39 miles and then some...

Tomorrow, at 5:30 am in Washington DC, myself and seven of my closest friends will begin walking a total of 39 miles for the Avon Breast Cancer fund. As a team we have raised over $14,000! I have never attempted anything like this before; raising the money as an individual as well as walking such a long distance. It will undoubtedly be a challenge, but in my mind it is only a minor feat.

The older I get the more I understand and feel responsible about the importance of helping others. There is much to be done in the world and sometimes it feels hopeless. I’ve had friends recently return from places like Afghanistan, South Africa and other war torn areas such as Sudan and Somalia. Their selfless efforts make this walk seem like a drop in the vastest ocean.

One of my biggest faults is my inability to “just do it.” I spend time thinking, pondering, strategizing before I actually “take action.” And while in this preparation mode I usually wind up doing nothing. It’s something I am trying to overcome. Which is why this walk means a lot to me. Baby steps I suppose. One of my short-term goals is to dedicate a percentage of my life to volunteering. I’ve done some small services here and there but I have never made a regular commitment to one cause.

39 miles is a long way to go but it’s just a walk. There’s a lot of world left to cover after it’s over.

Thank you to everyone who has helped me support this cause so far! If you’re not doing anything on Saturday or Sunday come cheer the walkers on! We could use the motivation.

I wanted to share this motto. A friend recently sent it as encouragement. I think these are truly words to live by – “Pain is temporary, pride is forever!”

On The Streets of Manhattan...

You can spend hours wandering the streets of Manhattan and never grow bored. The aroma of roasted peanuts on one block and horse dung on the next. In only a minute’s stroll your view can change from the abundant foliage of Central Park to the mishmashed architecture of 5th Ave. And the people! Tourists with cameras as necklaces, heads raised high in awe at the tallest and brightest buildings. Ah yes, and the New Yorkers in the trendiest of trends, hands filled with bags, weaving in and out of sidewalk traffic. Spiderman, Batman, Superman and their nemeses all live and work here. Each day holds a surprise in the merry ol’ land of Gotham. And of course there’s always the thrilling celebrity sighting: out-of-town celebs are usually caught walking out of a private SoHo boutique, hidden behind sunglasses. The local celebrity can be spotted pushing a stroller or grabbing a coffee in the West Village.

On Sunday, I was subject to one of the most unexpected spectacles in these city streets…the ever elusive and often cunning visitor, known as Ex-Boyfriend. Yes, Ex-Boyfriend lurks anywhere at any time and though he may not dwell in New York, he will make seasonal migrations. He waits patiently for the most unsuspecting moment and without warning he will strike, outfitted with smug disregard. We hope to be prepared for such an attack, armed with our most flattering apparel, perhaps even a handsome man nearby for extra ammunition. But on the streets of Manhattan, one can never be prepared for the city’s mystic ways. After a long Sunday morning run through central park two friends and I were walking down 7th Ave. With my hair in a ponytail, brow moist, no make-up on, dawning an unassuming smile, I headed toward the Nike store on 5th ave. And right there in broad daylight, only a few blocks from my own home, I cross paths with him! This is not just any ex-boyfriend, it’s “THE Ex-Boyfriend.” The Ex of Exes (the ex that you don’t really want to run into but know you will eventually). It all happened within seconds. He walked past me as though he didn’t see me (As if! He saw me alright), hand-locked with a girl (poor thing) who noticed me noticing them as she craned her head around to get a good look at ME, the irreplaceable and charming Ex-Girlfriend ;-).

I will tell you dear readers, I have seen quite a few things on these streets. I’ve crossed paths with celebrities such as Ethan Hawke, Tyra Banks, Philip Seymour Hoffman and Jennifer Aniston. I’ve seen a parade of midgets, a man living in a sphere of water, a dancing cow-girl in the nude, a 12 man police chase…but yesterday’s sight had to be one of the strangest things I’ve seen so far. I mean, for goodness sake! He doesn’t even live here. Of all the streets in Manhattan, of all the patches of sidewalk, of all seconds of the day! We crossed at that very moment. After he disappeard my friends and I laughed in disbelief at what we just saw. A few minutes later the shock wore off and my friends asked me what I was thinking and I said, “That’s it? That was the face-off?” A year and a half in the making, on a random city street and I must say it was rather anti-climactic. But now that it’s all over I do feel a slight relief, to know that it’s safe out there once again, to wander my streets of Manhattan.

Home

"When a writer knows home in his heart, his heart must remain subtly apart from it. He must always be a stranger to the place he loves, and its people."
-William Morris

Today I heard Salman Rushdie, Don Delillo, Steve Martin, and others speak at the PEN World Voices literary festival. They read passages from their works, which spoke about home, or the “idea of home.” What is home, why do we leave, why do we long to return? How do we create a home and what happens when we lose it? In more ways than one it was poetic semblance, for I am currently wavering on my placement. I don’t know if I should go or stay. Go “home,” back to MD, working in DC, living at home with my parents. Or stay in New York, my new home, lavishing in gems of city life, living my life relatively independent of emotional strain. Is there a right or wrong decision? I don’t know, but I do know I need to decide in 4 days. I have been swollen with arduous thought and yet there is still so much to think about.

Tonight, as I listened to Rushdie recite words from “The Ground Beneath Her Feet” I felt a slight tug coming from within. Gentle at first, then nearly insolent, the tug was unrelenting. Rushdie continued with his eloquent and quirky dissertation on societal ideas of belonging. After all, he speculated, why do we desire to watch films and read books starring the wandering hero, the rebel, the seductress, the adventurer, the orphan, the robber, the drifter? Why do we constantly reinvent these people, these characters, if not because we want to live a little bit of their lives. He proposed what if kinship, citizenship, family, name, culture, religion, all of those things that make us feel we belong, what if all of that was a big scam? What if all we had was ourselves? I pondered the question and for a moment I thought it a revelation. But only for a moment, and then I found myself vehemently disagreeing with Salman The Great. There’s no scam in belonging or even returning. We return not because we are scared or because society has suckered us into some con that we are nothing without a group. No, that’s not it at all. We return merely because we’re in love. And still, we will find the courage to leave love because we know it’s there, always.

I’ve been afraid because I felt returning to Maryland meant I was going back to the same status I was at when I left. As if I were digressing, and everything I built in New York, everything I learned and found here would be useless. But that’s not the case; in fact it’s impossible. I simply need to be with those that I love and if I decide I need to return to where they are I’ll be OK with that. Sir Rushdie The Exiled has lived his life migrating from one place to another, banished from his country and like many of us can only hold onto the notion of home. But really home is just that, an idea. An evolving idea of what made us and who we are becoming. Which is something we can't quite escape, can we? Because ultimately it seems "home" resides in us.

Check out the readings and discussions all weekend:
www.pen.org/festival

Blessed

“You don't have to be a "person of influence" to be influential. In fact, the most influential people in my life are probably not even aware of the things they've taught me.”
-Scott Adams

As far as I know and for as long as I've been living the one thing I have true control over is myself; my perception, attitude and actions. There are times when we may lose this control for we are not perfect, but we all know ultimately the power of perspective lies in our own hands. And this perspective is what can make or break your world. During the hard times, the most painful and scrutinizing, perspective and attitude have saved me. But this has not been an easy standard to maintain and I certainly did not do it alone. If it weren't for my life's great influences I could easily have lost sight of the truth and what is in fact important: Toni Morrison, my 12th grade English teacher, dance, my first camera, Americorps kids, my grandparents, my Literary Theory professor, New York City, my first love, Salaam Bombay!, the radio, tape recorders and on and on. But perhaps the most powerful influence has been a group of 8 girls that I was blessed with 20 years ago. They continue to love me, inspire me, push me, criticize me, discipline me, pause with me, amuse me, wait for me and absolutely amaze me. No matter how much time passes they always seem to astound me with their patience, successes, courage and wisdom. One of these inspirational ladies has just returned from volunteering in South Africa. Since my life has been on a virtual hiatus I'd like to share a small piece of her journey with you, as this is just a typical example of events I am continually exposed to.


