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).

Peace, At Last

I write to you from my terrace (aka fire escape) off the side of my new and relatively spacious bedroom. My bed rests in the middle of four eggshell-colored walls, with a Henri Bendel Gardenia candle burning on one side and my guitar on the other. Its a pretty room, inhabited by a simply complicated girl. I already enjoy retreating to it, door closed.

The exhaustive, 12-hour move took place on Saturday, with the help of my extraordinary family. Monday consisted of excessive partying and shameless dancing at Gansevoort Hotel, some place I don't remember and Buddha Bar. Tuesday followed with bowling, walking along the water for hours and marvelous fireworks at South Street Seaport. Today, I am finally able to find some peace. (Do you ever feel like you're stoned when you're completely sober? That's how I feel right now). I've spent most of my evening lost in thought, staring at the wall, listening to the nearby basketball courts and reading Kundera's "The Unbearable Lightness Of Being." Seemingly mindless actions, but much needed, nonetheless.

Sorry for the irrelevant rant. I'll post something worthy as soon as I cleanse and recharge my mind.

Old Is New Again

Old Co-worker, New Friend For Life: Last night, a woman who has grown to be my mentor, friend and confidante came to New York. She was my producer on a crime series before I left Washington D.C. We spent 4 weeks on the road in Florida, accompanied by our exceptionally talented, German cameraman. Its a funny thing being on the road, filming a show about murders. We learned a lot on those shoots and had some of the most memorable times (which I've only come to appreciate in retrospect). She applauded me on my successes in New York so far and as always, encouraged me to push my limits. As one of my biggest supporters, she has invited me to work on a shoot with some of the world's top wedding designers! Thank you Lynn!

Old Friend, New Inspiration: Later, I met a friend who I haven't seen in years. She spent two years in Guyana doing Peace Corps. It was as if no time had gone by. Still the same, beautiful, passionate, driven and intelligent girl I knew years ago -- with a few moderations (Gentleman, snatch her up while you can!). I'm sure adjusting to the American way of life will take time but I know she will make her mark in this world as she is a true philanthropist. She's already landed herself a teaching position and is on her way to grad school. Congrats Anita!

Old Music, New Vibe: My music library is so plentiful and diverse that at times I forget what I have! The other day I rediscovered my love for Maxwell and Res. Maxwell, the sexy, 'make-you-wanna-hop-in-bed' artist who put neo-soul on the map. When I first heard "Ascension," I was in love. I didn't know who with, but I knew I wanted to be in love after I heard that. And how can you not feel sexy after hearing "Sumthin-Sumthin"?? Lately I've been listening to the "Now" album, which has gotten less acclaim than his previous work. But if you ask me I think it's just as good. "Changed" and "Lifetime" are two of my favorites from his discography. Any man who can hit the high octave and still seem masculine is top shelf at my bar :-)

Res, a lesser known, and in my opinion, underappreciated musician, created a genre all her own. There is no way to really categorize her, except under good-original-music. But if I tried, I'd say she'd fall under the new-soul-hop-rock category (I just made that up). She has only one, phenomenal album released in 2001 and is probably better known for her songs "They Say (Vision)" and her "Ice King" remix with Nas. The first track on the album, "Golden Boy" is a classy bust on the wannabes of the music industry, with a triad of break-beats and downtempo. She sings with attitude and sex appeal, never wavering from originality. Please, do yourself a favor and check her out (even if it is 5 years old).

The Last Piece of Evidence

When we choose not to discuss a particular issue (or in this case write about a particular issue) we also choose not to think about it. I believe that once you discuss/write something it makes it more real, thus you are forced to think about it, possibly revisiting a painful time. Avoidance is the quick solution to forgetting the past. 'Out of sight, out of mind' as they say.

Re: #19 of New Lease Resolutions: Forget those who deserve to be forgotten.

