| N or M |
[Feb. 4th, 2010|05:36 pm] |
I used to read Agatha Christie and sometimes she would have characters that did things while under the influence of "youthful fierceness" or the "hard, cruel vitality of the young" or some other such thing. My 11 year old self would skim over those passages, sunning myself on the pool deck while sipping homemade strawberry banana smoothies during those long, golden childhood summers (where are they now?). I get it now- the ease of making decisions without the knowledge, the experience...the excitable enthusiasm for ideas and action. Now all I get is an overwhelming understanding that the only think we can do is slowly push toward the forces of good. It's a lifetime battle. The pain will keep surfacing, but you must rest. For you will be tired. It is a long road ahead.
Listen to me, I'm so melodramatic!
Sometimes I have to stop myself from being so fucking self-indulgent.
But these things interest me and I want to talk about them.
I feel good and strong lately. I am bored. But that is something I will have to deal with/fix myself.
I had the HARDEST TIME leaving George yesterday. He had been home sick from school ALL WEEK and we had some intense together time. Yesterday, during the peak of his "I'm a 9 year old that's been indoors for four days" madness, he was wearing pajama pants, a stained Audubon Society tee shirt, a dapper suit vest, a pirate belt, a letter opener stuck in aforementioned belt like a sword, an eye patch, a huge furry hat...as he was tying on a tie to complete this ensemble, he said "Izzy you should really learn how to tie this so you can do it for Nathan when he needs you to. It's what pretty girls do. It's in the movies." (they have been chatting on the phone every night)(I died)
And so I miss George very much right now.
There is a new employee in the office next to mine, his name is Yuri and he has a heavy Russian accent. He just moved here from Chicago. His family is staying there for a couple more months- he seems a little emotionally brittle. Maybe it's being separated from them, maybe it's his nature, maybe he's just Russian. All I know is that he heaves deep sighs a few times an hour and I don't think it's a lung condition.
I am assembling my spring/summer wardrobe. Fascinating stuff. I am going for 1960's Italian countess. I think I can pull it off. Lots of white, gold and coral. Trailing scarves of perfume and headscarves. The trouble with this is that it might be difficult to pull off at a suburban backyard barbecue or local dive bar. I can just see myself in this getup at Cafe Hollywood. I have resigned myself to my fate. Regardless, it needs to be summer soon because I'm fixing to go stir crazy. I hate the dark and cold.
I think I'll hold a "salon" somewhere in a centrally located clearing in some sort of wood this summer...like those illicit high school bonfire parties, only with more mushrooms, pills and lipstick. I will set up music so that it is haunting and hidden and string lights, but not bright enough to outshine the fireflies.
Yuri also sneezes a lot. |
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| Makaria. |
[Jan. 21st, 2010|11:54 am] |
When I was in high school, fourteen years old, I went to Herkimer, NY for my cousin Sofia's high school graduation. Herkimer is an hour or so west of Albany, in that shameful wasteland that is Western New York; it's not a city, it's not a town. We stayed for a week and it was like a toy village to my siblings and I, running around in the late June heat with the haze of manure and tiny cement squares instilling a sort of adolescent madness in us, born of youth and boredom.
Their apartment was small, with a lot of light. I remember an ironing board next to a window; white walls and creaky doors. I remember what I wore (my first high heels), and I remember it was a time that confused me. It was an in-between time. I was very close with my cousins, but their family did not give me the same sense of stability that mine did. Later, recently, I did realize that we were more or less in the same boat- only the levels of secrecy were varied.
My cousin Carlos was a fucking smartass. He would make fun of me because I was an awkward girl. He would call me fat. My brother and sister got made fun of, too, caught in his overly cocky teenage snare, but I bore the brunt because I never had the ever ready retort like my sister, or the video-game bonding sessions like my brother. I was just a quiet girl, a reader, and I weirded him out.
I remember him like that, eyes smiling with mild malice, and I remember when we were in Greece and he would be passed out drunk in the blinding late morning island heat, his pores dripping bitter vodka sweat. I remember him blasting Biggie Smalls and Greek music, crying when he missed Chalki, the island that we are from.
I remember his old girlfriend- Nikki. He was with her for seven or eight years. She was a little ghetto, lips lined in dark brown. In the summer of 2002, he met Joanna in Chalki. She had a fiancee- but they both broke up with their significant others long distance, over the phone, realizing their attraction to each other on a more primal level, realizing that in their minds, their union made sense. They both had that need to be with someone from the same place, to carry on some sort of lineage that linked them to their histories.
The Dikas family patriarch was a man name Anargyros. He was a sea sponge diver from the island of Chalki. He would travel back and forth from his island and Tarpon Springs, Florida, where a lot of Chalkiti men spent half the year making enough money to survive so they could spend the rest of their time at home. He saw my great grandmother playing with her dolls on the beach one summer and it clicked in him, that she was the girl he would marry. She was fourteen, and he in his forties.
She gave birth to Karafillis (my grandfather- Carlos), Taki, Dino and John. Also a lone sister, my aunt Popi. These are the building blocks from which I am made.
Anargyros died while diving in Tarpon Springs. He had slammed his head on a rock. I imagine the red blood blooming like an exotic flower in the deep water. My uncle John was still in the womb. Four of my uncles and cousins bear his namesake- they all have nicknames: Ronnie, Ross, Fasouli, Trife. There are stories as to the origins of those nicknames, but they are locked in a vault for which I don't have the key.
I ask my mother to tell me stories of this family. I understand why my father feels suffocated by them. He yells and screams that the Dikas' have too much control over her, they will be the death of her...but what can she do. It is her love. It is her family. It is, to put it melodramatically, a fucking dynasty. I have sat in my own life, in my own little happy blindness, watching it unfold around me: watching the cigarette smoke, the card games, the drug problems, the allegations of abuse, the mistresses, the yellowed photographs of bronzed, youthful mothers and cousins with drinks in hand. Dancing. Laughing. I love them all, but I don't know them all, and I hate them all.
This tangled family would take me a lifetime to explain. It has taken me twenty-eight years to even comprehend how deeply I am one of them. My logical mind judges both Carlos and Joanna for dismissing those who loved them for so long so blithely, yet a more primal part of me understands completely. They had found someone from the same island. They found someone from the same rocky soil. They found someone that, no matter how incompatible they could be (they were engaged after knowing each other a matter of weeks, after all), shared this common thread, and this thread would be enough to settle the part of them that would never be happy knowing they weren't carrying a part of Chalki in their pocket, in their DNA, at all times.
These Chalkiti sea sponge divers later split up. Some stayed in Florida in the '70s, like my family; some went to Montreal (also like my family); a huge amount went to Baltimore and a little later, some of us ended up in Albany.
When Jo and Carlos got married, they moved to Baltimore. She is a Baltimorean Chalkitisa. The politics between the Albany and Baltimorean Greeks would take ages to explain...who is more Greek. Whose children are marrying other Chalkites. Who is carrying on tradition. Who goes to church more. It's tribalism at its best and worst- it's a fiercely enormous amount of love, it's a web you cannot escape.
Carlos got sick and died. He had been sick for a very long time, but he died on Saturday. They waited for Sofia to arrive from Rhodes, where she had been living for five years, and they pulled the plug. He was 34.
I went to Baltimore on Monday. It was sunny and warm; my black clothing absorbed the mid-Atlantic sun and eased the chill of waiting. I stared at a picture displayed on an easel at the wake: Carlos, smiling, rosy-cheeked, the edges of the photo fading to white as if it knew he would be a ghost soon. I held my sister's hand for support and we nearly burst out laughing as we stared down at the casket. Nerves, maybe. No- it just looked like he would open his eyes and say something to make us feel like assholes, to make fun of the new zit on my cheek. There was a panoramic photo of Chalki propped against the lid of the casket.
He always knew how to have a good time. It was his essence, and it was what killed him. The denial of responsibility, the love of drink, the love of partying...this is a Dikas trait. I am a Dikas, yes, but I have more of my father in me. I am realizing that this balance could quite possibly be my saving grace. I like to think I have many graces. I sincerely hope many of them are saving.
The pews in the church creaked like gunshots. The silence was broken here and there by Sofia's keening wails from outside the church. She refused to see him, at the wake and the funeral as well. My uncle, his father, was a broken man. His eyes fidgeted and seemed like they were crabwalking around the pain that lay in his future. My mother's sobbing sighs, her sad hands clutching mine. The harmonizing of the priest, the cantor, the keening of the women in black- all remembering Carlos, all remembering their husbands and children that have died (the poor women of Chalki, their menfolk always going off either with mistresses or to die violently), and I was there, in the middle, absorbing it like a sea sponge, like the dusty rocks of Chalki, where I am from. |
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| again...is it wrong... |
[Dec. 30th, 2009|11:17 am] |
That my style icon is Nicole Richie?