I met 14-year-old Sini last Tuesday and knew we would instantly become friends. She has one of those contagious smiles that makes you want to approach her and learn all about what lies beneath that great smile. As the days passed, I was introduced to her group of friends and the four of us started to have morning conversations about life, school, dance and art. Something I look forward to every morning.
Then, today, as I peeked into the window of the fabulous music class (as I often do), Sini ran up, handed me a letter and said, "I wrote this for you." The letter she wrote was so beautiful, I have decided to share it with all of you today. This letter resembles how amazing and brilliant these children are and I hope you enjoy it.

"My Friend, My Sister"
To me you're like a mother and a sister
You're like a success to my future
You're my band to my music
You're my wings to me as a bird
And my life interest

To me at first life was rude and cruel always
And now that I met you, to me life is friendly
And humble but it's depend on how you're treating it
I was in a darkness like a skeleton and you showed
me the light, you gave me hope, you gave me love, care and intelligence which i was supposed to be given

To me you're like a cure to my illness
You're a shelter to me as a human-being
You're a soul to my body
A power to my career
An addition to my understanding
A cement to me as a stone
And a traffic-cop to my way
Am i really blessed to find such a friend-teacher like you

London Calling

From
New York City - John F Kennedy Intl (JFK)
New York City, NY
Departs: 7:00 P.M.

To
London - Heathrow (LHR)
London, United Kingdom
Arrives: 10:00 A.M.

I leave for London tomorrow evening on a Boeing 777. This time last week I had no other plans other than job hunting and taking a writing class - until I received a call Thursday afternoon, "Baa had a heart attack" (Baa is a common Indian word for Grandmother). My Mother flew out this passed Friday night and before doing so she told me "I packed your white salwar kameez" (white is worn to Hindu funerals). I was surprised at this but it made me understand the reality of what I might be facing when I arrive.

London has always been my second home. My entire family, with the exception of a few relatives, reside in England. Since I was a year old I have been spending summers there surrounded by a slew of cousins, roughly twenty aunts and uncles and a set of grandparents. Mornings would always begin with tea and biscuits. And every night without a doubt would consist of a big feast, with singing and dancing or old stories about growing up in Uganda. This is the first time I'll be going to England, wondering if I might have to attend a funeral.

I called London this evening, I heard chatter and laughter on the other end. The house in Forestgate was filled, everyone still up, probably drinking chai and gossipping. I heard my grandmother is doing better and she is able to faintly communicate. I haven't been back since college graduation, nearly 5 years ago. Though sudden and potentially inauspicious, I am praying this trip will take a turn and become a memorable reunion under accidental circumstances.

Screening The Namesake

[Due to my help on The Namesake premiere back in November, at the IAAC Film Festival, the film's distributor, Fox Searchlight, kindly gave the IAAC volunteers several opportunities to screen the film well before the domestic opening. I had been waiting impatiently for over 3 months. Even cutting a trip short to be in town for the screening. Thank you to Fox Searchlight, it was well worth the wait.]

As I approached the Fox Entertainment building on 6th Avenue last month I realized I had not spoken with my Father or Mother in 4 days (one of the longest lengths of time I've gone without speaking to them since I'd been in New York). I began to reach for my phone and thought; do I really want to get into 20 questions right now? 'How come you haven't called?! Are you sleeping right? How is your health? Did you call London to speak to Ba? Are you wearing a hat in this weather? Did you email that boy I was telling you about?' My hand retracted from my bag and the sweet sentiment I had only seconds before was quickly subdued. I decided to hold off on calling home til later.

On the surface Jhumpa Lahiri's story is one of a Bengali couple immigrating to New York, but truly it is one of love and identity, one that anyone who has straddled two cultures can empathize with. With Mira Nair directing I felt even more of a kinship with this film. I have admired Nair for a long time - not only is she an Indian making films for an American audience but she is also a woman. When I saw Salaam Bombay! I was 9 years old. The film enlightened me in many ways. I was and still am an American girl, but in my heart I am firstly an Indian. So watching, for the first time, the lives of slum children in Mumbai, it was as though somebody uncovered the veil from my eyes. And it was around that time I realized it was possible for a girl of my ethnicity to one day express her own vision. With Lahiri and Nair working together I knew the result would be something very special, but I had no idea.

I entered a small theater that sat about twenty people. We were given packets before the screening that explained the anatomy of the film, along with bios on the cast. The lights soon dimmed and with no previews the opening credits appeared and Nitin Sawney's score filled the theater. Nearly an hour and a half later I soaked a handful of napkins and dampened my sleeve. I could say that this film is universal and will touch anyone from any background, and that would be true. But there is no denying the personal connection I felt, seeing faces with a color like mine, clothes like mine, parents with the same accents, the same nuances, the same religion and so forth. These are the things that gripped me because I had never before seen them in this way, on this grand scale. I saw my own family in those characters, only they weren't characters, they were quite real and they touched me very deeply.


The film is set in two locations, Calcutta and New York. It transitions back and forth several times which is a big risk as it can often distract the viewer. However, it is done seamlessly and successfully, never cheating either location of its beauty, grandeur and feeling of home. Bridges have strong symbolism, which Nair uses to transition and also to signify the intersection of both worlds. But the heart of the film is not in the location rather it is in the people, and it is the people that open our eyes to places we've known before, as if we're seeing it for the first time. Whether we see Indian immigrants coming to a cold and gray New York or American children seeing the magnificent Taj Mahal, we are always on a journey. The Namesake is about discovery, not only of one's own self and culture, but of those who we love the most. A family bond is an enigmatic treasure, as we have not chosen them and they have not chosen us. Just as our names, which we never choose but are given, we carry with us for the rest of our lives.

After I left the theater I walked around the city for a while. It was 9:30pm and a biting 16 degrees. I thought about the film and naturally my parents were also in my thoughts. What I saw was nothing I had not known before but it was a reminder, a reminder of where I'm from and how I came to be where I was at that very moment. I reached for my phone and selected 'home' under my list of contacts, "Rakhee, vy haven't you called? I don't know vhere you are, if you're safe or what. It sounds as though you are outside...arr you outside?? It's too late, it's not safe there in that city. Did you get a hat?..."

Highlights:

-The chemistry between Irfan Khan (Ashoke Ganguli) and Tabu (Ashima Ganguli) is amazing. Arranged marriage is a strange system to everyone including those involved. The commitment and eternal bond that develops in these relationships can be a mysterious dynamic but they are just as beautiful and romantic as any love story. Sometimes I find that the simple interactions such as eye contact or an embrace in the absence of sexual gestures, is much more sensual. Khan and Tabu truly convey a deep love.

-Nitin Sawney's score cradles the film throughout. Beautifully edited to the music the film picks up and grips us at moments of emotional impact. Sawney plays to the family saga with heartbreaking symphony and during the Calcutta montage he tickles our rhythmic taste buds with Indian infused drum and bass.

Lowlights:

-I didn't much care for Moushimi's character (Gogol's wife). Though in the book she was portrayed as an Americanized, non-Indian type woman I still wanted to see her "look" more Indian. Not with her clothes or voice or anything like that, just in her presence. I know girls like Moushimi, and though they do not retain much of their culture you still don't overlook the fact that they're Indian. Whether I was to sympathize with her or hate her the feeling was one of indifference. She did nothing for me.

