sombre medieval paintings and laugh at the facial expressions, smell flowers in other people’s gardens, and recall little trickles of poetry all the time. Words, especially, seem sweeter and riper, more abundant than when my emotions are neutral.

With all of this, you’d think it would be easier to be glad for platonic love. Maybe part of modern love is accepting platonic love. It certainly seems to involve some kind of reconciliation – but the reconciliation is with yourself and your own life rather than your partner. I went to a colleague’s wedding over the weekend, and was mesmerized by all the religious rituals: the dancing, the blessings, and the toasts by childhood mentors. But in the midst of this, as I watched Ben (bridegroom) struggle through a North-African song of devotion, and saw Shani (bride) laughing and blushing in her lace gown, I felt how young they were – how flushed, excited, and above all, unmarred. It was unbearably moving to witness.

There's no conclusion to this. I guess I’ve just been thinking a lot about love – its gradations and variations, how it manifests itself. I figure that modern love is simply a process of discovering that you too want to be with yourself, if that makes sense. I always feel so tentative about this stuff. I guess I haven’t really left the woeful 14-year-old in me behind. It’s funny to see how she lingers, how she’s coping with the idea of growing up and finding her equal. We’re both, as you’ll note, still seeking sanctuary in metaphor and quotation -- because the human part is just a little harder to master.

Underneath the Mango Tree, Honey & Me

I’m lying on the porch swing right now, out in the lower stretches of our garden. Fridays are half-days during the summer, and I haven’t felt this degree of liberty in a while. Vacation days make me feel oddly guilty – all the strain of knowing that others are deep in the throes of industry while you’re lounging in the sunshine, etc. But on communal holidays like this, I feel like someone’s holding out a golden apple with my name on it -- a day given back, a day to just live.

I’m generally the kind of person who stops to smell flowers, to read people’s scribbles in books, on the pavement, on trees. But it’s nice to feel that I can do these things – be gladly conscious of life and society, I suppose – in a sanctioned manner. I was never great at playing hooky. It’s like that line in a Simon & Garfunkel song: “I’ve got nothing to do today but smile.” When I left work around one, I knew that the only thing I wanted to do was to buy fresh bell peppers for dinner, to amble a little in the sun-dappled grass. And so I did.

I’ve been really ill all this week, so bear with me if this post seems disordered. Since returning from Japan, things have been a bit on the go. I can’t even remember all of it – a Depeche Mode concert along the way, a visit to Peonyland,* a charming and romantic evening with Ben up at Columbia, a rather intricately sketched 23rd Birthday weekend, etc. My birthday was fun, but I think next year I’m going to keep it much simpler. By the end I was utterly wiped out and ready to yield to welcoming arms of my mattress. But what did I actually do? Well!

Day One: Saw X-3, had a drink with Mike and Patty at the Alchemist & Barrister.
Day Two: Went to the sculpture gardens in Hamilton, and had brunch with Vanessa and Christoph in a delightful restaurant that was a throwback to Casablanca. We had the nicest conversation about, well, everything: personalities, business agendas, our future hopes and desires. I even got a little birthday message on my dessert plate!
In the evening we had dinner with PUP friends at Mexican Village, where everyone graciously went round the table and toasted me – “thank you, AK, for being so young and beautiful…she introduced me to some good music, but I introduced her to better…she’s got a needle-tongue, this one…AK’s, umm, a lady.” Yup, me in a nutshell.
Day Three: Drive to the city with V, singing all the way. Lunch with Chris and Abby at The Casablanca Tea Room, then a lovely hour pottering downtown. Later, dinner with my high-school clan: Sarah, Katy and Caroline at Perbacco in the LES. I’d say the high point was laughing at our server's t-shirt, which read: “I like to watch lesbians.” How authentically Italian.
Day Four: Brunch, quiet trip home, homemade risotto with Bob.

* A trip that evolved into a bit of an odyssey, since we got completely lost on the way back and circled through Bucks County, PA (I’d take it off your list of things ‘to do before I die’) for about 4 hours. Peonies, should you not recall them immediately, are rather cabbage-y flowers that come in pink, white, and yellow hues. I suppose I prefer more streamlined flora myself, since the cabbage motif was uppermost in my mind. But the wonderful thing about peonies is that they smell incredible. As our guide told us, people often make the mistake of thrusting their noses straight into the heart of the flower, rather than sniffing the petals at the perimeter. I have to say, there’s nothing like being dressed down for shoving your nose into the sexual organs of a flower.

A Brilliant Scheme for the Immediate Future

My plans for the next few days entail huge expanses of time spent in bed, and alternately, on the porch swing outside. Last weekend – being a guest at Princeton Reunions (think Woodstock with more beautiful people, more alcohol, and gothic architecture…oh, and dancing with my ridiculous but gorgeous Greek and Persian housemates. It was like I was the star of a Jay-Z video), hosting my first party, and going to a bridal shower in Long Island – was a lot of fun, but by its end, I was physically battered. Right now I’m glad the week is over and I finally have time to put the brakes on.

Our house is in a bit of a bad way, because four of my original housemates have gone. I’m not the best at goodbyes, but in this case, I feel like instead of a rousing cheer and the clinking of glasses, the velvet curtain just collapsed on the past year. The worst part is walking into a room and seeing vacant spaces where there were once belongings: a dining table, a chair, a photograph. There aren’t familiar voices in the corridor, or faces scurrying by, no familial ease to give succor to the worst day. The sense of ‘belonging’ just packed up and moved out without saying farewell.

Christoph called from California the night before he left for Brazil. I miss him. I miss seeing his face across the table, and I miss hearing his “hey, what’s up?” or “ah, want to hear a funny story?” because they always make me smile. There are other things I miss – Reza’s odd moments of kindness, his quick response to my humour. Carrie’s shy grace and immediate understanding -- her boundless sympathy. Yorgo’s warmth and affection, qualities that radiate from his face and body. I miss these people because despite only admitting each other to our lives with varying degrees of trust, we have lived together for almost a year. And suddenly it feels like we’ve splintered off, like our physical bonds have been broken, leaving rough edges on which I keep cutting myself.

As silly as this may sound, I’m suddenly realizing that my life isn’t about making friendships that endure for decades. More and more it seems to be about intersecting with unexpected people in unexpected places, wherein our lives briefly run parallel before one or both of us move on. It’s strange to share your thoughts and words - the little trickles of fancy running in your head and heart – with people who, three months later, suddenly disappear. They revisit your life, no doubt, but you can’t recreate sentiment and intimacy – at least not in an authentic way.

Not to be macabre, but it’s a bit like staging a burial when friendships close. It’s only the tokens – Borges quotes, aftershave, dated wine-corks, pressed leaves, lavender – that survive. And words, of course. At least the words don’t lose their potency.

Time Was Away and Somewhere Else

I was pretty feverish today, so I ended up leaving work early and sleeping fitfully in the afternoon heat. But I have 2 more photos of my trip to Japan (the trip that never made it to the blog) here, and a poem I read that I really liked. I don't have any further clarity on my current woes, but the good news is that sitting up and striving to explain myself - in that wonderful, lacerating way - really served to suck me dry of any residual energy. It seems easier to cope with the shambles when you're incapable of thinking or feeling too deeply.



Shocked by the leek situation at Daimoru.



Ahem. In the company of Messieurs Spice and Lloyd.

And now, as is the title of the book, an homage to eros. There isn't anything terribly profound about this poem, but the sentiment is simple and liltingly composed. I like the lines "They planned to portion out the stars and dates" -- it just seems such a foolish but romantic idea. I love the notion of portioning out the stars, as if we could even begin to claim proprietorship of the firmament.

Meeting point

Time was away and somewhere else,
There were two glasses and two chairs
And two people with the one pulse
(Somebody stopped the moving stairs)
Time was away and somewhere else.

And they were neither up nor down;
The stream's music did not stop
Flowing through heather, limpid brown,
Although they sat in a coffee shop
And they were neither up nor down.

The bell was silent in the air
Holding its inverted poise -
Between the clang and clang a flower,
A brazen calyx of no noise:
The bell was silent in the air.

The camels crossed the miles of sand
That stretched around the cups and plates;
The desert was their own, they planned
To portion out the stars and dates:
The camels crossed the miles of sand.

Time was away and somewhere else.
The waiter did not come, the clock
Forgot them and the radio waltz
Came out like water from a rock:
Time was away and somewhere else.

Her fingers flicked away the ash
That bloomed again in tropic trees:
Not caring if the markets crash
When they had forests such as these,
Her fingers flicked away the ash.

God or whatever means the Good
Be praised that time can stop like this,
That what the heart has understood
Can verify in the body's peace
God or whatever means the Good.

Time was away and she was here
And life no longer what it was,
The bell was silent in the air
And all the room one glow because
Time was away and she was here.