First I did it, then he did it. I quickly learned that a relationship that has ended in true misery is never that cut and dry, at least not for me. Six months ago I threw away every possible piece of evidence of our relationship: pictures, letters, ticket stubs, dried flowers, cards, emails, even songs, so as not to trigger unsettling emotions at any given time. The materials were gone and I locked away unwanted thoughts. For a while things were calm, quiet, and images faded. Then, on one arbitrary day, I began picking at the lock of the box hidden away in the darkness of my mind, collecting dust. I opened it, but this time, as I rummaged through, I felt a fondness. Memories no longer brought me to tears, but now smiles. Could this be? Only a few months ago was I afflicted, questioning to exhaustion the very essence of these "loving" events. Deceit, bitterness, anguish, none of these feelings were present. It was true. Time did in fact heal my wounds, though I did not realize it at that moment of nostalgia, time also diminishes the truth. Time softens the hard reality. The phase of fond remembering soon passed as did the previous feelings of anger and sadness, leaving behind apathetic notions.

Yesterday, as I began packing to prepare for my move, I was throwing away stacks of papers. Mixed between a short story by Stuart Dybeck and an old credit card bill, I found an envelop with "Rakhee" written across it. I pulled out a light blue card with a picture of two clinking champagne glasses on the front. I opened the card and it read, "To My Dearest Rakhee, Happy Anniversary. You are everything I thought you would be twelve months ago...and more. I love you. Yours Always,..." I gasped. I was caught off guard. I thought I had efficiently evacuated my room of any remnants. I tossed it over to the trash pile and out it went. But before doing so I read it over several times. It was a foreign object to me. I read it but it held no meaning to me any longer. It was nothing more than a thin piece of folded cardboard. It held no weight. This was the final piece of evidence in my possession (I hope) that he and I existed together. Now, I will tell you, I am not naive, not anymore. I don't expect that my past will never revisit me, but I do not intend on diluting it with materials that hold no relevance today. But if I ever do question my past relationship, I will remember a conversation I recently had with a friend in Brooklyn:

Friend: "You know what the best feeling is?"
Me: "What?
Friend: "When the person you broke up with continues to reaffirm why you broke up with them."
Me: "[I smile] You're so right."

A smile slowly came across my face as I realized how truly appropriate this statement was, "you're so right" I repeated.

Thank You for continuing to confirm my decision.

New-Lease Resolutions

I didn't realize it until last week, after coming home from an exhausting day of apartment hunting, but I finally feel at home in this city. Soon, I will begin the second phase of my life here in New York. They say it takes a year to be considered a "real" New Yorker. If that's the case my graduation will be coming up in 2 and a half months. Its hard to believe I've lived here almost a year. It seems like only a month ago that I moved into my tiny, un-airconditioned apartment, with little to no furniture. It has surely been an adventure to say the least. My life has taken some very unexpected turns in the past year, with career, love, family, friends and ultimately my own identity (forgive the dramatics). I can say with certainty that I have learned more about myself and human beings in general since I've been here. And I know that's just the tip of the iceberg...

July 1, 2006 I will move into my new crib. After hundreds of phone calls, frantic searching, some tears, debating between Eastside or West, uptown or downtown, my roommate and I wound up exactly where we started. One street south of my current residence, wedged between the Hudson River and Lincoln Center, is where my new home will be. My address will still have the same zipcode but the new place is a little bit bigger and a little bit nicer, with a fire escape that I can actually sit out on (unlike my last dilapidated excuse for a fire escape). I've looked all over this city the last 2 weeks and I can honestly say I love the upper west side! With that said, I've created a little list that I would like to call "New-Lease Resolutions." Screw New Years resolutions. They're overrated and I never stick to them anyway -- too much pressure. Why wait til January 1?? Besides, New Years Eve is my birthday and I feel that turning a year older is enough change on its own.

New-Lease Resolutions (in no particular order):
1. Paint my new apartment (Either brick red, a mute yellow or moss green??).
2. Be more open and accepting to the idea of "dating."
3. Get back to my normal weight.
4. Read a book that will top Kite Runner.
5. Work on a film (independent or feature).
6. Edit a short video on Final Cut Pro.
7. Color my hair dark auburn.
8. Start a piece of short fiction that I would seriously consider submitting to be published.
9. Meet Leonardo Dicaprio.
10. Be less judgemental of others.
11. Find an excellent Burmese restaurant in the city, equivalent to Burma Superstar in San Francisco.
12. Find the perfect dress.
13. Take more pictures!
14. Answer and return phone calls.
15. Shop less (spend less).
16. Do another open mic.
17. Bike around the city more often.
18. Travel overseas (London, India and Thailand).
19. Forget those that deserve to be forgotten.
20. (It's a secret).