The Namesake will open this Friday to audiences all around America. It will hit more theaters next Friday, March 16. Within the next few weeks there will be several Q&A sessions with Nair and Lahiri, along with other special events related to the film:

Wednesday, March 7, 7:30 p.m.
The Namesake With Mira Nair in person
At AMC Loews Lincoln Square
1998 Broadway at 68 St, Manhattan
$18 Public/$12 Museum Members.

Saturday, March 10, 2007 at 7:00 PM
MIRA NAIR & JHUMPA LAHIRI: A Dialogue
Celeste Bartos Forum LIVE from the NYPL books
$15 general admission SOLD OUT
(Tickets may become available. Sign up for standby starts at 5 pm at the box office).

Tuesday - Saturday, 10am - 6pm
"NAMESAKE / INSPIRATION" @ THE SEPIA GALLERY
An exhibit of photos that inspired director Mira Nair will run from March 9th to April 21st at SEPIA International/The ALKAZI Collection
Address: 148 West 24th Street. Sepia Gallery will be hosting an opening reception March 8th (6-8PM)

It's About Damn Time!

Last night, I arrived home after a draining 6 hour bus ride from Maryland to New York, just in time to catch my most anticipated Oscar categories: Best Actor, Best Actress, Best Direction, Best Editing, Best Documentary and of course, Best Picture.

All of the films I have been whole-heartedly rooting for received nods: The Departed, Pan’s Labyrinth and Little Miss Sunshine. Pan’s Labyrinth deservingly left with Best Foreign Picture. This timeless film unexpectedly captured my heart 2 months ago. During post Franco-Prussian war Spain, a 12 year-old girl is thrust into a life controlled by an evil military general. The young protagonist, Ofelia, takes her audience on a journey through two worlds, one of dark fantasy and one of harsh reality that even adults have trouble digesting. In both realms she is a true heroine and rekindles the brave and uninhibited child in all of us. The characters in this film are like nothing I’ve ever seen before, brilliantly imaginative and at times terrifying.

Though I am a shameless Leonardo DiCaprio groupie I was delighted to see Forest Whitaker take away the statuette for Best Actor. He played the ruthless Ugandan dictator, Idi Amin, in The Last King of Scotland (a role far from Whitaker’s normally modest and soft spoken personality). This film struck a personal chord with me being that my family is from Uganda and were products of Amin’s tyranny. Whitaker not only acquired the regional Ugandan accent with perfection, he also captured the childish and random manor in which Amin ruled, down to the sporadic twitches and severe mood swings. However, I feel the film itself lacked focus on the South Asian residents who played a significant role in Uganda’s prosperity at the time (but that’s discussion for another post).

I am a devoted Scorsese follower and watch his films with an analytical eye, identifying his trademark moves and admiring his unique story telling techniques. His portrayal of underworld violence and alternative American culture has revolutionized cinema and is quite possibly the reason I decided to major in film. So knowing that he has been nominated six times for Best Director and never received an Oscar, kept me on edge throughout the ceremony (he has been passed for such amazing films as Raging Bull and Taxi Driver). I literally leaped out of my seat and let out a loud whoop when they announced his name, “…and the goes to, Martin Scorsese!” Baffled and obviously overwhelmed, little ol’ Marty and his caterpillar eyebrows stepped up on stage, held that golden statue in his hands and in his usual awkward humor asked, “can you double check that envelop?” The audience roared with applause and after 30 years of directorial genius Marty gave his first ever Academy Award acceptance speech. My eyes actually welled up. At this point I was on a high and even if The Departed didn’t receive Best Picture, justice was served. A piece of me wanted Little Miss Sunshine to win, a low budget comedy about a dysfunctional family on the way to a child’s beauty pageant. But when they announced The Departed for Best Picture I couldn’t have been happier. The ensemble for this film was absolutely superb. Nicholson, DiCaprio, Damon, Whalberg and even Alec Baldwin drove this gritty modern day Irish mob film and turned it into a masterpiece. Originally adapted from the Japanese film Infernal Affairs (also worth checking out), The Departed creates an intricate web of deceit, mistaken identity, questionable loyalty, reinventing the relationship between good and evil (definitely going down as one of my all time favorites).

Party at 9:30!

This Friday night fellow P.G. County residents, The Dance Party, will grace the stage of the legendary 9:30 Club. This is the zenith of DC's music scene, people. To perform at the 9:30 Club is like an initiation into rock stardom. Acclaimed musicians such as The Smashing Pumpkins, The Go-Gos and Justin Timberlake have all made history after performing at DC's premiere music venue. So whereever you are, take a trip to The District this Friday night and come support the band.

Lemme tell ya, they're not called The Dance Party for nothin. Make it out and you will not be disappointed. Then, when The Dance Party hit it big time you can say you saw them way back when, at the 9:30 Club.

Official after-party at Chief Ike's in Adams Morgan! It's being thrown by the bloggers at diminished 7th (http://diminished7.evasource.net/). Bring your ticket stubs to get in for free. Cheap drinks!

Friday, February, 23 2007
9:30 Club is at 815 V St. NW, WASHINGTON, Washington DC 20001
Cost : $10
The Dance Party goes on at 9:30pm

For tickets go to www.930.com
Check the band out at www.thedanceparty.net
Listen to their music at www.myspace.com/thedanceparty

The Burden of Passion

"Most human beings today waste some 25 to 30 years of their lives before they break through the actual and conventional lies which surround them."

Isadora Duncan (1877-1927)

For over twenty years I watched my father drive to the same job, day after day, until he returned home at 11:15 pm. I would wait up for him to fit in 30-60 minutes of face time. He was not happy. If he could have been anywhere, doing anything, it would have been cooking or inhaling the outdoors. I watched my father get burnt out, imminently tired, stained with a perpetual frown. Though I would point this out to him, he never saw any way around it, “I have to make money to support the family, send you to school, pay bills.” He worked to live and lived to work. He retired a year ago and has been traveling and enjoying his freedom since. He claims now, after 40 years of working, is his chance for true happiness. We are alike in many ways, my Father and I, but not in this case. I could never wait.

When I told my father I was going to major in Film and English after High School graduation his eyes narrowed and jaw tightened. He didn’t have to say anything, I knew what he was thinking—just by being his daughter, ‘we become doctors, engineers, businessmen. Why do you have to be different? Why can’t you just choose one of those professions?!’ As a first-generation South Asian woman, I was up against centuries of educational building blocks and a sea of judgment.

The first and most predictable argument is money, “How will you support yourself?” Most parents, especially those not native to America, relentlessly push security and consistency. Literature, film and dance; none of which are in-line with those standards, just happen to be my passions. Society has conned us into believing they are phases for the “dreamers” and the less scholarly. Somewhere, somehow, I gained the perspective that if you love something enough it will transpire into something beneficial, regardless of how unconventional it is.

In time I was able to prove myself, I won my Father’s support and today, I produce documentaries for major networks. Not exactly my 14-year-old, wide-eyed fantasy, but I am certainly on the fruitful path to bigger dreams.

I truly believe we are each blessed with a gift that translates into our passions, and it's up to us to share that gift. Someone recently told me that this gift is a burden, which is the obligation to exercise it and not abuse or denigrate it. I like to think I’m still discovering this gift of mine and perhaps, along the way, I can create something that will touch or influence you in a bigger way, and that makes me a happy girl.

Sexy, Sexy

A Chinese, an Indian, another Indian and a half Mexican-half white guy walk into bar…

That’s pretty much what you’ll see at The Annex this Thursday, otherwise known as The Joseph King Trio (and yes, you counted right, there will be four members as opposed to three, which make a trio. But I guess The Joseph King Quartet didn’t sound as cool). Flavors of the world unite to make, what I like to call, sexy music. When I try to explain what they sound like I usually say, “It’s sort of a Ska-Rock-Folk sound…oh, and it’s sexy. Very sexy.”