I love the expensive boho gold long dress hippie 60's long hair rolling around in grass and flowers smoking opium while wearing diamonds thing she's got going on.
Like, can I get that fucking headpiece or what? I would totally try to have sex with it.
I would love some comments on stupid clothes shit you love. |
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| is it wrong |
[Dec. 29th, 2009|10:25 am] |
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that all i want to do is make out and buy luxury cosmetics? |
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| drinking games. a new frontier. |
[Dec. 23rd, 2009|10:29 am] |
I don't know about you all, but the way I organize my life is in a pattern of waves. These waves can be logical, emotional, circumstantial...but they take me to wherever I will go next.
This new wave is riding the tail of a hectic few years. It's making me want to be still. It's making me want to sit on something and watch it hatch. It's making me want to burrow in someone and see them, and for them to see me. The time is nigh, as they say, and my resolution for this new year, and this new decade, is to not settle for something that isn't right, and to keep the flame of adventure burning in my core, because that's what makes me feel alive...and if I don't feel something, it doesn't exist.
The way I see it, life is here, and it's what we have. It gets increasingly difficult, and the rewards are often mixed. But if we spin that bottle just so...we may end up kissing the dreamiest boy (or girl) in the room. |
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| so uh, some more anecdotes about my dad... |
[Nov. 4th, 2009|09:33 am] |
I think my relationship with my dad is so funny. Since he works nights, we mostly interact right when I've rolled out of bed and am cracked out/cranky/disoriented...alternately, he's READY for bed which means he's tired/cranky/but excited about something he's wanted to talk about all night.
This morning I awoke to my parents arguing about hanging up some curtains. My mother is doing her annual holiday season "clean things which I did not realize need cleaning" phase. Stuff like washing the walls, running curtains through the laundry, scrubbing the molding...these things will rot if I ever get my own house. Anyway. My dad was just being an ass, saying shit to be funny, but she was all business. As soon as I emerge from my warm cocoon, into the unforgiving morning light (seriously, though, I love winter-ish mornings. clear, crisp), he grabs my arm and steers me to the kitchen.
Backstory: last week I went grocery shopping with my dad, and couldn't refrain myself from commenting on the 5 cases of Diet Coke he bought. I was like (nutshell)...Dad. Splenda is bad for you. That many containers is bad for the environment. Water is better. Iced Tea is better.
So today he's all like...Let me show you what I bought. I haven't been able to sleep at night. I don't want to get cancer from Splenda. He's actually bugging out.
He shows me this box of Stevia sweetener, and since I had recommended agave, he was all panicky, like is this all right? It was two dollars cheaper for twice the amount. Meanwhile, my mom is giving me the murder stare, since he already forced her to try it in her morning coffee, and apparently, she did not like it. And you do NOT fuck with my mother's coffee. Two cups of heavy Greek sludge in the morning, three in the afternoon. It is NOT a joke.
I was like...Dad. Perfect. This will piss cancer off. I gotta go to work now. |
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| (no subject) |
[Sep. 23rd, 2009|10:09 am] |
So basically I should be working, but all I can seem to do is watch youtube videos of the Walkmen...
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| Grande Dame is what my mother called me. |
[Aug. 24th, 2009|02:52 pm] |
It's my last week at Barton and I'm kind of bummed about it. It was a bullshit job but everyone was so nice, and all the older men flirted with me and the younger boys were cute.
The boys at my bank always give me a lollipop whenever I go. I don't like lollipops, but I accepted the first time and now it's too late to turn back.
Friday night I had my mom wrap my hair up in henna and it dried for five hours. I wore the perfect red lipstick, which I finally discovered and paid insane amounts for ($34 for LIPSTICK. But it's amazing. YSL Opium Red. I thought about wearing it to bed) and doused myself in perfume (YSL Opium to match the lipstick and the mood).
Can I have sex with a lipstick?
Then I sat and watched a movie (Synechdoche, NY) while knitting. Jesse facebook chatted me and I learned all about his recent breakup and experimental camping trip where he met a homeless man that gave him prophecies and shit. I wonder if homeless people are typecast. I wonder if they make up stuff cause people want like, holistic advice from them, and they're just like...jeez fucker, got a sandwich for all this advice?
Saturday I went to Janice's. She moved into Edgar's pad and it's...fucking amazing. I can't even. It was built in the 70's and has this modular feel to it- there is stained glass, a huge ski-den-ish living room with a domed ceiling and monstrous fireplace (he's got tons of DJ equipment in there, too, as well as an entire spare bedroom to house his records). The walls are all different colors. The kitchen consists of a mini-room with no ceilings set into a giant room with a ceiling...if that makes sense? Screened in porch with delicious furniture and dark wood, set high so there's almost a cliff-like drop facing an expanse of forest. A stone swimming pool and huge deck...the backyard and landscaping won ridiculous awards or something. The BEDROOM: just listen. The bedroom is sunken into the lower portion of the house; you walk down a flight of stairs and enter what I can only describe as the perfect 80s fuck pad. Not kidding. The room is enormous: giant bed, modular lighting, huge black leather couch (really?)...one wall is sliding glass doors with drapes, leading to a mini-deck and stairs going up to the backyard. Flat screen mounted to the ceiling. The room is adjoined to a bathroom with a heated stone floor and an open plan shower with like, fourteen strategically placed jets. There's one of those red lightbulbs that are supposed to provide heat but really just creates some serious mood lighting. UM. WHAT. And they don't even HANG...I'm all thinking about the massive hedonistic throwdowns I would host if I had this kind of place. The living room itself is begging for a coke-fueled DJ spin session followed by a dip in that pool and post-swim orgy slash shower. No? IT'S BEING WASTED. WASTED I TELL YOU.
I adore Janice and Edgar is cool as hell and a stone cold fox to boot, so I'm currently fantasizing about moving in with them and being a third. They need some spice in their life.
Then that night I smoked myself stupid (what else is new) and went to Kiki's show at Lark Tavern with the boys. My sister told me to stop complaining because every single one of her guy friends is trying to sleep with me, but I just don't like anyone. I need someone amazing. They're all great guys (and they're all friends, so I can't really, er, make the rounds)...but I'm a pretty ridiculous catch and I'm sort of just realizing that. I need to meet my match.
I'm fine with just chilling for now. I've got too much going on head-trip wise, anyway.
I'm excited cause Michael left me a voicemail saying he's just come back from the other side and his parents are back in Hawaii and he has ideas and hopes I do, too. And when Michael has ideas they usually involve driving out to the middle of nowhere and talking to mystic seekers or he'll just randomly open up a drawer full of sprouting mushrooms or something. Or we'll videotape his friend vomiting for three hours cause he just inhaled a metric ton of baking soda..."it feels like I just threw up a tidal wave." I've got ideas, too. I'm in contact with this astrological group down in Saugerties. They want me to join them and learn. I also want to experiment with ways to reach that elusive "other side." Mr. Young will be down.
Ah, I shall work now. It's lovely outside. A good day for music.
:)
( PS: This is the background on my new laptop ) |
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| phew! |
[Jun. 15th, 2009|02:13 pm] |
I have SO much to write about. Soon, it's stewing.
I want to link you guys to my new writing gig!!!
It's not much, but it's fun :) |
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| Hello, summer. |
[Mar. 20th, 2009|10:11 am] |
| [ | path |
| | the french kicks, andrew bird | ] |
It will be: late night warm forests, mosquitoes buzzing in my ears, music in the car, in the streets, by the side of the pool. Dive bars, the houses of my friends. Old ones, new ones. Brooklyn transplants. Sister + brother. Dogs. A sun-warmed deck to lay my limbs on when I wake, a porch swing for my naps. Cooking for my dad and brother (feeding the men-folk). Whiskey caramelizing my blood in the heat...grass underfoot. And I don't have to stay. Skin glazed with sweat then chlorine, twilight barbecues.
The smell of my parents' house, of weed and food and dogs and air unlaced with city grime. Although I do love that city grime. I'll pick grape leaves for my mother. I'm going to make sure she knows how much I love her.
I'm excited!
My plan for the next few months is to write a lot. To take the GRE's and work on grad school applications. To get back into the headspace I had when I first moved back to Tull Drive minus the misery: heady, active, retreating into ideas and my mind- I want to plumb it before I lose everything that I've learned.