Juncture

I'm feeling kind of sad right now (why else would one be up at 5 am? I'm definitely more of a sunrise than a sunset kind of girl, but still...), so I figured I'd post a little. At 3:21 this morning I suffered a moment of panic and wondered if I'm having some kind of nervous breakdown. I have a rash, my knee hurts (all psychosymptomatic, I'm convinced), and the past few weeks have essentially found me feeling extraordinarily high and low at once, oscillating between glee and bitter depression. How dramatic. Mostly I feel young -- horribly young, with all the baggage of being inexperienced in life and clueless about how to interact with others. All my life I've been told how precocious I was, how mature for my age, that I practically had the wisdom of a 40-year-old. So much for that. 

Lately I've sensed that I'm somewhere between 5 and 40, erring towards the formative rather than developed end of the spectrum. I know you'll think I'm absurd for referencing this, but, well, Geminis are supposed to be eternally youthful. The children of the astrological galaxy or whatever. The thing is, I'm beginning to understand the downfalls of being so young and immature, of bringing both innocence and duplicity (because let's face it, children are not entirely guileless) to every point of engagement I have with others. And it hurts my ability to be a good person - a good friend, a good listener, a loyal and discreet human being. 

The more I move away from college and from being in a space that essentially sanctified youth and youthful mannerisms, the more I feel accountable for my decisions and actions, for the way I treat people and the way I seem to wilfully please and hurt them. This post isn't going anywhere. I guess I'm just overwhelmed with feeling that I'm either an emotionally backward twit who can't be honest with other people, or that I'm a brilliant thespian who should consider public performance as a career alternative. 

We have this book coming out at work that discusses the art of immaturity. And boy am I an exemplar. Because mature people aren't as naive or as bound to introduce chaos into their lives. They don't exalt the idea of youth, only to discover that in having done so, they misjudged and abused their real values. A friend told me to draft some wishes for the year ahead. I've been negligent on this head, but I think it's due time to re-evaluate the state of my emotions and intellect (there's currently no synergy between the two!) and to figure out some personal stuff. 

Over the past month I let myself fall into a giddy - but ultimately dissatisfying - morass of superficiality. The thing is, it's sort of heartbreaking to wake up and feel disgusted with yourself, to realize that you let go of substance in constantly seeking novelty and stimulation. I turned 23 this weekend, but I don't think I deserved all the kindness or affection I encountered from so many people. The irony of being in the presence of friends who are so genuine and dear is that it throws into sharp relief your own inadequacies, your own destructive capability. I hope that 23 finds me a more truthful person, more representative of the sincerity I expect in others -- a quality that seems to be so utterly lacking when I jolt awake at 3am and face only myself in this dark room.

Hot Date

Tonight I was taken out to one of my favourite restaurants in Princeton, cajoled into drinking two glasses of chianti, and then squired to ice-cream at another local franchise. What with the wine, thoughtful invitation, and "celebrate you being the beguiling creature you are!" atmosphere, I blushed a lot. It was one of the nicest dinner dates I've had in a while. Too bad the person brushing my knees and toasting me was a fellow sheepish feminist. It's like that short story by Paul Gallico, in which he sets up this elaborate domestic scene between a male and a female character -- only at the end it turns out they're two cats. We didn't quite purr together when I got home - next time, for sure - but she did let me kiss her and take a polaroid to add to my "unexpected evenings" collection. Whereupon I said "goodnight, Carrie dearest," and shamelessly swaggered the three feet to my bedroom.

Tripping the Light Fantastic

So, because I've been besieged with requests for these things (flattery gets you everywhere), I'm posting some pictures of my time in Japan. So much for those poetic, insightful entries I hoped for. Somehow the past few days have been terribly hectic, despite my achieving a total of absolute zero. Therefore, no posts. But I did get about half my film developed, so fasten your seatbelts.


Kana and Katy in the gardens adjacent to Himeji-jo.


Katy with her chu-hai in Nara at a superb okonomiyaki dinner.


Your humble servant.


Japanese schoolgirls are my heroes. I figure it's just a matter of time before I transform into one of them, especially since I put in some major practice time on my bashful yet shrieking laugh.


Maple trees looking absolutely stunning. When Katy and I went to the Daitoku-ji temple complex, they had this one small temple with an entire maple grove. Plus I love taking shots while lying under trees.


A Buddhist graveyard tucked quietly behind the Nanzen-ji temple complex. More on this later -- it was one of my favourite memories from Japan. A truly spiritual space.


This is the green-tea churning machine in Uji. You would not believe the fragrance!


Todaiji in Nara. They had a festival the day that I visited, replete with a grand pavilion and men in traditional costume performing some kind of dance with swords.

Except for that Night in Kyoto

Things have been kind of lousy this week. The jetlag got really intense since I returned, with the result that I’ve spent almost every day staring abstractly at the sandpaper that coats the walls of my cubicle. If I weren’t so gratified by blowing on the dandelions in the backyard, I think I could make for quite a good modern-day Sartre. Sadly, I’m riveted by the dandelions, so there’s another dream denied.

I think I’m just feeling dismal about what the upcoming year is going to look like; neither my living nor work situation seems to be terribly promising right now. Last night I was either going to start freaking out in my room or in a public space, so I chose option B and pelted back to the office to take Bob hostage. Bob is a kindly soul because he bears well with me when I’m in a foul mood. Especially since my foul moods entail me coaxing my limbs into uncomfortable seated positions and interjecting the phrases “fucking asshole” and “dickish” into every sentence. We closed the evening by singing karaoke - “You Spin Me Round” - with Jeremy at the Ivy. Dead or Alive never sounded so good. Oh right, except for that night in Kyoto. 

On nights like that, I really miss the city. There’s something reassuring about walking along Broadway in the cold rain. It forces you to confront yourself about why you took the walk in the first place. And I miss Low steps.

Where We Left Off

My first real day in Japan, Katy, Kana and I took a day trip to this charming town in the Kyoto prefecture called Uji. This day stands out as an all-time high from my trip, because Uji is famous for its green tea and for Byodo-in, a gorgeous temple complex with a phoenix-hall situated on its central pond. 

The reason I liked Uji so much is because it affords a truly multisensory experience. We turned down the main road leading to Byodo-in, and suddenly Kana said, “smell the matcha (green tea)!!” and there it was, perfuming the entire street. Little vendors held out cups of fresh, fragrant tea, and there was even a weird whirling machine that churned out tea leaves ready to be packaged. Everything smelt and tasted like green tea, which was kind of intoxicating; I tried the matcha mochi (pounded rice flavoured with green tea), which was gooey and delicious. Needless to say, we made very slow progress towards the temple grounds.

Byodo-in was apparently built around 1052. As we entered, the first thing we noticed were the stunning purple flowers dangling from a wooden trellis. One of the nicest things about the Japanese is that they appreciate their own nature; aside from all the tourists, we were mostly jostling with locals to get a good shot under the vines. The main structure in Byodo-in is called “Amida Hall,” or the Phoenix Hall. It’s situated right in the middle of a small body of water, and is stunning from every vantage point. At the very top stand two phoenixes, each poised as if caught in the moment before flight. There additionally used to be a frieze featuring about 52 (I think!) bodhisattvas, but they’ve now relocated these to the adjoining museum. The gardens, the architecture, the residue of matcha in the air; it really made me feel for the first time, how far removed I was from home. In a gladdening way. On the way back, we ate these amazing matcha parfaits (green tea ice cream, mochi, and anko (red bean paste)), which convinced me that I had died and gone to paradise. Because, holy trinity and whatnot aside, it just doesn’t get better than this triumferate.

The Tale of AK in Nihon, told in parts

Music: Global Lounge Sessions

I currently feel like one of those good people who back out of having sex by “getting a headache” and who roll over in bed like beached seals. This is probably because I spent all day having an awful revelation about the fact that I create drama in my life since it’s otherwise lacking in excitement. That makes me feel like such a tool. And yet, I petted Balu tonight since he was lonely and miaowing pitifully. So good does triumph over evil, the day is salvaged! Whatever, I sound nuts.

Anyway, there isn’t a good way of documenting my time in Japan, and it would be silly to try to say everything at once. So I’m just going to pinpoint a few experiences, day by day, that I found particularly moving, absurd, or just noteworthy. This is going to take a few posts.

You’d think it would be difficult to navigate a country with the use of only three brief phrases. Not so, my friends. I proved my worth as a culture whore by single-handedly winning over the Japanese race by alternating between saying “hello, excuse me, and thank you very much!” in their native tongue. Katy thought it was hilarious that I put so much relish and gusto into each of my exchanges, and I suppose I was terribly vehement in my desire to assimilate in 8.5 days. Visiting Japan is something that you can only imagine about 10% of. I had seen temples in postcards, Mount Fuji is emblazoned on every possible surface, and I had vague ideas about what a Japanese garden would resemble.