Lead singer Joseph King makes every girl in the room blush with his lustful lyrics, sultry voice and tousled locks. And if you want to get up close and personal with a kick-ass drummer, don’t miss Alex Wong. His solo set will have you banging on the tables. The bassist, as cool a bassist there ever was, is my personal favorite. He might be a badass mofo on stage but offstage he’s just a loveable guy with good taste in clothes (sorry Mr. Jain!). Lastly, Mo, the latest addition and second brown guy to join. Though I have not seen him play, I have had the pleasure of hanging out with him. If he can play half as well as he can drink, well then, we’re in for a fantastic show!

Bottom line, check these guys out. You will not be disappointed. I’ll be the brown groupie in front, Killians in hand, howling and whistling.

WHEN: Thursday, January 25, 2007 @ 10:30pm
WHERE: The Annex 152 Orchard St. (between Stanton & Rivington) - $6 cover
www.myspace.com/josephkingmusic

Apple Killed The Video Star

OK, video was knocked out by DVDs some time ago, but I thought the title had a nice ring to it. Most of us are familiar with the catchy yet obnoxious 80s tune, “Video Killed the Radio Star” which launched one of popular culture’s most iconic turning points, MTV. The thought was that Music Television would bring you the marriage between music and moving image right into your home, giving birth to the music video -- so who would need the radio? 20 years later radio is still king of the airwaves and MTV is most certainly the god of anything music related on television. But what the MTV patriarchs did not anticipate is the colossal advancement in the 21st century.

On Monday, Steve Jobs, CEO and co-founder of Apple, unveiled the latest superstars; their very own mobile phone and what we will all learn to not live without, Apple TV. As we all know Mac is no timid freshman in the school of technology. It’s the quarterback, head cheerleader and valedictorian wrapped into one. Apple TV will be for video and film what iTunes was for music. One compact and concise unit to house all of your media, eliminating clunky discs – so, ultimately you can view everything on your big ol’ plasma while you sit on your ass. No trips to Blockbuster, not even a walk to your mailbox to pick up the latest Netflix package. All of those videos, television shows and films you downloaded to your iPod or computer can now be streamlined directly to your TV so you can watch it big and bold right in your living room. Of course, like any other initial product, it will take Apple TV and its competitors some time to warm up to consumers and prove its relevance in home entertainment.

Not impressed? You will be. Perhaps you're thinking like one of those non-cable-owning dudes from 1980 who were in denial until 1990 when they finally caved and joined the rest of the world, ‘what is this strange box? I can do without it. But why does everyone else who has it look happier than me?’ ‘Because it makes life easier and more fun A-hole,’ says the happy guy with cable/Apple TV. Don’t worry, you’ll catch on soon enough.

[My only concern with this shift is the quality of resolution. Will downloaded material be as good as a DVD? What about HD, can you even download it? If anyone can shed light on this please do.]

Falling In Love

The beauty of it is you never see it coming. It gives no warning and heeds no uncertainties. Love perches upon our minds and sends tingles to our face forcing uncontrollable smiles. And then it envelops you – so no matter where you turn all you see is love.

I pass it everyday in the projects that border my apartment building. I hear it in the homeless man’s chant on 9th and 56th Street. I taste it in my milky morning coffee from Amy’s Bread. I catch glimpses of it in the glittered high rises at 7pm. I feel it in the scoop neck dress from a Soho boutique. It hums from the street as the cars beat over pot-holed pavement. It pours from the roaring 1 train headed to the Union Square market. It dances around me in the shuffle of the East Village at 3am. It shines from the lights and hustle of Midtown. It peaks out at me from the hundreds of strange eyes I pass everyday. This, my friends, is falling in love.

People say New York makes you meaner, colder. I was afraid that this might be true until recently. You see, I had forgotten what it was like to be in love. I was beginning to think that I no longer had it in me. I’d be the last to admit that living in New York is a struggle -- but it is. There is a certain unexpected disconnect one experiences when first living here. In a city with so many different people and so much amusement, it makes it difficult to develop substantial personal relationships with people. But when you discover those relationships and when you find your place here, life becomes much more rich than you expected. I’m in love with all that is here in New York and it just took me some time away to realize it.

I'm Alive...

...and well. In fact, I'm very well. I know it's been quiet on here. I've been reminded many times by my dear readers and friends. It'll pick back up soon...very soon. Thanks to those who inquired about the lull. It means a lot to know that people actually read this thing. When I write next I'll be 26 years-old! I thought I'd be bummed about officially being in my late 20s, but honestly, I am pretty anxious. I've heard good things about 26. Not only that but I am quite curious to see what 2007 will throw my way. 2006 was full of adventure, discovery, new faces and just plain fun. I anticipate the following year to only continue in the same direction.

I am out of New York for the moment, at home in the good ol' suburbs of Maryland, making my rounds with all of my loved ones. I sit here in my Auchtung Baby t-shirt, at the computer in the house I've lived in since I was born. My parents asleep upstairs. My adolescent bedroom, with the same Bob Marley poster I've had up for 10 years, awaits my sleepy head.

Enough of my late night rant -- Be safe and have a Happy New Year. May you not stand in any long lines and overpay for an open bar. May the night keep you close to those you care for, but if you are far away I hope it is only in body and not in heart.

We will open the book. Its pages are blank. We are going to put words on them ourselves. The book is called Opportunity and its first chapter is New Year's Day.

~Edith Lovejoy Pierce

Existential Eulogy

Yesterday, something was lost. A young man’s life. At 26 years-old, he was studying to be a surgeon at Duke University’s medical school. He was handsome. A wide, white smile that struck me the first time I saw it. He was happy. So much so that even after my sullen retorts during one of his coaxed debates he always persisted, happily and unoffended. He was a regular reader of my blog and often asked me to “write more! I love reading your stuff.” And though I failed to reciprocate, he never ceased to encourage me. I realized too late how uncommon it is to meet people like him these days. He was kind and joyful and respectful and unafraid to say exactly what was on his mind. He had no qualms with telling me I intrigued him in one sentence and then calling me a hypocrite in the next.

All the traits I complain I don’t find in people anymore, especially in this city, he possessed. And the funny thing is, I barely knew him. It would be strange to even call him a friend in fact. What we had was a beginning, a dialogue. I lazily let that fade out as I often do these days. I don’t maintain new relationships/friendships because I am skeptical. But he openly vowed to prove me wrong. He could’ve been a great friend and I truly regret not letting it unfold.

The details of his death are uncertain and I have no interest in posting them here. I feel for his family, who he expressed on many occasions, he was very close with. The elder of two siblings, he spoke of them like prizes, which he treasured and protected. His parents, God bless them during this time. I cannot imagine losing a son, especially one with so much heart and potential.

I am presently a walking cliché. At a period in my life where I have already taken a step back to make reassessments, this event has gently intensified the process. So, while I am willing to be trite let me remind you of the obvious bc we too often disregard it: Life is too goddamn short to waste on deceit, selfishness and all of the other things that make the world ugly. There is abounding beauty to be uncovered, if only we allow ourselves to see it. Please, be kind, be true, and tell whomever you need to tell, tell them now and tell them exactly why you love them.

Love,

Rakhee

Metamorphosis of a New Yorker

Freedom

"Freedom is that instant between when someone tells you to do something and when you decide how to respond."
~Dr. Jeffrey Borenstein

It took me a long time and most of the world to learn what I know about love and fate and the choices we make, but the heart of it came to me in an instant, while I was chained to a wall and being tortured. I realised, somehow, through the screaming in my mind, that even in that shackled, bloody helplessness, I was still free: free to hate the men who were torturing me, or to forgive them. It doesn't sound like much, I know. But in the flinch and bite of the chain, when it's all you've got, that freedom is a universe of possibility. And the choice you make, between hating and forgiving, can become the story of your life.