My sister is trying to get together a collective of sorts- she knows a lot of bands and creative people. I might try to get involved in that but am wary about it...I'm not sure if the aesthetic would match what I'm going for. And also, if you haven't heard, I'm a bit of a control freak with this stuff. I was thinking of restarting my zine! Is that outmoded? YES. Maybe a blog. Like Fucked in Park Slope...but for Albany...but nothing happens...haha.
What else...I'm going to visit Jeanie in Austin at some point too. Have my Bukowski $76 2-day bus trip experience. It just may kill me.
I'm sort of preparing to say good-bye to Brooklyn but am unsure. I would say there's a 65% chance of me coming back.
some pictures!!
( Read more... )
Tomorrow- I have to be extra careful on the barge! David is throwing his wife a surprise party and he is the WORST liar. A more honest face has never been exposed to the elements. I want to write a book about his life. Or maybe just an LJ entry. He's fascinating. I'm going to bring him back some taramosalata from Easter dinner...he and his wife are obsessed with caviar.
At any rate...living life in a way I've always wanted to. |
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| AND: |
[Mar. 12th, 2009|02:19 pm] |
I recently finished The Dharma Bums, and while not 100% impressed, I get it and it affected me.
Kerouac's "Thirty Essentials" for his spontaneous prose method:
Some of it is kind of complete bullshit, but I bolded the ones I like.
1. Scribbled secret notebooks, and wild typewritten pages, for your own joy
2. Submissive to everything, open, listening
3. Try never get drunk outside your own house
4. Be in love with your life
5. Something that you feel will find its own form
6. Be crazy dumbsaint of the mind
7. Blow as deep as you want to blow
8. Write what you want bottomless from bottom of the mind
9. The unspeakable visions of the individual
10. No time for poetry but exactly what is
11. Visionary tics shivering in the chest
12. In tranced fixation dreaming upon object before you
13. Remove literary, grammatical and syntactical inhibition
14. Like Proust be an old teahead of time
15. Telling the true story of the world in interior monolog
16. The jewel center of interest is the eye within the eye
17. Write in recollection and amazement for yrself
18. Work from pithy middle eye out, swimming in language sea
19. Accept loss forever
20. Believe in the holy contour of life
21. Struggle to sketch the flow that already exists intact in mind
22. Don't think of words when you stop but to see picture better
23. Keep track of every day the date emblazoned in yr morning
24. No fear or shame in the dignity of yr experience, language & knowledge
25. Write for the world to read and see yr exact pictures of it
26. Bookmovie is the movie in words, the visual American form
27. In praise of Character in the Bleak inhuman Loneliness
28. Composing wild, undisciplined, pure, coming in from under, crazier the better
29. You're a Genius all the time
30. Writer-Director of Earthly movies Sponsored & Angeled in Heaven
I think that when you read things that are this culturally influencing, it's important to keep in mind the when and the where. Kerouac isn't exactly a genius, I don't think, at least not in the way those reverent coffee-house kids think he is, but what he did was innovative and at the time, pretty trailblazing. His writing is without stodginess and too many rules, which I appreciate- he feels alive to me. Which is inspiring. But when you have this whole elevated collective consciousness idea of his stuff, it gets sort of ruined...which happenes to a lot of artists, but with him it clouds the true gold of his writing. ANYWAY. Worth the read.
And like, he's pretty dreamy:
Note to self: aquire copy of James Joyce's dirty letters. |
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| Today was the big day. |
[Feb. 10th, 2009|04:19 pm] |
I woke up this morning at 6:45- I think the last time I was awake at that hour was in middle school. Johnathan stayed over last night so I walked to the train floating amidst obscure comedy references and circuitously hilarious stories; he got off at Jay Street and I continued on to West 4th since today was the day of the big top-secret-can't-talk-about-it-company-wide meeting wherein we all learned about the new "product."
Let me preface this next part by saying that Monday night I walked over to my landlord's place and he called me on the way back to make sure I was okay "because I know you get lost Izzy."
So yeah, I got lost. Whatever. It's something I do. This is 8:30 in the morning, on like five hours of sleep, West Village, me walking and listening to "Drug Ballad" off the fucking Marshall Mathers LP on REPEAT (I have no explanation for this), getting hollered at by construction workers and daydreaming about Battlestar Galactica (which, coincidentally is the reason Johnathan slept over and why I got very little sleep). After a while, I became aware that I've walked too far and saw this cop standing outside of a building, smoking a cigarette. He looked like he was really enjoying it. I liked that, and that's why I asked him for help.
He gave me perfect directions, and then started talking about how I was so nice and how everyone in New York is either a pansy or a dickface, meanwhile he's smoking like three cigarettes inside of a few minutes and keeps asking me questions like "where is your dream house" and "how many kids do you think you've had in a past life if you believe in that sort of thing." His is on the Maine Coast and he's convinced he has a lot of kids he doesn't know about and I'm like, in a past life or just from man-whoring? He says, honey, want to grab a cup of coffee and I'll set you up with this nephew of mine, you're just his type- he's a gem and I can vouch he's disease free. I said, I've got this meeting but really, I wanted to hear him talk about feral cats in New York and women that wear too much makeup and how it's crazy that I don't drink coffee.
Finally, I make it to the new building. Security's tight and I'm in the elevator with Fareed Zakaria. The morning passes in a blur, everyone's talking, everyone's getting excited, editors and marketers and ad sales people. I make the firm decision that I will have about five hundred of both Tom Ascheim and John Meacham's babies, they are so funny and articulate and can completely own a room, a large one, full of panicky skeptical people and make them feel good about the future. At this point, I feel bad for affixing that hate letter addressed to Meacham on my fridge, but tell myelf it's okay because it's really, REALLY funny. Besides, once we're married, he won't care.
But right here is my point, and why I want to remember this day:
The three hours I spent today in that building, listening to all these motivated movers and shakers talk, hearing about business models and marketing plans, made me come to several realizations. I've always had this strange idea that all politics, all media, TV and radio and print, also art, literature, music, also big business and all those money-making machines, were part of some mystical untouchable gray area. The creators of these things that rule our lives and touch us on all sorts of levels were elevated to some sort of deity-like status in my mind, blurry figures I would never know or understand, shades in the limbo between the real and imagined. BUT. Everything I've ever loved or thought important was created by a human. In fact, everything not part of the planet's actual geography was created by a human. The future brilliant musicians are the people I know. Writers are people. There are set designers, producers and directors making that movie. These are my friends. Every single person in this fucking world came from the same place as I did. This may seem like a simple concept, but today, lingering on that thought over a plate full of (free) pastries, my mind was blown a little.
Beethoven was someone's son. Julius Caesar. Shakespeare.
Where am I going with this? These things are attainable. The world is yours. It's mine.
It's not a bad thing that I get lost because I get to walk neighborhoods I'm never in and meet old cops that chain smoke and tell me I'm nice. I shouldn't feel inferior in this room full of go-getters; I'm one of them. What's more, they recognize me as one of them. I just have something different to go and get.
So, let's do this. The fear is pretty much gone.
(Which is good, cause I just did some scary shit, kinda sorta like quit my job) |
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| Veronica Mars |
[Jan. 8th, 2009|02:26 pm] |
Is a great show. It's a FUCKING GREAT show.
I started watching it about a year and a half ago, at the tail end of my first Netflix subscription, right before I moved to New York. I first heard about it somewhere online, who only knows, it was pretty cult and underground. Not like, super underground, but...UPN. Right?
So I started watching it, and right away I was addicted and got a bunch of my friends to watch it, too (you know how I do).
1. While it is a show geared towards teens, it doesn't flinch from serious topics.
In the first season alone the writers cover rape, social exile, drugs, violence, gay rights and class struggles- and they don't sugarcoat it NOR do they gloss it over and dramatize it like other teen shows (the OC, Gossip Girl, etc etc. These shows are fine and entertaining in their own right, but by no means realistic. Can you really relate to Blake Lively? Really?). At the same time, it's not so realistic that you feel like you're watching a teen version of The Wire. It's still a show about a 16 year old detective.