But the first thing I noticed when I landed in Kansai International (a very cool airport, by the way; it’s located on an island of its own, and you have to take a train that crosses over these grey, rippling waters) and boarded the first of many trains, were all the roofs. Blue roofs, red roofs, even black roofs, but almost all were composed of glossy, carved tiles. While the fashionable gentleman to my right (crocodile sandals, rockstar hair) dozed off, I couldn’t stop staring at these roofs. I never suspected that the houses would be built in such a traditional manner; that the Japanese domestic landscape wouldn’t echo everything I just left in America. So much for that grand global understanding I thought I possessed.

Where AK meets a kindred spirit: Katy and I took the train to Kyoto Station (futuristic architecture, very neat) and met up with Kana. Kana is Katy’s best pal in the JET Program, and it’s easy to see why. Kana’s outspoken and says “asshole” like it’s going out of style, without ever being vulgar. She obviously despises any and all kinds of elitism except when it comes to musical taste, and is the kind of person you want standing behind you when you play that weird game in America where people tell you to close your eyes and fall back. Because Kana will catch you, even if it means that her extraordinarily chic sunglasses are liable to break. If this doesn't make her a gem, then I'll throw up my hands and sputter hopelessly.

Soon to come: Where AK visits Uji and eats green-tea ice cream. Music: Nick Drake.

Baby Got Back

So yours truly rolled back into town less than an hour ago. Japan was pretty glorious. And that's all I have to say about it...

...Obviously this is not all I have to say about it. But I have to get into work early tomorrow (repulsive thought) and additionally have to process everything that transpired in the past week. So I'll post soon, though I doubt I'll figure out the best way to synthesize my time there. Hard to find words for it all -- bathrooms, alcohol, Stuart Spice. There's definitely more to come.

Takeoff

It's going on 2AM right now, but I'm so excited. In a few hours' time I leave for Japan to see Katy and the Orient. Mark, Christoph's friend, who is charming and kind, has given me his copy of Jorge Luis Borges' "Collected Fictions." Mark and I once had a conversation about our mutual interest in living nomadic lives. His note accompanying the book reads, "AK, the stories of Borges grace the explorers of mind and earth with the occult on their journeys. Feynman was never far behind." We had earlier discussed Richard Feynman's work, "QED," which we published, and which I recently sent him. What a nice thing to do -- I've never met a guy who gave me a serious and thoughtful book of this calibre before a trip. Mark is pretty neat. 

Other stuff has been happening in the past week, but it's hard to recall. I attended an amazing jazz concert with the Princeton jazz ensemble and the Julliard Jazz Orchestra. They performed the Duke Ellington Far East Suite, and the Julliard kids were just brilliant -- they actually got a standing ovation, and I was one of the first to rise. I went to a reading of Elizabeth Bishop's poetry in the area - the entire Princeton Creative Writing Program staff came out to read, which was amazing. For such an odd school, they have a superlative program in this particular discipline. Was supposed to go to the Heeb party but bailed. All of this is so scattered...I'm going to the far side of the world! I'm on vacation! Crikey.

The Descent of Spring

Since my last post, a lot has happened. I ate 17 Cadbury's Creme Eggs this Easter, I met another love of my life and promptly lost interest in him, and Christ rose again and saved mankind. Yes, it has been a giddy and gleeful time.

Unfortunately, only one part is true: I did convince myself that I had feelings for someone, particularly while I was sick, and drove myself nuts by alternately sobbing with angst, and putting on a brave face (i.e. nurturing a solid martyr complex). It was pretty horrible, but I attribute a fair amount to my being ill and to my own stupidity in shifting from "detached with zero expectations" to "destined to be together" in half a minute. I did realize, however, that impatience is one of my besetting sins; I despise waiting for people to respond, and I equally loathe waiting for myself to get over my own emotions. Still, I figure that these are experiences I should have undergone at age 14, and 8 years later, I'm well overdue for my sentimental education.

Other things that took place:
1. Dave Eggers came to do a local reading, which was very interesting. He's writing a new "novelized biography" of one of the lost boys of Sudan. I enjoyed his actual reading, but was suspicious about the authenticity of his voice - how can you be sure that a boy raised in Africa will employ the same intonations, metaphors, and humour of a Westerner? But Dave Eggers himself was amusing and highly appealing to the hordes of undergrads who turned out. He has an easygoing manner.
2. Reza came back from Iran. He seemed mellower than he had been for months, which is great. He’s in the midst of job applications.
3. Christoph returned from an extended trip to Hawaii, Miami, Spain, and Switzerland. We kept missing each other for about 3 days, but then as I was heading to my room after work one evening, I heard him call out “is that Adithi coming upstairs?” and felt like I found my friend all over again. I forgot how fond I am of this housemate, with his sunny outlook on life and his ginger hair spilling everywhere. Mike came over for dinner that night (soba noodles with spaghetti sauce, a vile combination), and the three of us passed the evening laughing and chatting together as we sat in the garden under the full moon. The best part was when I caught Christoph’s eye as we enjoyed a moment of private amusement at Mike’s extraordinary eloquence on F. Scott Fitzgerald. It was a sign of renewal, and it made me thankful for the days when I come back to a house filled with candlelight, shared frozen dinners, and warm conversation.
4. Took my sister to see La Traviata at the MET. It was amazing, albeit a touch too long -- every time I thought Violetta was finally going to pass, she opened her mouth and let loose another aria, which was highly irritating. But the music was exquisite. When they juxtaposed Alfredo and Violetta’s pieces in Act I (the aria called sempre libera), I was thoroughly romanced by the sweetness of the whole thing. My sister said that the experience was made better by my being there. She’s a sport.
5. Went to CT, hung out with the family, saw Wallace & Gromit: The Curse of the Were-Rabbit, had paroxysm of laughter, went to see Abba musical, came home. As lame as the musical’s plotline was (my mother loves Abba and it was in honour of her birthday), the songs themselves were a lot of fun. The thing with Abba is that you just can’t get away from the fact that you know the lyrics to Dancing Queen and Voulez-Vous. And as my mother’s philosophy goes: don’t fight it. So I cheered as they lustily performed Gimme, Gimme, Gimme (I mean, who doesn’t want a man after midnight?), but drew the line at I Have a Dream because it’s a fundamentally irksome ballad that makes me want to slap everyone within arm’s reach.

Little else to report. I had a drink with Bob last night, which was fun – mostly because he’s a kindred spirit (i.e. sheepish intellectual who doesn’t look blank when I make a joke) and a very kind person to boot. Work is busy but good, and spring in Princeton has restored balm to my soul – all the pink-and-white-blossom pageantry is enchanting. Although, to be perfectly frank, I’m sort of lost without the chip on my shoulder that winter misery made necessary. It’s awfully hard to maintain my usual veneer of bitter resentment towards the world when all I want to do is tuck a posy behind my ear. It’s a tough life, to be sure. ;)

Sport of Kings



Spring means a lot of things. Like weird Soviets dressed for a game of doubles. Oh, I am germy but amused.

It Won't do to Dream of Caramel

This is my 100th post. I'm lying on the couch at home and Balu is lying on my stomache, so this is a shade complicated. But it's a lovely Sunday afternoon, which is what I needed, since I'm phlegmy and sad and ill. I feel like a colony of bacteria have settled in my lungs and are setting up a badminton round-robin. Current music? Damien Rice and Suzanne Vega. Listen to Damien Rice lying down on the ground, looking up at the sun through a window and all will be revealed, I promise you. There's poetry in this guy's voice -- he sounds so familiar yet as though he's singing just for you from centuries before and after your time. Being ill makes me susceptible, I guess. Some things I wanted to share:

from "The Man with the Blue Guitar" -- Wallace Stevens
XXXII

"Throw away the lights, the definitions,
And say of what you see in the dark

That it is this or that it is that
But do not use the rotten names.

How should you walk in that space and know
Nothing of the madness of space,

Nothing of its jocular procreations?
Throw the lights away. Nothing must stand

Between you and the shapes you take
When the crust of shape has been destroyed.

You as you are? You are yourself.
The blue guitar surprises you."

There are afternoons like this, which could only slightly be improved by the presence of a companion. No one spectacular. Just someone who knows the lyrics to my songs.

William, it was Really Nothing

Lately I feel like I've been medaling in the art of immaturity. I miss my collective group of brilliant and melancholy 22/23-year-old friends -- my privy council of people who understand (and laugh at) my constant fumbling. Right now I seem to be mis-stepping without any promise of future clarity. Especially on those occasions when I'm with someone who makes me giddy and we suddenly come upon that silent moment inevitable in any good exchange. It's as though the emotional quotient suddenly catches up and throws cold water over my ongoing need for mental stimulation. How do you reconcile both a sarcastic and a romantic nature? As far as my experience goes (about 10 yards, not far at all), it's anything but a seamless passage from banter to romance.