-Linbaba, "Shantaram"

We Have The Facts And We're Voting Yes

I thought this title appropriate for Election Day even though this post has nothing to do with voting. Rather, it is about my favorite band - Who, by the way, I will be seeing tomorrow at the Theater at Madison Square Garden! The post title is the name of Death Cab For Cutie's 2000 album release, which I have been wearing out the most these past few months.

Death Cab For Cutie: the indie band gone mainstream. Popular amongst emo-hipsters and suburbanites alike. Just a year ago they signed onto a major record label but have been killing the indie circuit since 1998. I remember receiving a mixed tape sophomore year of college given to me by a mousy young man named Ryan (my first run-in with an emo boy). He exposed me to artists that I adore the most today: Elliot Smith, Nick Drake, Bright Eyes and of course, Death Cab. I listened to "Photo Booth" and from there my love grew...

Just when I thought music was on the fast track to Pop Hell, Transatlanticism (2003) was released and changed my life. It struck me like no other album had in a long time and introduced me to related groups like The Postal Service and DNTEL (other DCFC projects).


At first listen Ben Gibbard's voice seemed too fragile interwoven with the intense melodies and bloated lyrics. But I soon realized it is altogether perfection. Their songs, often about love and loss, are full of unconventional paradoxes, unexpected personification, awkward imagery and beautiful condescension. Using a glove compartment to express regret (listen to Title and Registration) or a hospital waiting room as a vehicle for guilt (What Sarah Said) or disposable dishes to signify rejection and disservice (Styrofoam Plates). With the most unlikely analogies Death Cab shows us the logic within the most irrational of situations.

We Laugh Indoors might be my all time favorite. However, Company Calls Epilogue is currently getting the most play (I'm not sure what it's about, but it sounds damn good):

Synapse to synapse: the possibility's thin.
I'm dressed up for free drinks and family greetings
on your wedding, your wedding, your wedding date.
The figures in plastic on the wedding cake that I took were so real.

And I kept distance: the complications cloud
the postcards and blip through fiberoptics,
as the girls with pigtails were running from little boys wearing bowties
their parents bought them: "I'll catch you this time!"

Crashing through the parlor doors, what was your first reaction?
Screaming, drunk, disorderly: I'll tell you mine.
You were the one, but I can't spit it out when the date's been set.
The white routine to be ingested inaccurately.

Synapse to synapse: the sneaky kids had attached
beer cans to the bumper so they could drive
up and down the main drag.
People would turn to see who's making the racket.
It's not the first time.

When they lay down the fish will swim upstream
and I'll contest, but they won't listen
when the casualty rate's near 100%,
and there isn't a pension for second best or for hardly moving...

Crashing through the parlor doors, what was your first reaction?
Screaming, drunk, disorderly: I'll tell you mine.
You were the one, but I can't spit it out when the date's been set.
The white routine to be ingested inaccurately.

You were the one, but I can't spit it out when the date's been set.
The white routine to be ingested inaccurately.

Absence Makes The Heart Grow Fonder?

Hello Friends and Foes,

My absence has not been in vain, I promise that much. In fact, I have too much to write about and no time to do it! Between working, volunteering at the film festival, attending the after parties, Halloween, birthdays and dancing to 80s music, this week has been one to remember. Oh, but it's not over yet...next week's line up isn't lookin' too shabby either. Monday: Film screening. Tuesday: Dinner. Wednesday: Death Cab For Cutie concert (so psyched)! Thursday: visit from a ex and longtime friend. Friday: Sister and Bro-in-law come into town. Saturday: party, party, party. Anyone have suggestions for energy boosters? Seriously.

I arrived home around 10:30pm this Sunday night having left the IAAC Film Festival's closing night party at The Asia society on Park Ave. The Film Festival was a success in every way. I have much to report but right now I am going to put all my clothes in a pile on the couch, slip on flannel pajama bottoms and lay my head down on this chocolate colored pillow. I haven't felt this tired in quite a while - but the difference is, it's a good tired. An accomplished tired.

Sweet Dreams...

The 21st Century Dating Game: My Perspective

**I’m excited about this subject because I have recently started a dialogue with several groups of people living and working in cities, all from different backgrounds. I’ve heard so many interesting opinions that I’d like to start a short series of various sub-topics on the new age of dating. I plan on exploring the condition of Endless Options, fear of rejection, escapism in the city, restraints of career and more taboo subjects that will hopefully cause you to be a bit uncomfortable and strike up discussion. Keep your eyes peeled for some fun posts and please don’t hold back on comments and suggestions ☺**

I had a conversation with a few ladies the other night while we were pre-drinking at a friend’s apartment in Chelsea. Lips glossed, hair straightened, heels strapped and waists belted -we discussed dating and hooking up in the city. “How many guys have you dated here?” asked the curvaceous marketing rep. They were shocked when I revealed a modest number – and even I began to question my deficient dating rate at their reaction. The 29-year-old banker divulged her record and inability to avoid dates, “When I first moved here I went on dates every week! There are just so many men in this city.” The next day I began thinking, ‘why is it so strange that I don’t date regularly?’ And ‘what is the deal with serial daters?’

The sociology of dating in New York City could be analyzed forever. Why so many young professionals remain single in a city full of beautiful, intelligent, successful and talented individuals is perplexing. I’ve dipped my toes in New York’s dating pool but I have yet to earnestly jump in. My reluctance is not due to lack of options. And opportunities have certainly arisen, but having been here a year now I can say I at least learned one thing about myself: I have no interest in dating multiple men. In fact the idea of dating in general is unappealing to me. What happened to friendships blossoming into something special? I know so many guys that don’t want to fall into the “friend zone,” but isn’t that what relationships are based on? And what’s with all the pressure? I've experienced an insurgence of individuals wanting immediate gratification. A man meets a woman (or vice versa) and after two dates it seems he needs to know immediately if she is wholly interested. And instead of taking some time to explore a little he flees. Slow and steady wins the race people, remember? We claim to be laid back and carefree, but really we have more rules than our parents did when searching for a mate.

Most people probably view my stance as shrewd or sullen because I don’t give ‘Mr. Blazer-wearing-bottle-service’ my number, they might even call me a snob. The truth is it has nothing to do with him – I’m just a romantic and so I expect a knock-me-on-my-ass encounter with someone who will make me feel (for lack of a better word) special. And not like the third girl he asked out that week. You might wonder, if I don’t give a guy a chance how will they make me feel special? I don’t have an answer – except for when there’s a will there’s a way. I mean, c’mon, what happened to chivalry, courtship and the things that love songs are made of? Are we to never again see the likes of John Cusack with a boombox over his head blaring "In Your Eyes"? These are relics of a time long gone I’m afraid...