Is this unrealistic for a year? I think I can do it. Give me a little credit, I'm stating this for anyone to read. You can even follow up with me in a year and see how far I've gotten. If I haven't accomplished more than half of what I listed above, then feel free to publicly ridicule me.

So, cheers to New York, New Leases and New Beginnings!

Apple On 5th Ave

I've been pod-less for 3 weeks now. For those of you who don't know me, let me tell you, this is a crisis. My i-Pod is my sidekick, I never leave home without it. A few Saturdays ago I came home after a typical night of drinking and dancing. I promised friends that we would finish the night off with some good tunes. I brought my docking station out into the living room, already preparing the playlist in my head...and then, nothing. Zip. Blank. I didn't freak out at first. A friend of mine attempted the 'hold-down-menu-and-select-for-twenty-seconds' technique, but still, nothing. Then I started to freak out.

This weekend I finally had the time to take care of business. I made an appointment before leaving home at Apple's Genius Bar, to assure expeditious service. Later, I walked myself on over to the eastside where the new Apple store is on 59th St and 5th Ave. As geeky as it might sound, if you have nothing else better to do, its actually fun to just go and play around in the new store. The other Apple store in SoHo can get annoyingly crowded, preventing you from not only receiving the proper service but also from being able to look around with ease. Another cool thing about the new location is that its open 24 hours a day, 365 days a year. It's like freakin' 7-11! And on Friday nights they have notable DJ's spinning music. Apple has done a good job with the new location because it's not just a store it's a tourist attraction! When I got there for my appointment at 5:50pm there were small groups of people outside waiting to go in, apparently they were giving tours! The large glass box entry way is quite striking and stands out, like a futuristic pillar, amongst the elegant Central Park East hotels and boutiques.


Eventually I made my way up to the Genius Bar where all the Mac geeks standby to help you with your tech troubles. There was never a time when people were not standing in line, which made me very relieved that I made the appointment in advance. Finally, I handed my iPod over to an adorable "genius" named Matt -- "Please resuscitate my iPod!" I begged him. He checked for a pulse, pressed a few buttons...nothing. Things were looking bleak. He then hooked it up to a Mac and we waited. 10 long minutes go by, "Well, Miss, I think we've fixed your iPod." I was overjoyed! Not only was it fixed, but that sweetheart Mathew put a whole new music library on my iPod, for free! On my way back to the westside I was pleased to hear some new music that was actually to my liking. Here are some new songs playing on my iPod, all with the "Rakhee Stamp Of Approval", courtesy of Apple (Thanks Matt!):

"Stiff Jazz" by Dzihan & Kamien
"Dreaming of..." by Earlimart
"Delerium" by Euphoria
"Madame Hollywood" by Felix Da Housecat
"Do Your Realize??" by The Flaming Lips
"I Love Music" by Flunk
"Summer Sun" by Koop
"Backfired" by Masters At Work
"Candy Man Blues" by Mississippi John Hurt
"The Sea" by Morcheeba
"Bossa Per Due" by Nicola Conte
"Don't Know Why" by Pat Metheny
"Backbone" by Projections
"Samba de Orpheus" by Vince Guaraldi Trio/Colin Bailey/Monty
"Destiny" by Zero7

767 Fifth Ave.
New York, NY 10153
(212) 336-1440
http://www.apple.com/retail/fifthavenue/week/20060618.html

Right On!

I am not an absolute believer in astrology. Quite often however, I find that my horoscope can be eerily accurate. Perhaps it is my own subconscious justifying the cosmic words. In any case, today, I had my horoscope sent to me and it could not have been more on point...Seriously, almost word for word of what I've been experiencing and thinking recently.

CAPRICORN
Your attention may be fixed firmly on your aspirations today. As a result, you may be working in a more disciplined manner than usual. You may find that your powers of concentration are heightened and that you suffer less from lifeÂ’s little distractions. Productivity is likely your watchword so this can be an affirmative time to examine your daily routine and determine whether it is helping or hindering you in your quest to reach your goals. You can make the most of the discipline you feel by devoting the whole of your mental energy to each task you undertake. Others will likely notice your dedication and respond positively to your efforts. Consider asking for a promotion at your workplace today or taking on more responsibility in your home or a volunteer position.