There are so many excellent kissing moments out there -- like in "Sleep the Clock Around" when the lead singer drones, "If you put down your pen, leave your worries behind, then the moment will come, and the memory will shine" and it just moves into this incredible synthesized instrumentation. That's a bonafide electric moment waiting to happen. 

I can't remember what else I did this week, except fall ill and panic about taxes. I finally recruited Heath to help me, and then we went out to a perfectly lovely meal with Clara and Mike at a local restaurant. I haven't had a real sit-down dinner with a group of friends in ages. Later Vanessa and I met up with Bob and Jeremy for drinks. Despite the bizarre auspices under which these evenings take place, the four of us have a rather enjoyable dynamic. I can't quite put my finger on why (or maybe I'd just rather not), but we play off of each other's absurdities with relative ease. I like each of them so very much for such different reasons -- but sometimes I feel very, very young. And naive. And agitated. But happy. It's weird.

A Toast to Our Former Selves

A friend of mine recently got some bad news prior to leaving for a trip abroad. At the time I was gradually working my way through 4 years of Columbia correspondence, rereading emails that random people had written, and laughing in horror at my own responses. Freshman year I sounded like I was on acid. Either that or deliberately trying to sound like I was on acid. It's strange to see so many incarnations of yourself in succession; I reacquainted myself with the naive, the dorky, the affectionate and the acerbic versions of my college self. It was overwhelming.

But to return to my original premise, I decided that when I wrote to this friend to wish him well before his trip, I would include excerpts of emails that I sent to various people when I first went to Paris. I sound like some enchanted idiot, but that's what travel does -- and reading these at least 2 years later, I'm glad that I didn't stop myself from gushing shamelessly about being frightened yet amazed by my surroundings. It's funny to me that I'm now so uneasy about being frank about my feelings - both anger and love - but that despite living in more volatile circumstances abroad, I could articulate exactly what I wanted to say.

There are things I'm struggling to say right now, but I guess eventually they'll surface. It's like that poem by Mallarmé in which he says, "Ne crois pas qu’au magique espoir du corridor" to a fellow poet leaving his native shore. I grant the poem itself is rather more violent in character than I've given it out to be, but the line is self-sustaining. And I do think that there are some phrases, letters, telephone conversations, and even shared photographs, that contain some impenetrable truth about ourselves, no matter how we change. Perhaps it's terribly important right now that I continue to believe in being charmed.

01.17.04
...enjoy things, keep an open mind, and don't expect anything. it will be different, hard, it will be exhilarating and new and earth-shattering. That's why we left nyc and came, right? I mean, aside from our unholy craving for nutella...

01.28.04
...I've also been visiting a lot of museums, and am so moved by it all. I got oddly emotional in the Musee D'Orsay because I was seeing all these beautiful artworks that I've studied for so long, and that are like old kindly friends I finally get to meet in person. Suddenly I'm rendered speechless by their faces...

02.16.04
...good luck with papers. I have them too, but it's hard to focus on work (yes, this is me still talking) when I'm in this city. A lot of the time I'm afraid of the enormity of Paris. But then I find myself standing at street corners staring at cars go by, sensing the pulse of something beyond myself and yet within myself. I feel radiated with emotion. It's amazing...

03.04.04
...that being said, today I discovered seven different versions of myself in seven different places in Paris. Quiet, green spaces, where I stopped thinking about poetry and began living it. It's impossible not to sense the importance of just existing when you're a foreigner abroad. But then I am always abroad, aren't I?...

Vivre Sa Vie

Clearly I'm a terrible person - I don't call, I don't blog, I don't write. Theoretically, it could all part of my cunning scheme to keep you in suspense -- the minor flaw being that there's nothing in my life about which to ferment mystery. Except, of course, my secret ambition to become Sailor Moon. But that you already suspected.

Things have been incredibly busy lately, again with no particular reason. The new assistant is growing to be a huge help, but oddly enough, I continue to feel rather overwhelmed with my workload. Try telling that to the higher-ups. It's also the season for performance appraisals, which went pretty well, minus the ulcer I bore around in my stomache during the week. I finally went home one night and had Yorgo recite excerpts because I was too nervous to read them on my own. He teased me and cheered me up, but I'm still tentative about any praise that has been issued and am constantly scanning the paragraphs for latent criticism. Because when you're a prat like me, accepting constructive feedback is parallel to dental surgery.

AK in Action

1. Last Weekend! Two talks hosted by the ACLA (American Comparative Lit. Association) conference held in Princeton. One morning seminar on Renaissance Humanism and Critical Theory -- yours truly crawled out of bed and staggered across campus to be blasted by speeches on Leonardo and Lacan, Herbert and negative theology, and Petrarch in Rome. Amazing. Sitting there listening to a paper on 'The Pulley,' I felt the speaker's eloquence gradually become a material sensation that climbed my spine and fired off every neuron in my brain. I think I've forgotten the massive mental and physical stimulation of meeting someone who can not only penetrate the complicated rhetoric of poetry, but who can actually articulate his/her thoughts in a lyrical manner. I love being so easily humbled yet seduced by language.

2. Plenary talk on Humanism and Human Rights in the evening. Simon Gikandi is a brilliant, endearing man. Go see him talk if you ever get the chance. The rest of them were decent but uninspired; by the time we made it to the final speaker, the guy next to me was practically resting his head on my shoulder. Also met interesting California professor who won points by laughing at my jokes and passing on ridiculous tidbits about all the famous people present. Date material?

3. Tuesday! Discussion with Alain Badiou and Cornel West: "Is it Possible to Enjoy Personal Liberty without Collective Equality?" Clara accompanied me and sat rapt as 'Brother Badiou' rambled on (in a most systematic fashion) about his theory that we need to "bring the outside inside." An hour later, Brother West had to resurrect us from what felt like a dull funeral.

Now while Monsieur West is certainly a lively speaker, it must be noted that he relies more on histrionic flights of thought rather than substantive ideas. His sentences are the aural equivalent of jeweled boxes; they mesmerize you as you listen, but at the end of the day, they reveal themselves as being purely decorative once you open them up and discover their threadbare contents. I'd like to see him speak again if only because his aptitude for quotation and rhythmic intonation is wonderful. Plus his hornet's nest haircut is the only one I've known to successfully occupy an entire horizon line. It's practically panoramic.

4. In an effort to avoid going home to an empty house, I then wandered over to the local bookstore to read. Met an energetic youth who spent the next 40 minutes stunning me with his detailed knowledge of practically every modern poet - Eliot, Pound, Stevens, Williams, Strand, my mother...I finally purchased a book out of sheer obligation and fled home in haste, feeling the swiss-cheese consistency of my own academic foundations.

4. Wednesday! Poetry reading with Louise Glück and Yusef Komunyakaa at a local creative writing event. Hearing LG read was a shock to the system; I imagined her as having a more soothing and reflective voice. Instead, she read with a raspy tone that lent a bitterness to almost every moment.

Yusef Komunyakaa, on the other hand, was pure joy to listen to. He does have a more practised air to his performance, but I refuse to fault him for this simply because his cadences are exquisitely chosen and capable of rendering the most simple line into something that makes my pulse quicken with pleasure. At the end, as he circulated the room, he gravely shook my hand and asked if I was a poet, whereupon I flushed extensively. So much for poise. 

5. Went to the Ivy with Bob, Debbie K., and some dude named Blue (married, one child - why he came, I'll never know), where we merrily ran into Heath, Clara & Mike. There was lots of dynamic-shifting over the course of the evening. We elucidated the meaning of "cock-blocking," whereupon I busily planned to incorporate this into any and every exchange for the rest of the week. Got to know Jeremy a shade better, which was lovely.

7. Thursday! Serious morning meeting regarding the fate of the art list. Very, very interesting to observe. Meet some bigwig art historians; am wowed. Feel slightly off-colour for the rest of the day, attend bizarre symposium on "Utopias" in the evening and hear Edouard Glissant. Why he read in French I'll never know, since he kept intercepting the translator's efforts with his own English renderings.

Part Deux

Upon returning from the city, I watched the Oscars for a little while. I was really disappointed that Brokeback Mountain didn't win for Best Picture. After months of seeing mediocre movies, I remember feeling that this film raised the bar; it was so fully of poetry, striking personal chords right and left. I read that some people were so moved that they raised money to create an advertisement thanking the makers. Despite all the criticism, from either conservatives or film critics, I'm glad that cinema is still capable of prompting people to feel and to act. If Brokeback Mountain inspired a few hundred men and women to pool their resources and make a public announcement of their gratitude, it speaks so amazingly of the fact that we're still moved by what we see, that we're able to celebrate a work of art that makes poetry out of even the saddest failings in human society.

Later that week, Christoph made a presentation of his documentary in China. It is, winningly enough, called "Hello, China." According to what I've gleaned, he spent about 2 weeks last summer visiting his friend Alan and traveling all over the country, filming both the facts and their impressions of local music. He then spent all of February working intensively on the documentary, searching for a narrative and consulting about a thousand people.