The Good, The Sad and The Solo

“The Good” John Mayer
Acoustic Pop’s all-American golden boy has finally graced us with his junior album, Continuum. Perhaps at the pinnacle of his career, with his mature gaze, grown out shag and bombshell-powerhouse for a girlfriend (Jessica Simpson), Mayer is quite possibly the most commercial Folk-Blues singer in the last decade. If I had never heard Mayer’s perfectly executed all-acoustic “Inside Wants Out” I may never have found the time or respect for his music. His latest single, “Waiting For The World to Change” is not quite the organic sound I grew fond of, but unlike many pop singers, Mayer reassures us of his fundamental talent with a classic blues/R&B breakdown mid-song. As usual his big heart is in the right place, which is what makes Mayer so endearing and appealing:
It's not that we don't care, /We just know that the fight ain't fair/So we keep on waiting/Waiting on the world to change
Besides, with songs like, “I Don't Trust Myself (With Loving You)” and “I'm Gonna Find Another You” who could ever resist this baby faced-boy and his guitar? B+

“The Sad” Keane
The release of Under The Iron Sea was much anticipated since the hugely unexpected success of 2005’s Hopes and Fears. Though certainly up to par with their first release, with Iron Sea however, I encountered a much darker milieu, hence “The Sad.” Impossibly hopeless with very little room for recovery, Iron Sea feels like you’re appropriately drowning in an ocean of loss and heartache. The opening track, Atlantic, is the prelude to an album that crescendos like a epic novel. Comprised mostly of passionately based piano ballads, lead singer, Tom Chaplin’s voice painfully exudes regret and self-pity:
I wake up, it's a bad dream/No one on my side/I was fighting/But I just feel too tired/To be fighting/Guess I'm not the fighting kind/Wouldn't mind it/If you were by my side/But you're long gone/Yeah you're long gone now
I suppose Mr. Chaplin’s recent tango with drug addiction and rehab could have contributed to this beautifully miserable album. My favorites are, “Nothing In My Way” and “Hamburg Song.” A-


“The Solo” Thom Yorke
The Eraser is the solo debut from self-owned creepster, Radiohead frontman, Thom Yorke. He has successfully replicated the creative disorder of a classic Radiohead album, without being their derivative. You see, Radiohead is like a fine cognac: it gets better with age and it’s an acquired preference, but only by distinguished tongues (yes, this is me being a music snob).

Yorke's creations are the Frankenstein of music if there ever was one. Within this digital masterpiece the only recognizable core instrument might just be the piano (which is most beautifully displayed at the close of the track Cymbal Rush). He uses varied tempos simultaneously, wrecklessly improvises with hums, moans and of course, his signature falsetto. My favorite track is "Black Swan." The opening beats sound much more like the layout for a rap song, weaving synth loops with a classic hip hop beat. I think this could be my new Fall soundtrack; perfect for a gray day. A+
(also watch out for bandmate Jonny Greenwood's Bodysong soundtrack).

The Science of Sleep

Did you ever see that Chemical Brothers video, Star Guitar? Where the point of view is as if you’re sitting on a train, traveling somewhere in Europe, and as you look out the window, the pace of every building and landmark you pass miraculously hits each beat in the song? Or the White Stripes' video, Fell in Love With a Girl, that’s all in Lego-animation? Or any number of Bjork’s distinctive storybook/sci-fi videos? All of these concepts come from the brilliant and slightly insane mind of Michel Gondry. The same cinematic genius that brought the nearly unimaginable story of Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind to the screen and entertained us with Dave Chapelle’s Block Party. He's done it again with his new film and first screenplay, The Science of Sleep.

Created in the same vein as Eternal Sunshine, Science of Sleep is another setting where Gondry collides reality with fantasy, forcing viewers to step into an ulterior world. We are taken on a journey through the dreams of Gael Garcia Bernal's (yum) character, Stephane -- a pleasant but not so mentally stable young innovator, who Gondry loosely based on himself.

Science, I can say with certainty, will be like nothing you've ever experienced before. I know many of you enjoy your standard cookie cutter film with all the basic elements in place: beginning, conflict, climax, conclusion. I do not know if Science will meet this criteria, but I promise that, even if you hate it, you will be thinking about this film days after you leave the theater, possibly even weeks. It'll have you taking your dreams more seriously and questioning how each of us perceives our "reality." Let go for a few hours, reach back into your brain and remember what it was like to imagine anything at anytime; when running through the park was like trekking through a safari and eating fruit roll-ups for dinner was perfectly acceptable.

Gondry is one of my greatest inspirations. His work is unique, memorable and he is fearless in his storytelling decisions. Visually, he continues to break the mold and set new standards with his music videos, commercials and films. I have three people on my list that I want to work for/with before I die and he's one of them. So, Michel, if you're reading this, I will be your student if you'll teach me.

The Science of Sleep is opening in theaters tomorrow, September 22.

For a more realistic experience of dreams (oxymoron, I know) check out: The Science of Sleep: An exhibition of sculpture and pathological creepy little gifts, from Sept 6 - 30 at Deitch Projects located on 76 Grand Street in New York City. "The exhibition allows you to immerse yourself in the sculptural experience of the movie in three dimensions. The sets are listed as 'recreations,' and include 'a bedroom, office, TV station, cave, and creepy little gift room. This pink heart-like room will contain the creepy gifts that Gondry makes for his muses, like the gifts the protagonist, Stephane, makes for Stephanie in the movie."

http://wip.warnerbros.com/scienceofsleep/
http://www.directorslabel.com/michel_gondry.html
http://www.howdoyoudream.com

Death is the Mother of Beauty

I read the above phrase in a poetry class freshman year of college. I thought it presumably melodramatic at the time, until I realized how true it was. You see, I am what one might call the anti-poet. I enjoy lucid language but I find at times much of poetry is just a veil for what people really need to say and I have little patience for that. More often than not, I just say/write what I mean. Literature will always be interpreted by the reader, no matter the genre. We all have internal dictionaries and we certainly resort to selective perception. Which is why literaries have, for centuries, praised poetry. It presses you to think, penetrating your mind, poking at braincells that were otherwise inactive, instead of spoon feeding the idea. However, for a very longtime (and often still) I felt an aversion toward poetry -- I had no desire to take someone's work, who obviously had a very strong point to make, and take it for myself any way I wanted. We've been told that poetry is a form where the reader has the freedom to translate for themselves. But that's a lie, isn't it? There is a correct way to read a poem. To understand why the writer made the choices he/she made. Why that rhythm? why that word? why that tone? The writer had an intention, they had a goal in mind when creating a piece of work. Yet, we take it, like we do any lyric, and create a world we can relate to, don't we?

Death is the Mother of Beauty, I read at eighteen years of age. It just made sense to me and I trusted it. This was the first 'thing' I was able to understand without being told what to think. It wasn't so abstract once I figured it out and now these words stay with me. No, I still have not grown a fondness for poetry (not the way I have for literature). On occasion I will pick up a book of collective poems and attempt to build my taste -- there are very few works that appeal to my senses. I'm hoping that my understanding and admiration of poetry will be something to cultivate in the future. But for now just tell me the way it is, don't give me any frills. Maybe we are what we read.

I'd be curious to learn what others feel about the phrase at hand.

Are You Having Trouble Sleeping?

Try Rakhee's Sleepy Time Playlist! These serene sounds will lull you to a dreamy plain and subdue ill-wanted stimuli. (Depending upon seriousness of insomnia this list can be supplemented with 1 glass warm milk and 1 chocolate chip cookie, taken before bed):

• Le Moulin, Amelie Soundtrack
• Sentimental Mood, by Duke Ellington
• Bombay Theme, Bombay Soundtrack
• Life in Mono, by Mono from Great Expectations Soundtrack
• The Build-up, by Kings of Convenience
• Misread, by Kings of Convenience
• Come Away With Me, by Nora Jones
• Bulletproof, by Radiohead
• Waiting Line, by Zero 7
• Sparks, by Coldplay
• See You Soon, by Coldplay (b-sides)
• Brothers on a Hotel Bed, by Death Cab For Cutie
• Company Calls Epilogue, by Death Cab For Cutie
• An Imagined Affair, by Elbow
• Such Great Heights, by Iron and Wine
• Tongue Tied, by Aqualung
• Neon, by John Mayer (acoustic)
• Pink Moon, by Nick Drake
• On a Day Like Today, by Keane
• Hamburg Song, by Keane
• Farewell and Goodnight, by The Smashing Pumpkins
• Mermaid, by Sade

And if tonight my soul may find her peace
in sleep, and sink in good oblivion,
and in the morning wake like a new-opened flower
then I have been dipped again in God, and new-created.