Cultivating your mental discipline can help you avoid distractions and stay on course as you pursue your goals. The modern world we inhabit is awash with distractions that have the potential to keep us from fulfilling our full potential. Discipline empowers you to retain your focus when diversions, both pleasurable and not, threaten to derail your forward momentum. You'll have the ability to recover quickly from interruptions and push distractions out of your mind. As you move forward in your quest for success, you can adapt to changing situations and use your current circumstances to your advantage. Your attention will stay firmly fixed on your aims. The focused discipline you feel today will help streamline your progress toward the life of your dreams.
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The above was from http://www.dailyom.com/ A wonderful and enlightening website, though it tends to get a little too cheesey. But you can filter through and find the inspiration where you will.

Also, www.washingtonpost.com is my favorite newspaper and the horoscopes section is one of the best. Try reading your horoscope from the previous day, see how accurate it is.

Sixth Annual IAAC Film Festival November 1-5, 2006

When I moved to New York last August I had this dreamy idea of what life would be like. I was excited to be among my peers: artists, writers, filmmakers. I imagined how things would take off in different directions, pushing me to learn more and more, in turn, defining my own talents. I expected to be submersed in the bohemian culture that is born and bred in this city. Soon after the move I found myself nearly stunted before a plethora of choices. I began taking writing workshops, dance classes, going to art exhibits, catching live shows, trying to keep up with guitar -- I found myself in a ball of inconsistancy. I was doing everything and still, doing nothing. After some minor agonizing I realized I had to make a choice and stick to it. I have decided upon three things (for now) that I will follow through with, one of them being the Indo-American Arts Council.

I heard about the IAAC last year, while still settling into my new home and job at The History Channel. They hosted a film festival showcasing various genres of South Asian origin. On opening night in November of 2005, Deepa Metha's intensely emotional work, "Water" premiered. I knew then that IAAC would be an organization I truly wanted to be a part of. Though I was too late to volunteer, I was able to catch the tail end of some of the screenings. This year, I was prepared and am excited to be volunteering for the Sixth Annual IAAC Film Festival! And what a festival it will be... I am thrilled to be a part of the IAAC and even more overwhelmed by the array of talent I will be witness to. Many of the attendants are writers and directors whom I deeply admire and continually inspire me to go forth with my career in the arts and media.

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The Indo-American Arts Council is delighted to announce its Sixth Annual IAAC Film Festival Opening Night Film as Mira Nair’s “The Namesake.” Adapted from Pulitzer prize-winning writer Jhumpa Lahiri’s book of the same name, “The Namesake” is a heartbreaking, funny and universal story of the Ganguli family, spanning 30 years, encompassing the tale of millions of us who have left one home for another. The stars of the film are Kal Penn, Tabu, Irfan Khan, Jacinda Barrett and Zuleikha Robinson. "This film is a "dill ka tukra," a piece of my heart, a seesaw of two great cities of the world - New York and Kolkata," says Mira Nair, Director of “The Namesake.”

Expanding beyond the traditional venue, the opening night will be presented at the legendary Ziegfeld theatre to enable a much wider attendance and celebration of this masterpiece. Scheduled to appear at the opening night are director Mira Nair & writer Jhumpa Lahiri and many members of the cast. “The Namesake” will be released theatrically by Fox Searchlight Pictures on November 3, 2006.

Following IAAC tradition, a Gala Dinner will follow the opening night screening. Gala Chairs for this year are celebrated author Salman Rushdie & model/actress Padma Lakshmi; our Gala Vice-Chairs are Chandrika & Ranjan Tandon and Sandhya & Dhruv Narain. Silent and live auctions will be held during dinner to raise money for the IAAC. Mr. Rushdie states "The IAAC is an important, thriving initiative and I am delighted to support it.”

The rest of the festival screenings for the IAAC Film Festival will be held at various venues around town promoting upcoming talent and their stories. Post-screening discussions, networking events, closing night screening & party as well as awards for excellence in filmmaking complete the celebrations.
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I cannot express how excited I am for this event! I will keep you posted on any updates. In the meantime please visit www.iaac.us for more info. Hope you can make it.