Alan flew in for about 2 days to make the presentation. He's a cool guy -- one of Christoph's oldest friends. He's an aspiring actor in California, and I was thoroughly amused by him because of the performative quality in his everyday behavior. When I first watched Alan in the documentary, I was a little thrown by his air of assumption and authority, which I guess was essentially indicative of an ease with being on screen (which I utterly lack). Meeting him in person put a lot of it into perspective.

You know how in "Camera Lucida" Barthes talks about how his mother lent herself to the photographer? He said that she put herself in front of the lens with discretion -- and that this was a major moment of actualization for both of them. 'She did not struggle with her image.' I guess it's something I admire in others, this ability to be photographed or filmed.

It seemed easier to understand Alan's demeanor when he came home, picked up a guitar, and spent the evening talking to us like an old friend. More importantly, it was good to see Christoph so happy. When friends come to visit, they make it easy to get excited about your everyday surroundings and routines.

That same week, I went to a local art exhibit created by a colleague from the Press and Carol A., a superwoman in multiple Humanities disciplines. They had collaborated over a series of photographs called "Bodies of Water," hosted by the Women's and Gender Studies dept. This should really have tipped me off -- any event patronized by the W&G studies folks and involving the word 'body' is bound to be...well, interesting. I turned up out of curiosity, and boy, was it worth it.

Strung over a tiny department lobby were a series of colour images, interspersed with quotations from Hamlet and The Waves, all of which featured my colleague (SS) bare-breasted in a pond. There were, dear reader, seasonal motifs: SS and her bosom in the water amidst fallen leaves, SS and her bosom in the water by frosted briars, SS and her bosom in water covered by pond scum. You can't exhaust those analogies to Ophelia, can you?

I was, however, very impressed that she had made an announcement at work about the exhibit, encouraging us all to go...with the result that I ran into about 5 other awestruck co-workers who fiddled with "mushroom bundle" appetizers and delivered vague mumblings about "colour, cold weather, and artistic courage." What an enjoyable experience!

The next night I saw a local performance of Wagner's "Die Walküre" by the PU Orchestra, which was really nice. Jeremy, Bob, and I were a trifle mesmerized by the vocalists, being that we were strategically stationed in the second row, pretty much under the vibrating chins of Siegmund, Sieglinde, and the ominous Hunding. Opera singers are, I'm sure, a lively crowd, but it was a bit much for me to swallow the fact that the leads (incestuous siblings, no less) were essentially an obese woman and a man separated at birth from Fabio. Yes, they were talented, but yes, it was terribly comical.

I then went out for drinks and had a charming conversation with Scott and Isabelle, Jeremy's married couple friends. I really liked them. Scott's getting his PhD in English Lit and Isabelle runs a small gallery in a nearby neighbourhood. They had a very brief civil marriage last year, but are holding the real wedding celebration in Barcelona this summer (where Isabelle grew up). And by "real wedding celebration" I mean "extended and crazy party." Scott is funny and Isabelle sweet; I wish I could get to know them a little better. Of course this has nothing to do with the fact that I'd take any excuse to go to Spain. I then went home and spent the rest of the evening and early morning drinking Prosecco, toasting my housemates, and talking a great deal. It was a livelier evening than I've had in a while.

So that's my lengthy update on the past few weeks. This weekend was great; I did absolutely nothing except clean my room, watch movies ("Capote" with Vanessa - go see it, Philip Seymour Hoffman was brilliant and captivating) and TV, go to a rummage sale, and cook real meals. I think I finally felt like I was getting a part of my life back after all the traveling. It was actually nice to just hang out in Princeton and to feel that for once it really is a home. I love our garden, the afternoon sunlight in my bedroom, when Balu comes over and purrs beguilingly, when my housemates enter a room and say hello. This weekend there was finally time to wander and daydream about spring blossoms and other happy, pink-budded things. I'll leave it there.

Overdue Part I

Yesterday I returned late in the evening from the APS conference in Baltimore, MD. Physicists are an odd bunch. They don't wear deodorant, they lean a little too close to you, and yet, they're oddly formal and intellectually austere. I'm a little in awe of people who earn their keep by working purely in theory. Sure, applied physics is a different field, but physicists - perhaps even more than my humanities kinsmen - really dwell in their heads.

My boss and I went to an amazing restaurant - The Helmand - in the Mount Vernon district of Baltimore. We walked passed historical landmarks, a cheesy equestrian statue, cobblestone streets, and delightful little restaurants that packed great food and ambiance. The Helmand was apparently opened by the president of Afghanistan's brother. The jovial waitstaff, mass of exposed brick and painted murals, and soothing primrose lighting were a tonic to strained nerves. Book publishing people like to drink, which is a big bonus in my mind, since the 8 of us drove through about 7 bottles of red wine - Pinot Noir and Syrah - over the course of the meal. And Afghan food is really close to Lebanese food, which is one of my all-time favourite cuisines. It's incredibly simple and elegant, but the spices are so cleverly combined that even the most plain vegetable dish becomes memorable. It reminded me a lot of when I went to stay with Raya and her family in Vaucresson, on the occasional weekend when I lived in Paris. Her mother put together the most beautiful but simple table: delicate spices, good company. I hope my home someday looks like that.

Ingrid and I finished off our meal by sharing vanilla ice cream flavoured with cardamom and served with mangoes and dates. I feel lusty just thinking about it. It's terrible to romanticize these things, but minus the conversation (which was very book-centric, and involved lots of juicy insider commentary on publishing and US vs. UK offices), I began thinking of the bedouin dining experience - eating off large brass platters with one's hands, piling vegetables onto flatbread, sharing food with one's neighbours. I've always been easily seduced by that sort of thing. Plus I look great in sequins.

One of the nice things about attending conferences is that they enable me to get to know both the books and my bosses much better. And I've never come out of a conference disliking either -- the more I learn about the booklist, and the more I interact with my editors, the more I appreciate the larger value of what we do, and the personal charm and kindness of those with whom I work. It sounds cheesy to say all this, but after driving back for almost 3 hours with Ingrid, I felt more open to her. And although we won't always recreate that chumminess in the office, it makes the daily rigour a little easier to know that you have a personal as well as professional rapport with your supervisors.

I've been really remiss about blogging, so there's a lot of backpedaling I need to do. I saw Lina for brunch about 2 weeks ago, which was great! We met up with Chris - who I hadn't seen in months - and went to Cafe Orlin at St. Mark's Place for brunch. I also went home to CT for a night, saw a musical with my parents, and helped Vanessa vacate her ex-boyfriend's office out of which she was working.

The latter was rather emotionally charged. As one of Vanessa's friends noted, women occupy men's spaces to such a great extent...oftentimes, when the relationship ends, a woman's departure empties the man's life of a huge physical presence. Anthony owned and worked out of a large studio for years, but even after only 8 months of cohabitation, Vanessa's breakup made bare his entire space. I tried to imagine what he would feel when he came in the next morning to work with his clients and discovered the vacant rooms. I imagined his stomache dropping, and a sudden psychological barrenness in response to his surroundings.

Ending a relationship is intense - in terms of what you leave behind, what you take away with you, and what you confront moving ahead. Seeing Vanessa go through this stuff makes me realize that breaking up is like undergoing a death in your immediate family. Everything changes - and your everday life has to start a new cycle. Even for the casual observer (and am I ever really casual?), the emotions in the air were heavy. We essentially moved Vanessa out of Manhattan and into a real life in Princeton.

At the risk of sounding like Carrie Bradshaw (someone I never like to channel), all of this makes me wonder about what it means to travel light. I've always been a big fan of bearing your life around you in the most streamlined means possible - a few letters and photos, a well-worn book of poetry, and a head and heart full of memories, quotes, theories, and expectations. I guess that after all the moving around, it makes more sense to me - and seems safer, even - that identity would be something you sustained in your mind rather than something that you constructed in the objects around you. Call it cowardice or self-protection. Juxtaposed with visions of legs entwined and trusting eyes are images of untidy beds and conversations that end in a stalemate. Can you possibly want this to be part of your life?

And yet, how giddy and gleeful to be with someone else...to wear an incipient smile every moment...to have experiences that belong as much to him or her as to you. I don't know how "together" travels light, but I'm hoping I'll soon learn. And there's my bid for optimism, dear reader...

Anchors Aweigh!

I'm not much for lengthy posts, being a modest and softspoken creature, but I just have to make note of this glorious moment...and say hurrah! I'm going to Japan! Of course, this isn't for another 2 months, but still, it's settled! I have a ticket! I have dates! I have canceled going to a work-related event in New York for this trip! My parents know! I have to start saving money! I have written to Katy! She wrote back! I have accommodation! I'm lifting weights for when we climb Mount Fuji! I'm eating cucumber roll (which apparently is less than prevalent in Japan itself, but whatever) like it's going out of style! I must practice my docile smile! I wear flats so no one can be overly intimidated by my stature! I plan to answer the phone today with "Konichiwa!" I caught myself saying "Engrish" yesterday!

