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."