2. The casting is brilliant.
Kristen Bell. Not only is she kind of ridiculously hot, but you like her. Really. As Veronica, she's kind of a bitch, is really annoying, always wants favors and is always running her mouth. You can imagine being like...God Veronica...just shut the fuck up already if she were an actual friend of yours. And, even though she is ridiculously hot, unlike Blake Lively, you can sort of relate to her. She's gone through some shit. Some really, really improbable shit, but also normal stuff like her boyf dumped her and she's now a social outcast. She's so tough and scrappy, though, that you live to watch someone fuck with her. And Kristen Bell's delivery is so quick and smart and funny, you forget that normal adults, let alone kids, don't talk like Harvard rejects on the daily...thank you Dawson's Creek for annoying me with that trend since the '90s. Teen show writers, please keep it real. Wait...I just Wikipedia'd the show and Rob Thomas (actual name), the creator, was a writer on Dawson's Creek. Well. Moving on. I still love him.
She obviously outshines everyone else on the show. All the other actors are proficient (with the exception of Enrico Calantoni, who plays Keith Mars, who is phenomenal. Also, Ryan Hansen, who plays Dick Casablancas, who I am in love with). However, this show is a GOLD MINE for guest stars. Not only are there not one, but TWO actors previously employed by the Police Academy franchise (including Steve Guttenberg, with some serious plastic surgery), but Kevin Smith, Joss Whedon himself (!!) AND Alyson Hannigan, JTT AND Zachary Ty Brian (yup), Rider Strong (yup), Paul Rudd, Lisa Rinna AND Harry Hamlin (!!!!!), several Freaks and Geeks cast members, Leighton Meester for you Gossip Girl people, Paris Hilton, etc etc. Many of these are respectable actors. However, the serious magic of this show is shit like Richard Grieco playing someone's deadbeat, abusive boyfriend.
3. The mysteries actually get solved.
Okay, this is a tough one for me, as I am irrepairably obsessed with Lost. I'm all for pushing buttons and the Dharma initiative and smoke monsters and not ever knowing what in the FUCK is going on (January 21st!). However, there's something to be said for inventing an amazing suspense arc each season and concluding it satisfyingly. By satisfyingly I mean not half-assedly. Like, you actually care about what happens, everything fits and your mind is still blown. This isn't including all the mini-mysteries in each episode. I think this tactic is refreshing and serves to renew interest each season, gives everything a little spice and a chance to mix things up.
4. There's some hot hookups.
Do you remember that whole teenage hormone situation? Pretty awesome.
5. It's funny.
There's a motorcycle gang.
6. There's a measure of mythology to it.
It's not that evident, but some things like the planet themes (Veronica Mars lives in Neptune, California), the whole detective-ish noir feel, and Veronica's constant struggle between her beliefs and the degenerate morals of her fellow Neptuners lend the show a tinge of the classical, a good vs. evil, dark/light thing. I'm not gonna take this too far. Obviously I'm overanalyzing (I just realized how much I just wrote about this show)...but it's there.
Umm yeah, this was embarassingly enthusiastic.
Watch the show. There's only three and a half seasons. Also a sweet theme song.
Maybe this will help the cause:
( Read more... ) |
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| goooooood fucking morning! |
[Dec. 2nd, 2008|10:01 am] |
So just now I spilled chocolate soymilk all over myself in front of the gorgeous Dolores, the Argentinian wonder kid of the office.
I spilled it because I was chugging it from the carton, in front of the refrigerator. It was a shame-spill.
At least my shirt is black.
And my oatmeal came out perfect.
And my bowl says "Izzy's Oats."
:) |
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| (no subject) |
[Nov. 12th, 2008|04:08 pm] |
Saturday:
I started on the barge in Red Hook. I spur of the moment volunteered for this, and the response was immediate- I guess when interest is genuine and not born simply out of a desire to be altruistic...Your Call Will Be Heard.
Anyway, it was a dismal grey day, yet warm and I was awake. The night before had been eye-opening, with some key phrases thrown at me from a couple of people. Also a load of worry for my Timmy, AND Yitz, who is rapidly becoming a hot mess. Mostly Tim. I only see him happy when he has pills in him.
I took the 61 over there and was thankful for it, so I could press my nose against the window and look and look and look and then I was there, but not really, so a nice truck driver gave me a lift to the pier. And then I was on the barge! I was greeted warmly by David and peered around curiously- if you've ever been to Red Hook, it's the huge red Lehigh Valley 79 boat right across from Fairway. Right off the bat, I felt at ease, I was okay, David and I totally hit it off. He LIVES on the barge. It's his HOUSE. He bought it for one dollar. ONE DOLLAR. There is a big kitchen fully stocked with tea and honey, a downstairs with bedrooms and other such things, a fluffy rabbit, a couple of rocking chairs, a wood-burning stove and a piano that a charming and beautiful young Bulgarian girl uses to give lessons to David's daughters. Oriental rugs releasing the scent of clove oil, so the rabbit won't gnaw on the corners. Everything smells of water, clove, wood, earth.
There is a ball machine to entertain children, where you place pool balls into the machinery and it goes through a series of events making dings and whistles and kids love it and laugh. There are models of boats all over the place, old photos, musty costumes from the era of showboats. There is suggestive graffiti written in chalk by scandalous former crew members from yesteryear, mostly directed towards a hard-ass Swedish physical trainer they hated. There is a very, very happy Izzy. There is a family environment. There is a misty view of the Statue of Liberty perfectly framed by a white trellis...there are rainboots full of mud and flowers...there are hours spent talking over a cup of tea. Hours spent by the water, hours spent thinking about my father and his father and my mother's father and the water in my blood.
:) |
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| (no subject) |
[Oct. 24th, 2008|10:26 am] |
Two things on this devastatingly crisp, sunny and lovely October day:
1) Yesterday I was walking by the corner of 57th and 8th on my usual morning hustle, automatically registering the 7,849 Starter Wife posters affixed to the type of plywood situation that occupies many a street corner in New York, when I noticed a letter-sized piece of white paper firmly and evenly taped to Debra Messing's face. It was a refreshing change to gouged-out eyes and mustaches, so I slowed down to read it.
It said (as usual, all names and small details are subject to change as I was in need of sleep and breakfast): "Hey Bob, make sure to wash your hands after removing the bricks."
Hmmm, I thought to myself, I was unaware this was a construction site and look, someone's using good old Deb as an elevator message board. And then I whirled through the revolving door like Andre from Project Runway (Season 2) (not really, but I ALWAYS WANT TO). One day.
For now, I lie in wait.
Then this morning, the same thing occurred. I'm not sure why I always look at the Starter Wife posters. Maybe there is some brilliance in whoever decides which posters go where. However, today's note read: "Bob, there are brownies in the back. Don't let the night crew eat them." It was signed "Sargeant Management."
My thoughts: Where is the back? There is a giant building and rubble. I see that. And technically, I am not a functioning member of the aforementioned "night crew" so technically...those brownies (advertised to the whole WORLD, I might add) could...be mine. Right? Also, there is the question of this Mr. "Sargeant Management." Well, is he a fucking Sargeant? Or is he a manager? And WHY. WHY. Is he using a communication device that I am sure is not proving itself effective. If he does not want those brownies gone, why scream their existence from the rooftops of Debra's shit-eating grin? Which has probably not seen a brownie since 1993.
What if my name was Bob?
But mainly my question is, why do I occupy myself with these trivial matters when I have MARKETING to do. When I should be running REPORTS and making sure I am selling magazines. Using trickery.
2) The second thing is quite possibly the best part of my day, every day, so I thought I'd mention it: the doorman of my building is always singing old blues and soul songs and using his stand-thingy as drums; it echoes throughout the hallway. He's always smiling and sometimes he dedicates songs by pointing at someone and it's just a good thing. A little atmospheric moment of kindness and music and fun. It's a nice reminder that, yeah, I may feel a little like I'm working the grind right now, but LOOK. LISTEN.
Maybe at a later date I will relate the tale of the trail of fish blood in the Newsbreak hallway...which is happening with more frequency. It could be a joke, a Halloween jest- but I think not. I think that somewhere, there is a gang war between Salmon and Whitefish. Why can't fish of all colors get along :(
Back to those reports.
Back to the trickery. |
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| (no subject) |
[Sep. 26th, 2008|02:06 pm] |
sooooo i went to see built to spill last night. by myself, both because i like to go to shows by myself and also because the only friend i've got who likes them too (tim mcvey) refuses to go to terminal 5. for good reason, it's kind of a shithole- which sucks cause the decemberists are playing there soon. anyway, i like seeing bands alone so that i don't have to worry if whoever is with me is enjoying themself, so i can balls-out fan-out, so i can watch everyone.
there i was, watching the meatpuppets and dinosaur jr. (no lie), when this guy walks up to me. i recognize him immediately. his name is scott, he was chewed up and spit out by jeanie last spring. for good reason.