And after letting go of all those cultural slurs...I'm really happy this is happening. I make so many plans in my head that never come to fruition, and I've been pining to take a real holiday for months now. I have vacation time. I love to travel. I've never been to Japan, and probably wouldn't enjoy it if I turned up on my own. Katy is there and I haven't seen her since last June. I'm hugely overdue for a big international trip.

Hurrah! I'm going to the Far East! I'm like that wretch Lieutenant Pinkerton in Madama Butterfly, off to reap the joys of the Orient! (sorry, I can't help but merge my joy with bad taste; it's just an innate characteristic). And that really is a miserable opera. But I do enjoy the idea of likening myself to a sailor who roams the world in search of pleasure. "Dovunque al Mondo," as the area goes -- he knew what was what...

Don't Hold Back

For once in my life, I have almost nothing to say. Work is busy, I'm exhausted in the evenings, and everything in my life seems to be at "go! go! go!" It's a bit stressful, and I'm sort of ready for a break. The irony is that the moment I have a quiet weekend to myself, I start to feel like the world is passing me by. So much for striking a balance. This post isn't really going to achieve anything; mostly I figured I'd raise a finger so as to indicate that I'm still alive.

Current music? "Galvanize" by The Chemical Brothers. The lyrics go something like,

"Don't hold back...
Cause you woke up in the morning, with the mission to to move, so I make it harder...
Don't hold back...
World, the time has come to...
Push the button...
Galvanize...

Now that they're written out here, I see how stupid they are. I guess the only thing to do is laugh - a lot. I've moved from reading Aristotle to bopping my head along to phrases like "get involved with the jam, hot chick." At least I haven't lost the ability to know when I'm being absurd. I keep it real. I laugh. I galvanize.

A Prophet in Her Own Country

It's funny how certain things happen that change your outlook on an otherwise lifeless situation. This weekend was interesting. On Saturday I ambled around the house, went to the gym, and baked cupcakes. Vanessa and I squatted on the couch, watching Mission: Impossible, and then she proposed that Christoph and I accompany her to a yoga potluck in the city. I wasn't feeling too well at the time, but I had to be in New York the next day, so I got myself in gear and soon the three of us were driving in and chatting amicably. I love night driving, and what with the lounge music and company, everything was feeling rosy.

It was when we got to the part that the evening suddenly escalated. As Christoph and I walked towards the coat-room, we ran into Sascha, a healer friend of Vanessa's, who is perhaps better known in this blog as the shadow-dancer. Sascha's response to alcohol isn't a pretty one; she spent the better half of the evening giving unsolicited advice to couples, coming onto men and women, and making us anxious. As soon as she saw us, she came over, slung her arms around us, and said, "My favourite couple! I'm so happy to see you." I guess Christoph and I must have looked stunned, because she followed up by declaring, "oh come on, you know you two love each other. You're soulmates; this is your dharma, this is your destiny. I can see how much you love each other."

I really was at a total loss for words, and Christoph had long since just turned to stone. We shuffled silently into the coat room, where he seemed to recover himself and I ran to stare at myself in the mirror in the bathroom. Five minutes later, Sascha cornered me again and told me that she had met my soulmate; this time an Indian Brahmin with whom she herself seems to be infatuated. 2 hours later she invited me to join her in a threesome. Watching her make out with another girl at the front door, I couldn't help but think, "hey, this woman has been to hell and back; she could teach me a lot." Being me, however, I delivered a small quip and let the situation pass.

I guess I'm lucky to have so many potential companions out there, but Sascha's words really jarred me. The rest of the evening was fun; I met a lot of very cool people. But something was slightly off, especially as I felt that my privacy and feelings had somehow been mauled. Lying on the floor in Vanessa's apartment, next to my friends, I thought a lot about my past, present, and future. It's disappointing to feel that you live your life without some tinge of romance when you're 22 and you finally have time to cook meals for someone, to spend afternoons together, to sprawl on the couch and read in silence. At university I - metaphorically and physically - opened my door to people and let them in. I miss that no one knocks on my door and pokes their head in, wanting nothing more and nothing less than another body in the room, someone with whom to bounce ideas around, someone with whom the words just flow.

On Sunday the three of us went to brunch, which was fun, and then I pottered off to meet Ben for lunch and "Walk the Line." The movie was alright - strong performances, as they say - but I was really out of it during the rest of the afternoon. Having slept from 2:15 to 5:45 that morning, I just couldn't respond to Ben as I would otherwise have done. Poor guy. I came home, spoke to Abby for some reassurance, and crawled into my warm, trusted bed. I wish I knew what to do going ahead, but it seems that in terms of other people, you never can predict what they'll do, what they'll say, or how much they'll reveal to you about your own life.

A Self-Claimed Neurotic

My parents are coming to bring rations to me today and to take me out to lunch (to discuss taxes, no doubt), so I'll keep this brief. This week was nondescript; some highs and some lows. Valentine's Day was mediocre, but the night kicked off with a party at Clara's place. A bunch of people I work with turned up -- Heath, Shani & Ben, Jeremy, Bob, Mike (clara's geologist boyfriend), Sarah, and Scott. We drank prosecco, ate confetti cake and played group games. Clara split us off into couples and we had to write a personal ad for our other half in the vein of those weird people (I say this now, in 2 year's time, don't be surprised if you see an ad for "lively south asian to rock your socks off") on craigslist. Some were dull, some sincere and touching, some just absurd. We had to perform the piece that we wrote for our partner. This is what Clara said about yours truly:

"Exquisitely elegant femme dramatique seeks a lover equal in quality only to the finest novel of vellum pages and pungent prose. I have wit, style, and metaphor enough for two, so what I need from you I'll tell you true:
1. I dislike walking in the rain and need bimonthly trips to Marshalls
2. The finest taste in film and music - I used to slum around with Fox TV but that time has gone
3. Appreciation of beauty true and strong

We later went to the Ivy, where I once again became a total idiot. This place brings out my worst tendencies to be
a) insulting
b) lewd
c) suggestive - and this, bizarrely, is the most destructive

I'm watching "Manhattan" right now; a movie that I truly love. The Gershwin! the scenic shots! the ridiculous one-liners, the romance and pathos. I enjoy Woody Allen tremendously, and I'm glad he makes me fall in love over and over with New York. Not that it's the kind of place you forget. I guess what I'm saying is that I think we're very similar. Our personal ads would say something along the lines of: "short, liberal jewish lover seeking partner in perverse bed-crimes. Awkward mannerisms and conversations on castration a must. I'll take you out for meatballs and mesmerize you with my think-rimmed glasses, baby. Don't be fooled by my diminutive stature; I'll be your Dionysus." Irresistible, no?

Where are My Upside Down Margaritas?

This past weekend, while neither here nor there, was rather interesting. My parents busily canceled all our plans to meet in the city, including a museum visit and brunch. Too bad; I could really use a free meal.

In the afternoon, Vanessa invited me to attend one of her yoga workshops in Yardley. I took Yoga in high school and utterly despised it, and I still don't know if I can take it up full-time (though I think it has amazing mind/body benefits), but yoga with someone as into it as Vanessa was probably a good introduction. She led the group without being controlling, which was just as well since I flagged after 4 rotations of any and every position. Mostly I admired the way everyone there was working towards merging the mind/body divide. I myself tend to approach my body as an abstraction rather than as an equal to my mind. I know I sound ludicrous, but it's just that my entire life has been structured around mental exercise, and now that I'm no longer a student, everything else - emotion, physicality - is coming to the forefront. I think a lot of my stress is due to my total lack of awareness of my body and what's best for it. I never realized how redemptive even breathing can be.

In the evening I went with Christoph to Samir's party in Princeton. It had already snowed a ton by then, but I suddenly felt as if my social livelihood would collapse if I missed a local gathering. So much for channeling the yoga and making good decisions. The party itself wasn't bad -- Samir was playing some beautiful samba reggae, afoxe, guaguanco, and makuta, and people were actually dancing – but I didn’t know anyone, they were out of alcohol, and I didn’t feel like making a spectacle of myself on the dance floor. I met a really nice guy – David – and had a good conversation with him about what we want to do with our lives (he’s trying to get his band going), but I had a lingering sense of unease. It really bothers me, because I want to be that person who can seamlessly integrate into any social setting, especially since I love dancing, but reticence inevitably emerges and cripples me.