~D.H. Lawrence

Famous Last Words

Imagine: You lay there, on your deathbed, surrounded by loved ones and right before you exhale your last breath you utter your last words, memorializing you forever to your children, and your children's children. This is of course if you have the good fortune of dying a slow, well thought out death. *snicker* But if you happen to get hit by a bus or fall out of a window, and die instantly...well then, your last words (or yelp rather) will not be that memorable.

In any case, here is a fun list of some famous last words that I found quite entertaining and interesting -- some are funny, others tragic and terribly romantic.

"This is absurd. This is absurd".
~Sigmund Freud (last words)

"Don't let it end like this. Tell them I said something."
~last words of Pancho Villa (1877-1923)

"Now, now my good man, this is no time for making enemies."
~Voltaire (1694-1778) on his deathbed in response to a priest asking that he renounce Satan.

"Either the wallpaper goes or I do."
~Oscar Wilde, last words (1854-1900)

"Get out of here and leave me alone. Last words are for fools who haven't said enough already."
~Karl Marx, last words, 1883

"Get my swan costume ready."
~Anna Pavlova, ballerina, 1881-1931

"All right, then, I'll say it: Dante makes me sick."
~Lope Félix de Vega Carpio (1562-1635), Spanish dramatist and poet. On being informed he was about to die.

"Josephine..."
~Napoleon Bonaparte (1769-1821).

"Call the office and tell them I won't be in on Monday."
~Betty Allen, who worked until her death at 93.

"Friends applaud, the comedy is over."
~Beethoven, Ludwig van (1770-1827)

"You too, Brutus?"
~Caesar, Julius Gaius (100-44 B.C.)

"Nothing, but death."
~Jane Austen, writer, d. July 18, 1817 When asked by her sister, Cassandra, if there was anything she wanted.

"I love you Sarah. For all eternity, I love you."
~James K. Polk, US President, d. 1849 Spoken to his wife.

"La tristesse durera toujours." ("The sadness shall last forever")
~Vincent van Gogh

"Drink to me."
~Pablo Picasso

"Am I dying or is this my birthday?""
~Lady Nancy Astor, d. 1964 When she woke briefly during her last illness and found all her family around her bedside.

"Damme cafe, vou escrever!" (Give me coffee, I am going to write)
~Olavo Bilac, Brazilian poet

I've always been a big fan of quotes. Mostly because I like how a simple sentence can sum up such profound moments in life. Quotes can be comforting, inspiring, moving or they can just make you laugh-- they can say the right thing when nobody you know can. Just like a song or a great novel, one little quote can speak volumes and stay with you as a pillar forever.

What would YOUR last words be? (As if dying weren't pressure enough!)

Hotel 3F

For all of you aspiring New Yorkers, understand one thing, your home -- whether it be a spacious loft or a 9x10 studio, where the kitchen sink doubles as a shower -- will become a virtual hotel room. Nearly every weekend since I've lived here my roommate and I have hosted visitors. Weekends free of plans or obligations have become somewhat of a dying breed these days. But you know what? I've come to realize that I love it! It's true, I do -- I love my apartment packed with people, suitcases filling each corner, waiting in line for the shower, cleaning up after those damn scavengers I call friends, laughing til 5am, tossing in bed next to "Snory McSnorerson" (you know who you are)! And I've also come to realize that I find joy out of showing people a good time. It's a great feeling to know that the weekend was a success and that my guests had a blast.

Why is this worth writing about you might be wondering. Well, coming from a girl who used to enjoy most of her time alone, this is quite an interesting analysis. Could it be New York has turned me into more of a social person or perhaps I've just come to miss and appreciate my friends and family more? And seeing them is a bigger treat than it ever used to be?

I do appreciate those rare weekends where I have no plans, nobody to answer to, no reason to wake up early on a Saturday -- As a matter of fact, I think this weekend is one of those rare weekends...hmmmm...What on earth will I do with myself? *sigh*

Rooftop Ritual

"The real fever of love for the place will begin to take hold upon him. The subtle, insidious wine of New York will begin to intoxicate him. Then, if he is wise, he will go away, any place-yes, he will even go over to Jersey. But if he be a fool, he will stay and stay on until the town becomes all in all to him; until the very streets are his chums and certain buildings and corners his best friends. Then he is hopeless, and to live elsewhere would be death. The Bowery will be his romance, Broadway his lyric, and the Park his pastoral, the river and the glory of it all his epic, and he will look down pityingly on all the rest of humanity."

-Paul Laurence Dunbar
From Richard J. Powell et al, Rhapsodies in Black: Art of the Harlem Renaissance

Everyday, for 3 weeks, I have been looking forward to one particular moment in my day.

I leave work approximately at 6:30, sometimes 7. I walk 20 blocks north, up 3 flights of stairs and into my apartment. I pour myself a glass of wine (last week it was Riesling, this week Cabernet Sauvignon). I then walk up 4 more flights. The stairwell is hot, but I prefer it to the elevator. I like being a little out of breath when I reach my destination. I open the door to the outside and immediately take a mouthful of air. It soothes my slightly suffocated chest. The rooftop is covered with hardened tar and concrete. I arrive just in time to catch remnants of the sun, it cascades colors over and around Manhattan’s jutting structures. The highrises tower over my little 9-story rooftop. I climb up on the ledge, set my wine glass down and take a deep breath. I look all around me. I see the BMW building to the South. Next to it an American flag waves atop a construction site for yet another waterside, luxury condominium. I look west and imagine I can see straight through the building to the Hudson River. I look up and watch planes ascend further into the sky, leaving JFK or LaGuardia. Where are they going? Bangkok, London, Paris, Dubai? I glance downward. I peak. I peak into windows, sometimes. I see legs walking around, laying down, watching reruns of Friends or the evening news (there is something comforting in observing the details of such prosaic deeds).

I think of so many things up there on that rooftop, but mostly I find a brief moment of pristine clarity. Not another soul. Just Me, my glass of Chilean Cab and the City.

I take this moment in, almost everyday, for the past 3 weeks. I recognize where I am and remind myself how amazing it is that I am able to, at any time, have this view. This view of one of the greatest cities in the world, where, for now, I live day to day.

How easy it is to forget.

The Unbearable Lightness of Being - Part I

"What then shall we choose? Weight or lightness?" Kundera poses this question at the beginning of his novel, The Unbearable Lightness of Being.

I’ve been reading it for months now. Stopping at passages, re-reading, dissecting words, trying to understand the encroached philosophies. It begins with Nietzsche’s concept of Eternal Return. The idea that our lives occur over and over again, no escape. Raised in a Hindu home, I’ve been taught that the universe is a cycle and I believe it to be so. Even within our individual lives how often do we truly learn from our mistakes? Patterns exist for a reason. Nature is probably our greatest example, Birth and Death… it will go on forever. This is what is referred to as weight. Life is full of weight. Yet Kundera challenges this and presents us with lightness vs. weight. "What then shall we choose? Weight or lightness?"

I believe one cannot exist without the other, and we each possess either quality. Society would describe men as light. Free of insatiable strain, easily detached. Women will bear weight. Emotionally staunch and overly analytical. However, this is not an absolute paradigm. Kundera’s character Sabina (who I deeply admire and, at my most affected moments, aspire to be) is an extreme example of lightness. She will not be held down by family, love, sex or guilt. I have seen her in certain people in my own life, both women and men. I have also met the character of Tereza in many faces. She is the epitome of weight. Constantly agonizing over her existence. A woman who cannot find her sanity because she struggles with her husbands infidelities (why she didn’t just leave his ass, I have no idea).