"hey, i recognize you from somewhere!"
"yeah? i know exactly who you are."
"ummm...give me a minute. there was a blonde girl involved..." (trying to play it off and appear casual)
at that point any hope for a peaceful indie rock experience had gone the way of the dodo bird. he chatted my ear off, bought me drinks, and it wouldn't have been so bad had he not had a cerain type of crippling insecurity that required me to stroke his ego every 30 seconds. when built to spill came on, i had to leave the area (he whined) so that i could get my doug martsch fill. god, i love that man. the show started off kind of tame, they were playing perfect from now on all the way through, and it's not my favorite bts album...but still. then, towards the end, this happened when i saw them in vermont too, they built up a ridiculous amount of momentum; they were controlling the crowd sonically, everyone's emotional frequency (or at least mine...) was dependant on them. the very last song (pre-encore) lasted a good 15 minutes. umm, i was near tears. i freely admit it. there's another thing they do too...at certain lyrics, the ones that hold the most weight in each song, he trails off. it's kind of annoying because it's the BEST PART-but it almost lends an heavier importance in their absence.
another good thing- scott gave me a ride back to brooklyn. otherwise i wouldn't have been home until 4am. what up g train.
so THEN. this morning. since i am a baby and need like 9 hours of sleep, i was a half hour late to work. lugging a duffel bag (albs this weekend) and sopping wet cause of the rain, i walk in and say hi to penny, who just looks at me and says: "you don't know yet?" my cubicle- and ONLY MY cubicle- had flooded (sign from god?). everyone was watching me as i rolled in way late. the place was a mess. it took the greater portion of the morning to get everything back to working order, and even now i'm in a different area of the office, which is fine because it's by damian and he plays music on his computer. he also killed a fucking huge waterbug for me, that crawled out of my papers. yeah. props to me for not screaming, though!
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaand something else is going on with me. if it works out like i think it will, i will spill. if not, my battles are lost alone! but anyway, i will listen to these soul cd's and be all moony-eyed by myself.
i can't wait to fall asleep on the bus and daydream! or is it just dream? |
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| (no subject) |
[Sep. 18th, 2008|11:19 am] |
| [ | Current Location |
| | work | ] |
| [ | ogen |
| | i guess contemplative | ] |
| [ | path |
| | sigh, none | ] |
A drawback of living like I have been is that I don't withdraw into myself like I used to, which was sort of the point. To live, if you will, instead of watching and waiting, watching and wanting. But as I throw myself out there, and extend pieces of myself to all these people, there is that hovering shadow spraying shards of my history. Tossing them to me like chewed up toys. Saying fetch, my dear, and wallow, because that is your special gift. You are so curious and now you know. Does it make you any more real? Does it help that you now better understand your own loamy humanity? Does it hurt? Should you fold in upon yourself once more, should you escape to where you know no one? Should you find a pinpoint and focus on it, and puke up all you have learned? Should you sleep until your body has a chance to spread its yawning knowledge throughout your cells? Should you sleep until it can forget? Leave these senseless shallows? Destroy these pressboard bridges? Is it better that you know?
Should you reject that which does not make you whole, but lets you know what you need?
Life, for me, has been layers of lessons. Born in onion form. I will become the raw core, finally wiggling with hard-earned secrets, when I die. Go on, Iz, peel away that skin- it won't grow back. I keep soaking it all up but something keeps grabbing my attention, phosphorescent and slightly off to the left, wandering around in my periphery. I see it like a corn maze: the promise of silk only to deliver spikes. The point is to get lost. The point is to lose. Would you return next year if you knew the way out? Would you learn had the ruler not been at the ready?
It's just that with everything I gain, something goes. To make room, I guess. In the cartoon rendition, my contents wrestle with each other and emerge with stars circling their heads, X's for eyes. It's like a slip and slide in there! It's like leaving the pots and pans in the broiler! And this schism is precisely what I can't deal with, because it's the good that loses; the bad always stays, affixed to me, hard gems sewn into my corsets. The dreamy moments, the crisp winds, good times, laughs- these leak like oil on concrete, leaving filmy rainbows and a car in bad shape. BUT- on the flipside- they also get passed around like a worn pack of cards, strengthening in the memories of others, and can be called upon at will. It's just that will can be so fickle.
I think, in the end, it's better to know. |
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| With the careful exclusion of White Castle... |
[Aug. 14th, 2008|02:19 pm] |
On my street there are a few businesses.
One is an auto repair shop. It's the bustling center of our little slice of Steuben. Every morning the sidewalk is clogged with cars that need attending, their mechanics lying on the ground, grubby, unshaven, tinkering furiously. I never really understood why cars always need to get fixed so early in the morning. Or so loudly.
Another is a warehouse of some sort, usually filled with large, empty wooden crates. The function of this space is unclear to me, but there is always a stout redheaded man pacing in front of it, cloaked in black and yammering into his phone.
The third is the egg roll factory, and by far the most fascinating. It is the Da Hing Good Taste company, and on any given day, you can walk by and peek through the half-raised door: there's old, atmospheric music lending its lilt, and the air is stained with the scent of cabbage and exhaust. Three or four small shirtless men toil over cavernous garbage bins, shredding cabbage, sweating riverbeds through the grime on their skin. Sometimes there are small children with glossy-lidded dark eyes, staring at me with suspicious innocence; other times a middle-aged Asian man chain smokes out front, his gaze unnoticing and distractedly vacant. There is something so worn yet elegantly disarming about the way the light reflects off the metallic door, rolling down like an ancient desk with a key, and some days it seems as if there's a Victrola crawling around in there, tip-toeing through shards of sodden carrot slivers so it can project its looming static heart. It strikes me as rhythmic, hanging ripe with work and care and life's heaviness, swirling back upon itself each day- but it's also the kind of place where a cigarette tastes better than good, better than your cigarette, if that makes any sense.
Then there's Gertel's Bakery- glossy wares stacked like plush soldiers every morning. Butter sheens the bread golden. A perpetual yeasty smell surrounds the half-lit, buzzing neon sign like invisible fog. It's surreally noir, especially turning the corner late at night, catching that mild red glow on the faces of your friends and then accidentally seeing deep into the open upstairs windows, with their irrationally giant stuffed animals visible from the ground.
And always, always there is someone riding up and down the sidewalk on a forklift, back and forth. Between the warehouse and the repair shop. The bakery and the egg roll factory. A lot of times it's the aforementioned red-headed man, but there are others too, more nondescript characters. Other than the fact that they share a street, this seems to be the only connecting thread between these places. Maybe they're all friends. Maybe the businesses are run by the same folks. Maybe I need to steal some baked goods and egg rolls. Though once I saw a giant stream of sweat pour right off a man's forehead and into those bins, where I'm assuming the egg roll innards come from.
It's interesting what you notice about the things you see on a daily basis. They become texturous, the warp in the wood.
Despite all of this, I am so homesick lately :(
I need a good upstate late summer wandering, with fat tomatoes from the ground and olives and cherries and real honey, a midnight swim and a car ride with the windows down, a night on someone's porch or deck, thunderstorms that smell clean. What I miss most is the late afternoon light this time of year. And my friends, my family.
But I'll quit bitching, I'd be bored very quickly.
Tony's gonna teach me how to roll dutches. |
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| (no subject) |
[Jul. 31st, 2008|11:57 am] |
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I have just been just waltzed around the office and "officially introduced" to people I have been working with for months. There is a woman here whose name is Regan, and I didn't know this before, so as I shook her hand (warm, dry) I said "Oh, a nice Shakespearian name!" and she was flabbergasted: "Maybe about five times in my 34 years of life have people gotten the reference." I didn't want to say, well Regan is a beautiful name, but why get named after the weak, cruel sister? |
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| (no subject) |
[Jun. 9th, 2008|10:16 am] |
So I got in last night around ten and it's hot hot hot, heavy, humid, my favorite weather- heat lightning and summer thunderstorms. It was post Albany, post party, post psychic reading and I was feeling very strange; I didn't know if I was going home or leaving it, I already missed my siblings and friends and parents and dogs and the clean, green summer. The rain started to plop down in BIG FAT DROPS and I stood out in it for a few minutes, there's nothing like that kind of baptism. If only I could figure out a way to get onto the roof...
This morning I woke up and it was so hot it was all I could do to go to work clothed. I get to the train and there are swarms of people like giant ants coming up the stairs, sweaty and disgruntled and on their phones, yappin away. TRAIN'S NOT RUNNING. TOO HOT.