Homeward Bound

Today I will leave the city for three days. I will leave behind the smog, the 5 mile walks, the crystalline lounges and busy-ness. I will temporarily trade it all in for fresh air, speeding down the beltway, roughhousing with the dog and lazing on my couch. I will catch up with friends, go to the mall, eat my father's chicken curry and sleep next to my mother. I will absorb the pureness of suburbia, for three days. There will be no stress, no meaningless flirting, no drinking, no reprimands, no impressions to make and no deadlines looming...except for my 9pm train on Sunday night, heading back to Penn Station - back to city life.

Ashes and Snow

Please take the time and check out the works of Gregory Colbert. The images in this exhibit are truly some of the most enchanting and soulful photographs I've ever seen. Colbert captures real interactions between people and animals in the wild. They were taken on location in places such as Burma, Tonga, Sri Lanka, India, Namibia and Kenya. Many of the images appear to be artificial or manipulated in some way. But according to various sources they are in fact real (though I am still a bit skeptical).

The one above might be my favorite. I've always felt a sense of peace at the sight of an elephant. Perhaps the stories of Ganesh that my Mother told me as a girl made an impression.

Hope you find one you connect with.
go to http://www.ashesandsnow.org/en/home.php

My Apologies

"You need to step it up" a friend/reader told me over the weekend, referring to my blog. I know! I'm sorry! I apologize for not posting anything new in the last two weeks. I've been quite busy and have not had as much time to devote. Work has been exhausting which leads me to overdo playtime on the weekends :-) I will post new thoughts this week, though. I promise.

Rockstar Weekend

The Dance Party hail from the picturesque rolling green hills of Prince George’s County (OK, maybe more like concrete jungle), the land that brought to you world icons such as Martin Lawrence and Kenny Lattimore. They create musical mayhem with 80s and 90s inspired songs like “Nintendo Power” and “Daniel Larusso is Gonna Fight.” As the self-professed “pioneers of slop-rock” The Dance Party is made up of four friends just trying to have a good time and make some fun music along the way. I am not only proud to be a product of the same town but also to call them my homeboys. Before they came to be D.C.’s latest Rock craze they were causing a ruckus at house parties throughout College Park and Towson, Maryland. Beers, guitars, songs, debauchery. All of the elements that made my college experience so enriched. They taught me a lady, could indeed still be a lady, while swearing during a game of flip-cup and having beer dribble down her chin.

This past Saturday they made their New York City debut at The Continental (www.continentalnyc.com) on the lower east side. The Dance Party rocked the house but the after-party took the show. You know how some things just never change? One night out with them and I swear I was in college again. Beers, guitars, songs, debauchery. We ran all over town like old times. I spent most of Sunday nursing a hangover but it was worth it. It was a refreshing break from the chichi lounges and overpriced drinks. I had forgotten how much I enjoy a nice, cold beer. Visitors from home always make me a little nostalgic for the simplicity of suburbia.

The Dance Party will undoubtedly be doing more shows in NYC. I’ll keep you posted. In the meantime they play in Washington D.C. and surrounding areas often, so do yourself a favor and check them out. If you do make it to a show, don’t expect to sit down and sip on your Cider Jack. Be prepared to rock out and party your ass off.

http://www.thedanceparty.net/

The Joy of Grocery Shopping (w/ celebrities)

City life is often a rushed, streamline routine. It is easy to overlook the basic joys of suburban life that I once used to gleefully partake in. Among other domesticated rituals, one of my favorites: grocery shopping. I’ve lost this affinity for several reasons, 1) my local grocery store, Christedes, offers a shameful selection of food and 2) my kitchen is so damn small! Thus I’ve become uninspired to cook at home. Not too long before I moved to Manhattan did I begin to develop a true fondness for cooking. Creating meals, finding the perfect ingredients, serving loved ones and watching them enjoy it. But for whatever reason it faded and it just wasn’t as enjoyable as it once was. We New Yorkers eat out so dang much, always trying to get a taste of the newest restaurant, that homecooking has become a novelty.