For me, this year has been full of release. I was freed of burdens I had no clue were holding me down, until they were gone. A shift took place and I began to embrace lightness. Recently, I allowed myself to connect with someone again. Each day we spoke, we took pleasure in the unknown, and I began to feel lighter. It was swift and potentially volatile. Neither of us held back. And as quickly as it began, it was over. Disheartening? Yes. But from that I realized I am now able to sustain my lightness. I am able to remain relatively unaffected. A year ago I may have tormented myself with the “whys and why nots.” I would be lying if I said I have not asked those questions again – but it is not heavy.

"What then shall we choose? Weight or lightness?" It seems to me that it is not much of a choice, but it is in our nature whether we are heavy or light. Though, in recent times I have acquired a lightness, I am not Sabina. I am innately a woman of weight. I will always love too much, seek more than I should and I will never be able to accept the irreverent ways of man. For now I will float and enjoy my light presence, because I know, as nature would have it, I will return from whence I came.

(Sorry if this post was a little heavy. No pun intended ;-)

Is A Picture Worth A Thousand Words?

I have found myself in a curious situation. A picture was passed through hands and ended up somewhere in California as a topic of conversation between two Mothers (neither of which was my own). Ultimately, it caused a gentleman living across the country, to contact me. Whether it was he or his Mother that motivated this gesture is still unclear, nevertheless, the lines of communication are open.

A few days earlier, a good friend called to inform me that "California" would be getting in touch. My first thought was "this guy wants to talk to me based off of a picture? How superficial." I was judging him for judging me (even if it was in a positive way). I thought, if he is contacting me solely from a picture, what does that say about him? Might he be materialistic or arrogant? Isn't it only appropriate to meet someone first, before you think of dating them? Afterall, personality and body language play a big role in deciding who you want to date. How could that possibly be determined when 3,000 miles apart??

Then came his email. When I read a grammatical error my eyebrow raised just a tinge. There I was, judging him, just the same. Not off of appearance, but grammar! After several emails his words began to shape him. It turns out he is able to write and express himself much better than most. The first impression was hardly reflective of who he is. Next, I was able to put a face to the words, then a voice. It is all coming together like a little puzzle: words, messages, pictures, intonation. I was surprised when I found myself sincerely intrigued. I realized then, due to past romantic infections, that I am quick to judge these days.

Maybe he just saw a picture of a girl and felt compelled. So instead of passing judgment, I should just tell my impervious mind to shut up and get to know him. And so I have.

When I ask him "why" he would even think of potentially pursuing someone across the country, he says, "Why not? You never know." He tends to respond to my questions with another question. I haven't decided whether that's acceptable or not, but I'm having fun trying to figure it out.

Calling All Hopeless Romantics

This Wednesday evening, let us hear the heart wrenching bellows of two of music’s finest singer-songwriters, Miss Fiona Apple and Damien Rice. The event will grace the lush grounds of Central Park’s Summer Stage before twilight and will elate us well after the sun goes down. We will lay barefoot in the dewy grass, watch the colors change in the sky and listen to the live lullabies that often play in my bedroom.


Apple’s fierce lyrics and beguiling voice have been my guide through battles with love and morose since her debut album, Tidal. I've heard some say her music is for man-bashing or it is feminist jargon...far from the truth. It is a rawness, rarely found in music – especially in a business where everyone says almost everything BUT what they mean. She has taken poetics to a place where it is not just selling albums, but also, openly selling her soul. Never an unoriginal key or metaphor composed in her songs. Her delicate fingers sound as though they slip across the piano effortlessly, releasing woeful and still powerful sounds, about the bane and wonder of every kind of love: intimate, maternal and even love for one’s self.

Fast As You Can, a rumbling confession of a scarred woman fighting a new romantic interest, makes the perfect soundtrack for love & war: “I let the beast in too soon, I don't know how to live without my hand on his throat; I fight him always and still…Fast as you can, baby run, free yourself of me, fast as you can. I may be soft in your palm but I'll soon grow hungry for a fight, and I will not let you win. My pretty mouth will frame the phrases that will disprove your faith in man…” (Some of my other favorites from her are Sleep To Dream, Criminal, Pale September, Shadow Boxer and Love Ridden).

Damien Rice came into my life just after graduating from college. Consumed by a romance that was inevitably doomed yet unrelenting, I heard the lyrics to Volcano and discovered Rice, a quiet artist with simple yet astounding words: “What I am to you is not real. What I am to you, you do not need. What I am to you is not what you mean to me. You give me miles and miles of mountains, and I'll ask for the sea.”

I might just cry, right there in the park! I get shivers just thinking about it. This show is truly for those of us who secretly swoon and ache for passion and tragedy. Sometimes misery is our best friend, and who better to share that with than Apple and Rice, the devotees of heartache.

America, The Land of Irony

"I love America," he praised in his slight West African accent. "But it is the epitome of Irony and I'll tell you why: in America you will find the highest education, students flocking here by the millions hungry to learn. In America you will find the wealthiest and most successful people, brilliant leaders (some, not all). Here, you find a place based on diplomacy, freedom to believe whatever one desires, wide spectrums of spirituality and culture...but Americans do not have a clue about what's 'really' going on in the world and the scary part is, it is by choice." Aly, my young and fervent cab driver, uttered these words and quite possibly changed, not only my views, but the course of my life.

Two weekends ago I set out on a dismal Saturday morning, to receive a bicycle on loan to me for a few months. The day was already set in a pensive backdrop -- I meditated on the purpose of duty and action everywhere I went. For earlier that morning I taught a class on job interviewing skills to migrant women from South Asia. Something about empowering the helpless, speaking before a classroom of victimized, minority women as they stare at you with genuine eyes, eating up every little word you speak...something about that infects the soul with a certain will to change. Often people do volunteer work and they find that it makes THEM feel better about themselves and once that purpose is fulfilled, those being served are quickly forgotten; I pray I don't do that.

So, where was I...oh yes, I was going to see about a bike. I took the train to the east side. I then had to walk 5 more avenues further east. The rain began to feel heavier and fell more rapidly. With no umbrella, I ran to my friend's apartment building and found the bike waiting for me in the lobby, "I hope you're not gonna ride in this" the doorman said to me, looking out into the rain. He called me a cab and 20 minutes later it never arrived. I stood there, soaked, bike by my side strategizing how I would get home with this heap of metal and rubber. Minutes before I was about to ride home in the rain a cab pulls up to the curb, a gentleman steps out and I quickly approach the driver and ask him if he would take me and my bike cross town. He agrees and kindly squeezes the cycle into his backseat and I hop in front. By his accent I could tell he was from somewhere in Africa. I explain to him, "My family is from East Africa. From Uganda." He speaks fondly of his home and I tell him my parents do the same. We discuss the tyranny of the now deceased dictator, Idi Amin . He expounds on his thesis about female suicide-bombers in Palestine and how victimization leads to ruin. I learned that my cab driver was really no cab driver at all, but a student who just received an international law degree from John Jay University and will be working for the United Nations. We spent an entire hour outside of my apartment discussing politics.

There are some people who love to talk about what they know. But very rarely can speakers wholly keep the interest and ears of their audience. It takes more than just knowledge to inform and influence others. It takes integrity and compassion. Aly's discourse on the disillusionment and ignorance of the American people captivated me. My time in his cab was a pleasantly unexpected experience. I will probably never see him again but I hope to hear him on the news one day, speaking so the masses can hear. Unknowingly, he has influenced me in a profound way (not to mention, I won't stereotype cab drivers anymore).