Okay! Bus is packed! Can't even get on it! I mill around for a bit, mulling over my options. THEN I hear this obnoxious, high-pitched voice calling out and someone grabs my arm firmly-
"THIS SHIT AIN'T GONNA HAPPEN. WE'RE WALKING TO THE M TRAIN IF ANYONE WANTS TO COME ALONG. COME ON PEOPLE!!!"
Obviously I looked like I needed help so these kindly, brassy old broads adopted me (I think without my consent?) and we walked in a group, all leopard print and kitten heels and melty lipstick; advice on life and men ("ya gotta get yourself a REAL MAN MISSY!! one that works with his HANDS, if ya know what I mean...") and kitchen table politics. We walked for ten or fifteen blocks in the ninety degree nine o'clock sun and as I walked past all these people, all these buildings, dogs and cafes, Fort Green park, yellow dresses, dreadlocs, couples, five different languages- I just fucking fell in love with life so badly, so hard. It's my new neighborhood, my new apartment, all the things I've got in me, all the people I love and are cool enough to love me back, and I have so much to look forward to. It's been creeping up on me slowly lately, and it hit me hard, an actual physical sensation in my chest. FREEFALL. I had forgotten about it.
AND then I saw the most beautiful woman I've ever seen, holding an equally beautiful baby
AND then I got to the R and it was air conditioned and the sweat dried on me and I felt so clean
AND cold water tastes so good
When I got off the train at 57th and 7th, I just laughed and laughed and it felt different somehow, like it was for real this time. It was the kind of thing where people saw me and started laughing, too.
And then on the elevator a girl was telling me how she almost got hit by lightning on a beach in Connecticut yesterday, and she was just so glad to be alive.
So I finally got to work, it's so surreal being here after all this, which might seem like nothing to other people but was sort of life-changing for me. I'm a little manic and fucked up on adrenaline. I need breakfast. |
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| (no subject) |
[May. 7th, 2008|03:36 pm] |
The view from Olivia's kitchen looks out onto a courtyard, lush with weeds and the remnants of good outdoor furniture- then further out, the downtown Brooklyn skyline, gilded and blushed at dinnertime. The light putting on its evening face.
I've been there since Sunday and it's a world of difference from last week's sleeplessness, mild debauch. Now it's quelling tantrums, bag lunches, innocent bedtime whispers and answering questions- "Izzy, how does a Eunuch's Cube work?"
"...um, a Rubik's Cube?"
She called Monday from Ecuador, today from Chile, wheeling and dealing, sounding tiny and tired.
Sleep at 10pm, leafy, breezy, children-filled borough spring mornings, walking and saying hi! to all the parents and holding Georgie's hand while avoiding the schoolyard-hovering single fathers.
Opening a closet looking for clean towels, finding none, finding an altar. Golden crown centerpiece surrounded by a sailboat, large brass coins, old letters, dollars tucked in corners, tiny stale vanilla cupcakes, shotglasses of rum, other things, small trinkets, symbols.
I feel like I'm occupying someone else's life and will soon be swallowed up by it. I took the wrong door! I want to go back.
You learn a lot from kids.
Santo Daime- the "religious drink" Georgie told me about is Ayahuasca, a hallucinogenic brew. It hovers in the fridge menacingly, taking up too much space, sort of looming under the weight of its own mystery- "That's not apple juice, Izzy!"
"All who drink this holy beverage must not only try to see beautiful things without correcting their faults, but give shape to perfection of their own personality to take their place in this battalion and follow this line. If they would act this way, they could say, I am a brother."
I have to replace Olivia's rum. |
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| Current Condition: |
[Apr. 11th, 2008|11:47 am] |
Hangovers: 2 (Jameson and Wendy's)
Hours of Sleep: 3.5
Approximate Hours of Sleep Needed to Function: 9.75
People Blissfully Slumbering at My Home While I Am Not: 2
Baked Goods Consumed Before 10am: 2 (Bagel and Chocolate Croissant)
Children That Will Be Entrusted In My Care In This Condition: 1
Approximate Number of Hours Until I Can Sleep: 15
Level of Anger on a Scale of 1-10: 7.2
Level of Lethargy in Regards to Said Anger on a Scale of 1-10: 10
Brand New As Yet Nameless Baby Chihuahas I am Longing to Snuggle With: 1 |
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| Mango Acai White Tea Wisdom |
[Apr. 9th, 2008|03:11 pm] |
| [ | path |
| | Band of Horses- the First Song | ] |
"It's possible to own too much. A man with one watch knows what time it is, while a man with two watches is never quite sure."
Stamped on my bottle cap. |
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| (no subject) |
[Apr. 2nd, 2008|12:38 pm] |
| [ | ogen |
| | feverish | ] |
| [ | path |
| | cocorosie- by your side, elliott smith- clementine | ] |
Sometimes I get this overwhelming feeling of fertility- that if I open my mouth or unclench a fist, dark soil will crumble into the crevices and something will bloom. Usually when this happens, I have dreams of birth, of babies that aren't children, or even human. I know exactly which seeds to sow but I can never figure out how to open my mouth, unclench my fist.
Regardless of the frustration, I am comforted by this. |
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| (no subject) |
[Mar. 19th, 2008|05:05 pm] |
I really and truly think that Justin Timberlake is a genius. Admittedly, he has people behind him. But goddamn if I don't watch his HBO special with my jaw dropped. |
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| Shake. Rattle. Roll. |
[Mar. 17th, 2008|02:12 pm] |
| [ | Current Location |
| | work | ] |
| [ | ogen |
| | relaxed, yo | ] |
| [ | path |
| | hot chip (OBSESSED.), the gossip (beth ditto is my queen) | ] |
I mentioned in a previous entry that I was reading The Maggot by John Fowles. I took a Literature of the Occult class in college and read The Magus; sometime last winter I read The Collector (which was recommended to me by Maxim magazine, of all things). I never finished the former (the parts I remember were a little over my head) and was underwhelmed by the latter.
A couple of weeks ago I was wandering through a thrift shop on 7th Avenue, and randomly stumbled upon this book- I immediately picked it up because of the author, but I was drawn to it for other reasons, as well. It was a heavy hardcover, a former member of the Brooklyn Public Library system. I liked the cover. Featured was a photo of Mr. Fowles that took up the entire back cover; someone had pressed a gold star sticker near his right hand, which was neatly tucked into a pocket. I liked the title. I liked the alternative usage of the word "maggot". All these things pleased my aesthetic.
I began reading it right away, ignoring the several half-finished books littering the apartment. I've been having a bit of trouble focusing. Nothing has really held my interest. And though the style was dense and a little too steady for my taste, with about half of it consisting of mid-19th century British dialogue that had me rereading paragraphs three or four times, there was a slow-burning core of promise and thrifty use of language that kept me plugging away. I wouldn't say I couldn't put it down; I wouldn't say it amazed me. However,it's one of those books that plant you firmly into the personality of the author, into the way they see and structure. I was aware of how British Fowles is, and of what qualities he found attractive in a woman. His opinions on religion were evident. All these things, and more, weren't spelled out or even necessarily integral parts of the story- they were just present.
I kept reading it, I even skimmed some of it. Usually when reading a book becomes tedious for me, I'll just move on to something else and tell myself I'll finish it later. Sometimes I do, sometimes I don't. It smelled of paper soon to turn brittle and weighted me down every day to and from the train. Others glanced at the title curiously. It was covered in a clear protective plastic.
I finished it on Saturday. It was one of the first warm days. I had gone for a walk in the sun, air, white cement, and my skin and hair had that green, metallic smell from being outside, from being slightly sweaty and then chilly again. My lungs worked easily. I was laid up on the couch, a cat purring warmly against my chest and belly. My legs had the slight tingle of a good, long walk. The windows and doors were all open. I had eaten pineapple and blackberries and Nutella in great, big spoonfuls. I was hurrying to finish this book, killing time before my visitors arrived. The day had been so perfect, my senses and mind so round and full that I didn't want to ruin it with television. So I finished it, turned the last pages, and the conclusion left me with a vague satisfaction. It was an unclear ending, the kind that you are okay with because the unknowing is fitting and more telling than a neat wrapping up.
So it was finished, and I flipped to the epilogue, which was written directly to the readers from the author, like an explanation, or a letter. He made it clear that the entire novel, which was an amalgamation of a who-done-it, historical fiction, time travel fantasy, religious dissent, romance and political treatise, was crawling toward one purpose only; this purpose was the birth of Ann Lee.