Last night after work, just before sunset, I walked over to Columbus Circle to get some groceries, where the fairly new Time-Warner building sits, aside the southwest corner of Central Park. A proud addition to New York’s Westside setting, her all glass façade beautifully reflects the fountain in which a large marble and bronzed statue stands. All situated in front of the trailing greenery of Central Park. It makes it a delight to walk by on a warm evening. I strolled by, glancing into the ground floor windows: Coach, Hugo Boss, Thomas Pink and Stuart Weitzman. Some other residents include the Mandarin Oriental hotel, CNN studios and an array of exotic restaurants, including the Stone Rose lounge.

I eventually made my way downstairs into Whole Foods where I was to execute my mission in rekindling my love for grocery shopping. As a once fervent grocery shopper I was tickled with excitement to see the mass assortment of cuisine! The entire store was designed in such an inviting manner, even the lighting was pleasing. It felt more like a european market and less like a mundane factory. Everywhere I turned produce was radiating with a freshness and ripe color. Sections of Indian food, a sushi station, dessert buffet, aromatic bread baskets…they have it all and you can’t beat it (this is the crème de la crème of grocery stores people). I picked up a shopping basket and set out for the beaming red tomatoes. Which will I pick, I thought. Plum, romaine, cherry, vine ripe? I went for the romaine. As I stood there gently squeezing, subtly sniffing, I noticed a familiar girl standing near me. I took a closer look and realized I was standing side-by-side, sniffing tomatoes with Denise Huxtable! I couldn’t believe it, so I just kept staring. Yes, I turned into one of those silly, celebrity-giddy girls. It was only a moment and she was gone. But wow, Denise Huxtable/Lisa Bonet, who woulda thought? (That never happened at the Giant in Greenbelt, MD -- that's for sure).

I ended up spending about an hour in Whole Foods. Wandering around, perusing all the ethnic fare from Ethiopian to Peruvian. Oh, and the cheeses! I wouldn't even know where to begin. I think I’ve rediscovered a love for food and in turn I feel that excitement for cooking coming on again. Environment makes a difference in our moods. In a perfect setting, the most clarifying thoughts can come to mind. I think I might let outside factors dictate my emotions too much, instead of evoking them from within. All this insight from grocery shopping?! Well, I suppose we can find inspiration in unexpected places sometimes.

Rebuttal: "Holla!"

Below is a very enlightening response to my previous blog entry entitled, "holla!" I received it via email since it is obviously too long to post as a comment. I thought it so well expressed and entertaining that it deserved a honorary posting on my blog. Enjoy.

---
oh what? you don't appreciate being propositioned by NYC guys?

I don't think guys holla unless (a) they've had some degree of positive feedback in the past with that approach before or (b) it's the only thing they know to do.

The thing is...I actually know guys who are able to get away with some of the stuff you mentioned (grabbing a girl by the arm and saying something like "lick my ear lobe" and it works). There's always one little alpha male in the herd who gets away with the audacious moves that make him a "legend" within his pack of beta males and the beta males end up going all over NYC bolstered by the success of alpha males success and they imitate to miserable results.

Let's be honest there are only a few things that really work for a man when he's trying to get the attention of a completely unknown female. He has to be able to do one of the following things: (a) dance (b) look like Hrithik or (c) have a rap (line of BS) so astounding that he could sell 10 tons of hamburger patties to a vegetarian.

Guys don't have confidence. They're insecure as hell (in general). Especially around icy death maidens such as Rakhee (kidding). You're asking guys to find confidence where they have none. Therefore, they drink. And they drink alot. Because if one shot makes us feel like Aamir Khan, then five shots will make us feel like Salman Khan (and well all know how much girls love that sexy bad boy)...

Girls may adore a sincere guy who can make her smile. But they're not likely to sleep with him, now are they? And isn't that what our little 2am chicken n' rice party boyz want when they see you at Earth or Deep or wherever. They want some ass, they don't want your respect. They want to be Colin Farrell, not Tom Hanks.

At the end of the day...the whole holla crowd is a numbers game. Yell at enough girls and one of them might be drunk enough to find you charming enough to see her naked. And that's the end of it.

I'd also like to address a distinct subset of the male population: the south asian club hopping desi male out n' about with his bOyZ...

