"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."