All these things- an entire complex and at times convoluted plot, several characters...they all led to this. There were no hints, none, except for mentions of Quakerism. Ann Lee was the founder of religious sect known as the Shakers, who originated in England yet quickly emigrated to America to escape persecution. A severe group, they were originally an offshoot of the Quakers and claimed a strict adherence to chastity as the main difference between their beliefs and other similar Protestant faiths. The first Shaker settlement in America was founded outside Albany, NY in the 1770's. In fact, this original community still stands within a couple of miles of my parents' house. In fact, I did complete an internship at the Shaker Heritage Society at this very site while in college. I did picnic at Ann Lee Pond, I did drive down paths entitled North Family Road and Watervliet-Shaker Road. Their presence in my life was so prevalent that I've written about them before, in this journal.
The Shakers believed fervently in celibacy. They relied mainly on conversion to gain new members, and never exceeded over 6,000 members due to the difficulty of convincing people not to succumb to the temptations of the flesh. At times, it was difficult to control the natural proclivities of their members, especially the young ones (many of which were adopted orphans, without a choice in the matter). While at the Heritage Society, I read countless accounts of Shaker Girls Gone Wild, running half-dressed, bonnets askance, through the primitive streets, imbibing whiskey and threatening the piety of the town's menfolk.
The Shakers were largely self-sufficient. They operated large farms and made most of their own clothing, soap, furniture, etc. I spent many hours showing small children how to comb and card wool, how to use a drop spindle, how to knit. I learned how to knit through this influence, directly; it has been a hobby of mine ever since that time. It has enabled me to make things for many people, people I love. In addition, their products were of such quality that there was high demand for them in town. Especially things that involved intricate handiwork; the Shaker women were famous for their luxury embroidered goods. Coincidentally, this was something they had little use for themselves. Their honey, brooms, herbs, seeds and chairs were also famed and bought by many.
The Shakers were also extremely innovative. They made vast improvements upon already existing items and ideas. I won't delve deeper into any of this, save to say that it is generally believed that their sacrifice of carnality enabled them to expend time and energy into all the aforementioned innovations, and into quality craftsmanship.
There was a period of time a few months ago when I aspired to emulate these people. I wanted to refocus my energies, not only the sexual but the frivolous. I may have written or made mention about it in person. It was a big to-do in my head, even if it seemed like a passing fancy. Recently, however, I have lost sight of this initial goal in various ways. I may have written or made mention.
This book, was it a coincidence?
This series of events may seem inconsequential; perhaps they are. Maybe the fact that it affected me and I am wondering if it is some sort of sign is telling enough. If I'm worried about it, the answer is obvious.
I'm not worried about it.
What I'm thinking about is the nature of coincidence and the nagging belief I hold that the manipulation of energy, of being able to force things to you, away from you, based on what you give and take, is possible. Did all this happen because I have been rethinking my behavior lately? The other way around?
In the epilogue, John Fowles mentions how the story came to him as if by accident or coincidence. He came into possession, by chance, of a replica of a drawing. A portrait of a woman. The woman wasn't particularly beautiful, but her image, through someone else's perspective, drew him in and inspired him. She may have been a prostitute. She was the basis for one of the main characters, Rebecca Lee. Mother of Ann Lee. The cover of my copy of the book is this original portrait, which pleases me immensely. Interestingly, Fowles claims he did little research and made most of the story up. Chance, coincidence, inspiration. I wonder what he was projecting to receive such bounty. And it's a personal bounty; it seems like he was striving to please only himself with this work.
I'm conducting an experiment. Choo-choo. |
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| day three. |
[Feb. 27th, 2008|10:30 am] |
i'm going to start this one off by shamefully admitting that i declined sex tonight because i would rather watch project runway. so there's THAT.
sometimes i'll turn around, catch a glimpse out of a window, grey towering lego skyscrapers- and i realize with a start that i'm in manhattan. over the weekend, right after the snowstorm, i was babysitting georgie (the love of my life, i swear) and i took him to prospect park so he could throw snowballs at me. there was something about my exact location and the play of light, a lingering winter bright rosiness- that made me believe for a minute that i was in albany, in washington park, and that right around the corner was lark street and the lionheart tavern, and that i could walk to my apartment at 253 park #3 and bunker down with mark and beth and pj and smoke, eat, watch anime porn, shoot the shit. it was more than that, though, it made me believe i was in a precise moment of my life, a specific day right after a snowstorm where i went for a walk and pretended to be Polish (i was REALLY in an eastern european mood that winter- i was taking this history class and renamed myself marysia. i know.) i remember the trees were bare and black and stark against the milky sky, i even wrote in my paper-journal about it. there was a dollhouse display in the window of the magnolia cafe that i seriously considered stealing. the whole situation really threw me. it still does. flip flop homes, flip flop- i'm sure when i don't do that, when i don't get startled, it will scare me more.
i have issues with these things, with letting go, with moving on to something else i will inevitably love just as much. i walk a lot- now, out of necessity, but in albany i would just walk around my neighborhood like a crazy person at four in the morning. i was walking home last night, lukewarm drizzly rain, enjoying it, still amazed at my new surroundings, yet heart-achingly wistful over how beautiful an upstate summer twilight walk is, and how the smell of suburban freshly cut grass permeated everything and gravel (not city gravel, gritty sandy gravel with DIRT in it) got in my shoes and i would steal berries from the neighbor's trees. i almost started crying, i'm not sure i can explain it. i'm inordinately fond of memories. i'm someone who will never throw out a photograph. i'm terrified of losing all that i have experienced. and if i'm listening to a song that reminds me of something at the same time, forget it! i may as well implode. for a long time, that fear impeded growth; it stopped me from moving forward, and like the things it stored for me, it too, is fading.....
can we talk about my baby-sitting situation now that i mentioned georgie earlier? olivia is a park-slope-mommy, everything is organic, down to the paper towels and dishsoap. i'm not sure what her deal is, but georgie's father is cuban and lives in cuba (this is izzy ingratiating herself to this family so that maybe she'll get to go to cuba sometime before she dies, without stowing away on a dinghy as she had originally planned).
olivia is one of my scorpios; i have this weird pattern in my life where all my best friends and the people who are with me the longest are scorpios- but i digress. this mostly means that she was instantly in my inner circle for some reason. i baby-sat georgie only a couple of times when she broke her ankle ice skating in the park...so all last week she was laid up in bed, and couldn't do anything, so i came over three or four times for a couple of hours to clean up, cook, do some dishes or grocery shopping, occupy georgie. she has all these...artifacts around her apartment. i can only describe them as being santeria-like. clear glasses with various amounts of water in them line her dresser-top and there is a jug of what looks like apple cider in the fridge, but when i asked george if he wanted some with dinner, he said "that's religious juice." okay. there are saintly displays tucked away in corners, small things floating in tinted water in glass bowls in the kitchen.... she is tiny, birdlike, with greying hair, 48 years old, but luminously (luminously!) beautiful in the way aging only enhances. huge wet blue eyes, small yet authoritative voice. she reminds me of an angel-like creature, but she has a sharp side.
george is an aspiring rock star. one day i showed up and he was sitting on the couch, plaid shirt unbuttoned halfway, collar up, necklace dangling, wifebeater showing, playing the bongos. he had THE LOOK down, like in his face, he just put on the adult mask and i was like, whoa, olivia, watch out for this kid when he's seventeen. he plays several instruments, can cook (really, like not kid-cook, like better than i can), and is so goddamn affectionate. he can't get enough hugs, which i'm elated about cause if i like you, i am always overcome with affection. he told his mom i was the most amazing baby-sitter he's ever had and that he was going to marry me. i took him and his friend (THAT kid is CRAZY, maybe i'll write about him later) to go see U23D (fucking nearly slit my wrists, fuck you bono) and to get me to let him have candy, he looked up, took my face in his hands, and said "you are my love." this guy next to us burst out laughing and was like, "this kid is slick, i'm gonna start stealing his moves." this is just a good thing for me, i feel like i'm balancing all the debaucherous activities with wholesome ones. to quote the millionnaire matchmaker, it's like "i'm getting credits in heaven." like, okay, i'll do blow till 7am and drink myself stupid and do other miscellaneous irresponsible things, but here's this little boy with big brown glossy eyes that completely loves and trusts me and is just so funny with the shit he comes up with...it assuages the guilt somewhat.
the other little boy, declan, he was like this super-verbose little man. he would just turn to me in the theater with the enormous 3d glasses on and say, "izzy, do you think that bono has the money we paid for the movie in his pocket right now?" with every sourpatch kid he ate, he got a little twitchier. at one point i shushed him and he said, "izzy. i don't believe in shushes. i believe in shut up." and turned back to 3d bono matter of factly. so i said, declan, shut up or these rabid u2 fans will slap us silly. not really. but they were getting pissed. george even looked at me with this disbelieving look in his eye and said "maybe we shouldn't give declan any more candy." AGREED GEORGIE.