What do you expect from us? Guys don't know what to do. They have no history to fall back on. Dad isn't there to give them words of advice. For dad, his idea of hitting on a girl was getting a relative to put an ad in the Hindustani times. And once he cornered the girl in a room his game consisted of gems like, "so, how are you liking university?" or "i'm in my 3rd year of engineering college and I have my H1B Visa" or "yes, my father went to school with your father"...

Along those lines...that's why you have so many of the 2nd tier desi boys (the one's with a tad bit more class than the 'holla' boys) who when putting the moves on a girl will go with scintillating conversation like, "yeah, I just got a six figure job as an analyst with Morgan Stanley. I'm not sure if I want to be a commodities trader or if I want to do something really sexy like Roth IRA's" or "..and I bought a piece of property on the lower east side. Ya know, someplace to put my beamer." There they stand with the well-coiffed spike---ensconsed with 20 gallons of hair gel--and the snazzy dress shirt and dress slacks. They have the classic Indian handsomeness (maybe they're even over 5'9)...and yet they're oh so dense.....

Guys having game? That's a joke. They don't know what they're doing because they really don't have much of a model to fall back on and they don't have "the abcd'ers idiots guide to hitting on girls". The rules of engagement that apply to their caucasian counterparts don't really apply.

And I'll end by saying in defense of the holla boys, that the ladies of NYC--as lovely as all of you are---aren't exactly without blame. Girls looove the power play of it all (admit it, you do). The moment a girl hits puberty and notices "changes" in her own physique she also notices the scary way in which boys and older men are suddenly looking at her. And from there on, the way she handles that interaction will dictate her whole approach to men for the rest of her life. At some point she knows she has a certain power in this dynamic and how she handles that new found ability also affects the way boys will treat other girls.

And I'll leave it there...

Crooked Teeth...

On Being Alone

What can I say about being alone? It’s lonely being alone. It’s sweets and A-minor. It’s gray and stubborn. It’s bitter and Dostoyevsky. It’s Radiohead and candles. It’s rain and sighs. It’s ‘the-glass-is-half-empty’ and paranoia. It’s sweatpants and discolored visage. It's indecision and indifference. It’s soft horns and disappearing under the sheets. It’s 10 missed calls and unjust reclusion. It’s bloating and remembering. It’s pictures and smiles. It’s futile letters and arbitrary anger. It’s mirrors and regret. It’s too much wine and late night calls. It’s praying and sleeping. It’s throwing and keeping. It’s breaking and judging. It’s insomniac fiction and fulfilling hunger. It’s stubbly legs and smooth longings. It's a song played one too many times. It’s salty lips and hopefullness. It's the gentle nudge of old rhythms. It’s happiness come round once again. Alone is discovery, it is anticipation and it is change.

The familiar face of renaissance reveals herself in the cool calm of the morning. Alone; I wholeheartedly embrace her.

12/18/03

A man is never as fortunate or as unfortunate as he imagines.
-La Rochefoucauld (1613-1680)

Man In The Bubble

I walk 20 blocks to work and 20 blocks back home, everyday. To some it sounds like a lot, but it really isn’t much at all, especially when ‘all the world is a stage.’ One of my favorite things to do is to walk and observe all that is going on around me. In New York City there is no lack of entertainment. Every other corner is a man tapping or chanting. Each subway stop has a Broadway-worthy performance. Dancers, singers, poets, gymnasts, preachers – there is an act for every boy and girl. And only in New York City will you see a man willing to trap himself in a giant fish bowl for 170 hours.

I live directly behind Lincoln Center. On my way to work last Tuesday I noticed a crowd congregating at the center of New York’s premiere performing arts center, which I pass everyday. I saw what appeared to be a massive marble placed in front of the fountain. As I moved closer I noticed a man inside. The sign in front read, “David Blaine: Drowned Alive.” It then continued to explain: ‘you are under risk of being video taped if you remain in this area.’ I had no clue what the new stunt was about, though I must admit I was quite intrigued. Everyday for the next several days the crowd grew bigger and bigger. Finally, I gave in, and at about midnight on Thursday I walked over to a relatively meager group of people still hovering over the famous illusionist. I waited in line for 5 minutes and made my way up to the aquatic sphere. At first I felt as though I were looking at a caged animal. It was a circus-like atmosphere, people flashing pictures, children pointing and asking to “touch.” I was just waiting for the cotton candy and clowns to come out. But as I looked into the glass I saw him, peaceful, sleeping. I put my hand on the glass; he looked up for a moment and waved at me faintly. That was it. To my surprise it was actually an invigorating experience. I can’t exactly explain why however. You just had to be there.