Samir and his friends started playing on the drums (I know, I know, I seem to be in drum circles all the time these days), which was really cool to watch. As I told Katy (who unkindly guffawed), I think my resting facial expression is pretty serious, because just as I thought I was having a perfectly good time, some guy tapped me and said, “smile.” I laughed it off, but five minutes later, he got up and was kidding around, and telling me to smile and dance a little, at which point I reverted to my usual inept self and said “I’m not into public humiliation.” Needless to say, he wandered off and found another girl with better manners. At that point I decided to bid adieu and trudge home in the snow, a nice 20-minute venture which gave me plenty of time to reflect upon the fact that I’ll never meet anyone and that my inability to function in these gatherings implies that I can’t participate in the most basic social traditions of my generation. Really, I just felt like a leper.

When I got home, Carrie took pity on me and lent me “Bitch: The Feminist Response to Popular Culture,” a magazine from which I think we can all benefit.

Sunday was quiet. Vanessa and I took a long walk through the town (the snow came up to my knees! Glee!), threw a couple snowballs until she held a boulder of snow above my head and I pleaded cowardice, and I made two snow angels in our backyard. I spent the rest of the day doing some work and baking valentine brownies for my housemates.

Speaking of valentine’s day, this year will undoubtedly be another ego-bruiser. The saddest part is that I don’t even have friends around with whom to watch girly movies and feel both happy for the company and melancholy for the lack of romance. I think I’ve given up on the idea that the man of my dreams will materialize and shower me with affection. But Balu will be around, and therefore I’ll at least have the cachet of seeing the night through with Vanessa’s ginger-haired loverboy. As much as I complain about how Valentine’s Day is stupid (which I really do believe), I still feel like it should somehow be a special day, even in an unromantic way. It would be nice to get a card or to have plans for the evening. I guess 22 just isn’t the year for spilling wine on my date, tripping over his socks on the way to bed, or disgustedly watching him drool on my pillow. Tant pis.

It really just comes back to the age-old questions. Why don't I have a Eurasian lover? Why do I suffer karmic retribution? And where, in the immortal words of my L&R professor, are my upside down margaritas?

"Untitled" (2006)

You know how there are those days when you just want to get to a quiet place, wear a fluffy sweater, drink something warm, and listen to "Everybody Hurts" and "Colorblind" on repeat? I've kind of had a string of them. Except that tonight's the first night I'm letting myself actually vegetate. I did, however, replace REM and Counting Crows with episodes of Felicity, in which they music is just background to collegiate angst. It's almost more fitting this way. Music is the best backdrop to an emotional state; somehow it makes it easier to figure out what you're feeling. Though there's little subtlety in listening to "Everybody Hurts."

Now that I have a computer again, I feel this burden to catch up on everything I disregarded over the past few weeks: tax forms, mutual fund forms (I have no money, but my dad says I need to invest. ok, sure...), publishing stuff, emails, etc. Every day I determine to make an indent in the pile, but every day around 6, I just want to crawl home in the cold and cease to exist for a few hours. I had a talk last night with Yorgo and Luis about knowing what you want to do with your life. According to Yorgo, every day has moments of doubt and anxiety in which he questions his life and career decisions. Luis said that he depended on his friends and loved ones to get through the most difficult periods of uncertainty and disillusionment. Some days I wonder if I'm doing the right thing. In part I guess it's because so many of my friends, or just people I know, are applying to grad schools. Major props to Katy, here, who just got into Berkeley. !!

When I heard that Katy got into grad school, I felt a big well of emotion bubbling up in me. It's not that I read and commented on her personal statement, or that I tried to issue comfort during the application process. It's that for almost five years now, I've known this amazing person who loves Russian lit so much, and who has wanted for so long to be a Russian scholar, to speak and live in the world of Tolstoy and Dostoevsky. Katy's practically family, but she's also my peer, and in that sense her successes are linked to mine.

It's exhilarating yet frightening to see people move closer to realizing their hopes when you haven't even figured out what yours are. A few years ago we were worrying about getting papers in on time, about making it to Tom's on Sunday. Now I worry about eating vegetables, reading enough books, and trusting myself to make everyday decisions without feeling like I failed at life. The toughest part is no longer being entitled to that collective "we" mentality. Amongst other things, college was about creating and sustaining companionship – with people, with literature, with ideas, with New York. I’m so proud of one of my closest friends for her accomplishment, but I miss that I’m not there, that “we’re” not there to toast her and share in what is kind of an amazing moment for our little clan. I’m a bit lost without either companionship or my own sure footing.

SoCal Writes

I got this amazing letter today from my friend Weylie in California. We went to high school together, and we've always stayed in touch since, sharing similar paths of making our studies into a medium of self-discovery and reflection, horribly dorky as that sounds. Weylie braved the change and left DC to go to California to work as a curator in an artist's workshop in LA. It wasn't until recently that I got back in touch with her. I sent her a letter on Gustave Klimt paper, with a gorgeous nude - Herodiade? - on the cover. Weylie says it reminded her of me with my long tresses. She wrote back on pieces of thick card that have prints (genuine prints – save for tiny imperfections, these sell for thousands of dollars) by Richard Serra, Ellsworth Kelly and Elizabeth Murray. Wow!

The reason I love Weylie’s letter is that she isn’t afraid to be honest about struggling with life after college. She wrote pretty genuinely about how hard it was/is to adjust to a place where you don’t know anyone, and to hear about how your friends are also trying to figure it all out, distributed as they are across the world. Lately I’ve felt kind of distanced from colleagues, from some of my housemates and my old friends. I hope that the isolation is temporary; I know everyone I care about is caught in a similarly liminal space.

Way to Segue

There’s this amazing piece of art by Cy Twombly, “Untitled” (1970). I just love it. I saw it for the first time when it was exhibited at MOMA, where Bogdan and I were hanging out. We must have stared at it for 20 minutes, which, in Bogdan’s anti-art-lover time, was infinity. We were both enraptured by the vigor of the crayon strokes, but I remember telling him that the reason I found it so fascinating was because the chaos was deliberate, almost manufactured – all I could see were patterns building under the surface: legible script and repetitive motion.

Lately I haven’t been in that same empowering position of deciphering things and of seeing something coherent beneath the randomness. I’m hoping that in terms of the moments of clarity, if I had them once, I’ll have them again. But I also realize that while individual moments are nice, not everything has big meaning. And when you’re a romantic, it’s kind of heart-breaking to have to let go of big meaning, to stop looking for something grand and revelatory in the everyday world.

Studying Cy Twombly's art was an instinctual exercise. I guess what I’m saying is that I hope figuring yourself out is a similar process - one that involves both instinct, and a sudden flash of insight that can't be wholly defined.

Back in the Saddle Again

I have a bit of a headache, so I don't know how long this will be. I have a laptop again, so some part of my life is restored, which is nice. I almost feel a little tentative about the whole thing because I sort of got used to leaving work and coming back to a machine-free existence; to not being able to check email, blog, or just browse. And the Apple, while a wonderful creature, is a little intimidating. It's so white, so complete, so untouchable in its own way. I don't know any of the shortcuts, or how to move with facility in this particular interface. It's another adjustment in itself. When it arrived at work, I was so thrilled that I clutched the little case and kissed it, much to the amusement of the mailroom guy.

Last night, however, was another story. Since my old laptop is dead, there was no way in which to transfer all my music from one hard drive to another. Turns out that despite all its other wonderful features, apple doesn't enable you to transfer music onto your computer from an ipod. Oh the horror! I think I actually sputtered on the phone when Christian from tech support said, "Adithi, I'm afraid we're not allowed to do that." Still, he was nice enough to suggest that I google a third-party server to try and find another program that would trick the laptop into importing music from Humbert (my ipod). I hope it didn't cost him his job.

After three hours of building frustration - I kicked the wall and jogged in place to cool off - I finally managed to successfully use this cunning program "Senuti" ("itunes" in reverse, a real killer) and got all my music onto the laptop. By the time it was done, I felt like freaking Rocky. I mean, computers are really hard to deal with; as "user-friendly" as they can be, they operate with their own language and logic, and it takes a major effort to break through the translation barriers.

This isn't turning out to be the cheerful and thrilling post I intended. Oh well, I'm going to have tea and turn in. I tried to make conversation downstairs at dinner tonight, but felt sort of overwhelmed by the extraordinarily male company. There's only so much about "flying boobs" that I can tolerate. Even if I was the one who opened the discussion.

She had Hair Like Fungus

Yeah, I had a haircut this weekend. I now look like a mushroom. A lovely dinner got canceled. Due to some underhand dealing with the utilities bills and late fees, our house dynamic shifted from an episode of the "Real World" to a scene from the Oresteia. And my apple laptop has not yet arrived. Really, could Mondays start on a more droopy note?

Sarah and Caroline Come to Town

So, Caroline (finally!) graciously shared her pictures, and I am equally graciously only posting the ones in which I don't look frightful (or, preferably, those in which I am not featured).