-it just took elizabeth (redhead) and i like 45 minutes to figure out gmail chat.
-i got high and ate way too much chinese food last night and now i have a sodium headache.
-am addicted to falafel. need 12 step program. HALAL CART + IZZY = BFF
(also yogurt) |
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| if only. |
[Oct. 26th, 2007|09:32 pm] |
for future reference, this would be my perfect man:
+
let's get a team of geneticists. |
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| today is awesome because: |
[Oct. 12th, 2007|02:01 pm] |
all day long i've been going through old photo albums and scanning in pictures to be made into a slideshow for an upcoming open house. the pictures date back to the seventies, and they are of all the people that work here and their clients, many of who(m?) are mentally ill. picture it. let's just say there are a lot of sick mustaches and fucking awesome clothes. this one guy i have to answer to had the best white man fro i've seen.....ever. which is all i'll think about whenever i see him now. it's like all the drunken christmas parties and stuff like that where everyone accidentally gets wasted and puts on a funny hat...and it's funnier because i was never a participant in the embarrassment.
yesterday was not so awesome as i had to put together all these packets for aforementioned open house, which involved a lot of stapling. my hands look and feel as if i tried to jack off a very, very drunk cyborg. unsuccessfully.
this is what i'm talking about:
(i can't resize it) (these are employees, not the mentally ill, mind you)(don't worry, i asked if i could post this picture)
( Read more... )
ANYWAY
PEACE OUT |
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| mas |
[Jul. 4th, 2007|11:46 am] |
currently, i am in austin, tx, in a nice apartment that we'll have all to ourselves for about a week (a little more, a little less, who knows). the boy who lives here had a problem and had to jet back to albany and was grateful that we would be here to watch his cats...we were like, uhh, WE'RE grateful that we have a free place to stay, with a fridge full of healthy food (in the deep south, i felt that i should have just deep fried my own ventricles...quicker, more efficient, probably cheaper). oh, and beer, and liquor. and a sweet mac full of music i've never heard of, which is a nice way of being exposed to new shit without having to do the searching herself.
austin is awesome. i'm seriously considering moving here. and i know i talk a lot of trash about stuff like that. but i need to get out of albany, and i'm reallllly excited about learning this city.
ok, peace, i'm gonna do a street heat hip hop body jam workout
when i get back i'll probably write all about the trip and post pictures, of which i have hundreds already. i'll have no job so expect a very thorough workup. |
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| gut with a knife? |
[Jun. 9th, 2007|03:32 pm] |
i cleared out the camera in preparation. who reaps the benefits? no one. i took time to do this and you wasted it looking!
last night: went out with some coworkers to commemorate my last friday of work:
sierra seerup (real name), my wifey. she brings me baked goods and leaves me cute lists on how to take care of her cats.
( Read more... ) |
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| (no subject) |
[May. 15th, 2007|01:23 pm] |
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and yesterday, i officially resigned from my job. |
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| (no subject) |
[Apr. 24th, 2007|01:18 pm] |
i've got a mind
i've got half a mind
to shut down the whole system
at the spine
with fishing line |
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| why am i 89% emo |
[Apr. 18th, 2007|01:00 pm] |
The Everything Test There are many different types of tests on the internet today. Personality tests, purity tests, stereotype tests, political tests. But now, there is one test to rule them all. Traditionally, online tests would ask certain questions about your musical tastes or clothing for a stereotype, your experiences for a purity test, or deep questions for a personality test.We're turning that upside down - all the questions affect all the results, and we've got some innovative results too! Enjoy :-) | Personality | You are more emotional than logical, more concerned about others than concerned about self, more atheist than religious, more dependent than loner, more lazy than workaholic, more traditional than rebel, more artistic mind than engineering mind, more idealist than cynical, more leader than follower, and more introverted than extroverted.
As for specific personality traits, you are romantic (86%), horny (75%), innovative (64%), adventurous (62%). | | | Stereotypes | | Emo Kid | 89% | | Punk Rock | 73% | | Prep | 69% | | | | Life Experience | | Sex | 42% | | Substances | 68% | | Travel | 21% | | Politics
Your political views would best be described as Socialist, whom you agree with around 83% of the time. | | Socioeconomic
Your attitude toward life best associates you with Working Class. You make more than 66% of those who have taken this test, and 47% less than the U.S. average.
| If your life was a movie, it would be rated PG-13.
By the way, your hottness rank is 60%, hotter than 48% of other test takers. | TAKE THE TEST brought to you by thatsurveysite |
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| (no subject) |
[Mar. 30th, 2007|01:20 pm] |
someone asked me the other day what types of houses i liked. and at first, i was disinterested and vague and i'm sure i threw in some imitation pretentiousness that no one recognized. but......
if possible, it would be nice for my house to be a part of something bigger. carved out of a natural rock formation, or up in a tree, or part of a collective living situation. as such things are rare and expensive, i'd settle for either a tiny flat house on an enormous, scrubby bare plain or a crooked, too-big monstrosity squished in between falling-over buildings painted yellow and pink and orange. in either case, the house would be fragile with glass and sturdy with beams, spilling golden light in the warmth and pastel whitewashes in winter. i don't need too many rooms. one big common area with a behemoth sofa, RED, a shade darker than true red, so big two or three can sleep on it, so mutable you can pull and wrap the extra fabric around you. and paintings thrown around, propped up against the walls half-way streaked in jewel tones (since i'll change my mind each season). can i have a victrola? creaking shelves of books throwing their scent. music, music, music flying over the scratched, polished hardwood floors that i'll slip on every day.
kitchen: a long, hatcheded country table with a bench on one side and sturdy, heavy-souled chairs on the other. pots and pans and used things, mismatched china, blue and white and yellow. sauce-stains on the counter-top and mosaic tiles. tea-kettles. a trough-sized sink. little pots of herbs i try to grow but invariably neglect, prompting friends to shake their heads and water them whenever they visit. and around the corner, dank stone steps, unevenly hewn (watch your step), blooming into the cellar in your dreams, cobwebs and canned goods, the castoffs of past forays into jam-making, wine-collecting, and other such things. and. if i REALLY had my way. there would be a broom closet down there that would brew all the scary things and collect them, providing a place of mystery for me, for children, for all delicious frightening things; spiders, old photos, chewed-up toys.
the bathroom- big. clean. white and yellow striped wallpaper. towels rubbed in lemongrass. bottles of scented oils. volumes of ezra pound and artaud. claw-footed everything.
bedroom. the bedroom should have one thing in it. a bed. the fucking biggest bed you can fit. a room of bed. and windows |
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| okay |
[Jan. 10th, 2007|08:11 pm] |
it's wednesday evening and i called in to work (a week o' cat-sitting and binge-drinking has taken its inevitable toll. am sick as dog.). i have been staying in guilderland at my friend matt's house as he is in disneyworld with his family and girlfriend. i made toffee from scratch today. it is delicious. also one-third gone. ouch my belly. am addicted to animal planet. facing guitar hero withdrawal. the world is spinning on its axis, as always. i feel like i have lived more in the past three months than my whole life. am writing. am contemplating moving to remote greek island. am bummed out today. |
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| whathappened? |
[Dec. 31st, 2006|01:56 pm] |
our parents should be...proud? |
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| sea-sons |
[Dec. 20th, 2006|09:00 pm] |
I asked my mother today about her grandparents. I was thinking about my family, and it struck me that I didn't know the names, the stories, or anything really of my great-grandparents. The Dikas brothers and sister were the be-all end-all. We all sprung from their loins. My great-grandfather Anargyros was a sea-sponge diver from the island of Chalki who traveled to Tarpon Springs, Florida for work. He was back in Chalki one day and saw a thirteen-year old girl playing with her dolls. And decided to marry her. Her name was Maria. He was forty. He died while my Uncle John was still in the womb, drowning in Tarpon Springs. |
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| it just is |
[Dec. 20th, 2006|01:41 pm] |
I am afraid of the keening widows. And brotherless sisters, the fatherless who couldn't make it in time.
These things happen. Where I work, they happen frequently- a busy cardiology unit, I've called the code many times. I am eternally grateful someone else called it this time.
The things I do for strangers I did for me.
It's the top tier falling down. |
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