PJ's, a local favourite


Being Dorks at Target


Manning the batter


A Thing of Beauty


Why we love Sarah


Yeah, I have no idea what they were doing

Right, I just signed my last email off by saying:

"And I totally understand about the attitude problem -- I've felt a bit like bludgeoning everyone here as well. Have a good evening."

When I get in a rage like this, I'm generally not safe to be around. So I've decided to leave work on time today... Some days it's easy to understand why people like Iago came into being. I wouldn't mind assuming the role of resident evil-doer.

Andrew from the warehouse thinks locking people up in a room and letting them go at each other will vent his irritation. Clearly Andrew is more of the "No Exit" kind of evil-doer. Meanwhile I'm leaving because I don't want to re-enact "The Lottery" and throw the first of many heavy, heavy stones.

Mutiny

Today has been vile. I came in early, only to discover that the incompetents in Accounting had suddenly discovered this morning that a large sum of money had been sent to the wrong person. Ooops! Anyway, after having major palpitations, my editor and I got it sorted out, but it jump-started the day in a most unpleasant fashion. After that, I frantically copied manuscripts to be sent out, gave myself the biggest cut -- really, I just sliced my finger off -- and generally felt like kicking something. I forgot a meeting, rushed in 10 minutes late, and even got reprimanded by some wretched woman (who cc'ed my editors in on the message! what gall!) for being behind on getting reports back to her.

What can I say, I've always lacked the will to get through times of distress. Right now it seems like nothing can go right; I'm getting emails right and left asking me to pick up where something fell through -- whether with the database, book orders, or contracts. I feel like telling everyone to fuck off. I mean, when can you decide it's officially a bad day? When bad things happen in succession, I have two options: either I can write the day off as being dreadful, or I can become some kind of Panglossian prat who runs around applauding my own own doom. And despite our ridiculous leader's speech during the State of the Union last night, I'd just like to say, "Hey Georgie, I'm ready to embrace a big, cuddly armful of pessimism right now."

Acknowledgments

So I wanted to give thanks for all those whom I consulted in my apple-purchasing process. Lina, Katy, and others I've probably forgotten.
After being severely rebuked for failing to acknowledge their help (I've received death threats and sundry messages such as "I can't believe it. I read your blog today and you talk about buying the Apple and how you've been researching for weeks and who in the hell is not mentioned? I thought I mattered, but clearly, when compared to a young, cute, somewhat nerdy (he works in the Apple Store. Even if sexy, he must have something of the nerd in him!) salesperson named Christopher, I pale in comparison. And that hurts. Although it was hard to pick myself off the floor today due to my weeping, I somehow made it to work" -- Anonymous), I figured this is the least I can do.

It's sad to realize that good looks really do go a long way; they make you forget the things that truly matter. Like friends who needle you into expressing your gratitude.

Lose Control, Gain Command

I have news!! I'm getting a new apple!

After moping uselessly at home and lamenting the fact that I had to stay late to write emails or blog, I did a bunch of research on macs, and finally decided to take the plunge. I looked into all the statistics, spoke to a guy from our tech support team at work about what kind of RAM and hard drive space I'd need, and religiously followed updates from the recent Apple expo thing in San Francisco. By the time I got into the apple store in Soho, I was prepared with a long, highlighted list of technical specifications I needed and questions I wanted to ask. Yes, I am a micro-manager (see, office life has paid off -- I'm expanding my vocabulary).

The apple store is a palace of wonder, and I say this in the same vein as Mugatu describing the center for ants to Derek i.e. with bulging eyes and a breathy voice. All the shiny objects, the coldplay in the background, trendy people poking gently at white keyboards... Plus it helped that the guy I spoke to was friendly, helpful, not pushy, and generally charming and cute. Yup, I lusted after the apple tech guy. The nicest thing about him was that he didn't suggest that I buy the most expensive equipment out there, and even steered me away from making too many upgrades in hardware and software. If my sister hadn't been hovering protectively in the background, I may well have confessed my adoration and thereby created another one of those 'why am I an inept git?' moments to rue for the rest of my days.

Anyway, I'm now going to have a shiny new laptop just for me, me, me. Plus I have the 3 year protection plan, which is about as comforting as having a terrific sexual partner and a 3 year pregnancy/STD-free guarantee. It's the beginning of a long and beautiful friendship.

So, I'd like to announce that as of sometime next week, I will once again be a functioning member of society. I'll fail to respond to friends' emails, be too lazy to blog, and forget to read the news online -- but at least you and I will know that it's because I won't rather than because I can't. And that's a carefully developed distinction I like to maintain.

Return of the Prodigal

The whole 'no computer at home' tale has been a huge drag - no blogging, no emailing, no managing private affairs. But I hate not being able to write this stuff down somewhere, so here's the jump-cut rundown:

Why We Go Downtown

1. The two days before I left for the conference in Texas were pretty awful. Work exploded with two of my bosses out of town and tons of material that needed to be prepared for the next board meeting. I wasn't even fighting surges of panic; they were rolling around me and I was busy collapsing in a pool of self-pity and fear. Not to mention the fact that I very stupidly decided at the last minute to go to a book/art party in the city on a Monday night, mostly because the book is just so very cool -- one of the few scholarly books that is actually rather glam. Anyway, the opening reception was held (the book is about the downtown art scene in NY, from 1974-1984) in a gallery at Washington Square. It was amazing; lots of young, artsy people rubbing shoulders with the authentic hipsters from back in the 70s, when everything below 14th street became the ground for experimentation and outsider artists. Not my favorite period art-wise, but I'll admit I'm seduced by the idea of "downtown NYC, c. 1978" -- it's not just a location, it's an attitude, seemed to be the general cry.

2. Went to a very quirky bar called LIT afterwards, with the perfect crowd. Dorky, young, artsy, grungy. Artfully disheveled men and women, stroking their Rolling Rock beers and stroking one another. Almost (but not quite!) CBGB. Afterwards, Heath, Clara, Linda & I trooped around Alphabet City and pub-crawled with some weird guy called Noah who was engaging in an awkwardly-executed courtship with Clara. I don't know how many bars we went through - I do remember kind of liking the KGB bar, but at about 1 we drove back to Princeton and rose for work with burning eyes.

Don't Mess with Texas

3. Off to San Antonio! The verdict on Texas? Big hats, big boots, big 'tude: loved it. Loved it. It didn't hurt that they complained about 72 degree-weather as being chilly, or that my editor took me out to dinner every single night, thereby allowing me to splurge my stipend on turquoise accessories from a Navajo arts and crafts group. San Antonio is a small-ish city, which makes it easy to navigate. We went to the Alamo, the Riverwalk, El Mercado, La Villita, etc. I've got to say, I wasn't tremendously impressed by the Alamo. I know it's supposed to be this icon of American heroism, but the whole thing reeked more of the legend of Zorro than anything else...with less charming lead characters. Plus, given the context of San Antonio grandly boasting its Texan/Mexican mixed heritage at every turn, the Alamo struck me as being more than a little ironic. But it is interesting to see how Mexican culture has saturated the "American outpost" in so many ways.

4. Got asked out by sketchy professor on lunch date. Graciously (I was in shock) declined, and proceeded to run to the loo every time he reappeared in the conference hall. Ate Southwestern & Mexican food like it was going out of style and found the best margaritas ever. I even determined to purchase a rhinestone cowgirl hat so as to have a prop when I came home and sang,

"Like a rhinestone cowgirl;
Riding out on a horse in a star-spangled rodeo"

but thought better of it at the last minute. I'm not into self-immolation, even if it comes with a shiny hat.

Home at the End of the World

6. Back home to find Sarah and Caroline sitting in my room already, watching Gilmore Girls. Having shamelessly invited themselves over, they proceeded to share the most fun vacation with friends I've had in a really long time. We giggled like idiots, watched girlie movies while Caroline burrowed under the covers in embarrassment, baked 48 cupcakes, ate about 39 of them, took cheesy candid photos in Target, and went on a mini-road trip to New Hope, PA.

The best thing about Caroline and Sarah is that they share my obsession with food, and religiously ensured that we had chocolate and pastry integrated into each day's routine. I didn't want them to leave because they managed to get my mind off work, which I've almost never done since I first started. They even made palatable a second screening of Pride & Prejudice with Keira Knightley. Mostly it was nice to reprimanded by people I love when I whined about work, romance, and money. Nothing like the words "You realize I'm going to beat you in a minute" to curb one's mournful tendencies.

That's about it. For now it seems like I'm heading back to the "same ol', same ol'" refrain for a little while. Minus the fact that this means there's so much work to do that I get nauseous, I'm not sorry to have an interlude. This weekend I really want to see Match Point. A.O. Scott has a tantalizing review out in the Times, and now that six degrees of separation has asserted itself (one of my colleagues knows his mother), I've reached two conclusions:
1. A.O. and I are tight
2. It's my duty to see Woody Allen's latest. I mean, next to vulgarity and schadenfreude, tennis is my raison d'être. ;)