Tonight, he held his breath for 7 minutes and 8 seconds. Not the record he was going for, which was to break the supposed all time record of 9 minutes, though this is still up for debate. Nevertheless, Blaine is a performer, the 21st-century Houdini. Many argue whether his stunts are real mental challenges as he portrays. He’s been buried alive for seven days, remained on a 100 foot platform for 35 hours, levitated on a busy Manhattan street, stayed frozen for 61 hours – all on camera and in front of hundreds to see in the flesh (or so we think).

I am more inclined to believe than not, because let’s face it, believing is more fun. That and the fact that I grew up with a professional magician/yogi/actor for an Uncle who used to mesmerize me for hours with his Las Vegas acts (I’ll leave those details for another post ;-). In any case, I experienced the “magic” first hand this past week. Maybe it was all of the people, wanting to believe, together. All gathered to cheer on one man in his quest to break a record. There was a constant whirl of high energy and spirits all week. Real or not, it was uplifting and exciting. Sometimes illusions keep us young and inspired. Are we not all guilty of a little illusion here or there?

I wonder what stunt we have to look forward to next. One thing is certain, that Blaine sure does know how to draw in a crowd.

Comments

I have received several messages telling me that the comment feature on my blog is not accessible. I'm not sure why that is. I've gone into my settings and have tried to change this but haven't been able to find the problem.

If anyone has any idea please feel free to email me (I do believe that the email link on my profile still works). I truly enjoy reading the opinions of others so I hope I can fix this problem asap!

Girl-Woman

Disaster is approaching the edge of my skirt. Not just a girl. A Indian girl, living in the city, away from home is not uncommon, but it is never easy. After being a bridesmaid in my best friend’s wedding several weekends ago the waters began to stir and I got caught in the current. Mom: “A boy’s mother was asking about you.” Of course being a bull-headed, independent, Desi daughter I grunted and refused to even look in the direction of the suitor. Mostly because I was preoccupied with friends and also because that is far from my present agenda, very far from. Afterward I thought about it and wondered if I was too rash, perhaps I should’ve considered? Nah, I thought, and proceeded to dance with my friends.

I am a Girl-Woman. Neither here, nor there. I struggle with the term "woman" because it is so definitive. I prefer to pick and choose when I want to be a woman. On the weekends, a girl. At home with Mom and Dad, a Tomboy. At work, absolutely a woman. While on a date, a lady. With girlfriends, a girl-woman. Whatever the situation calls for I’ll conform. I don’t feel I have to make that decision at twenty-five. I can rock heels and a pencil skirt if need be, and sport sandals and a baby doll dress the next day if the mood calls for it. The choice is mine for a short period of time. Not much longer, but I have a few years to salvage as a girl and I’ll take it, thank you very much. Suitors can wait while I continue with my tea parties, dress-up and girl talk for now. The mischievously demure manner of which a girl possesses is not an easy transition to the provocative and intense nature of womanhood. There is a pale pink area, almost fuchsia, not white nor crimson, where us Girl-women fall under.

Though it will be catching up with me before I know it, I have the best of both worlds at the moment and I adore it.

A New Taste, A New Perspective

Something of vengeance I had tasted for the first time; as aromatic wine it seemed, on swallowing, warm and racy: its after-flavour, metallic and corroding, gave me a sensation as if I had been poisoned.
-Bronte

Does it not follow that the pleasures of such a life are illusory phantoms of real pleasure, in which pleasure and pain are so combined that each takes its color and apparent intensity by contrast with the other?
-Plato

"holla!"

1.)a term used to try and talk or try and "hook-up" with a female.
Ex. "Ey mama can i HOLLA atchu fa a minute"

source: http://www.urbandictionary.com/

Dear Male Readers,

Here is a word of advice: do not “holla,” under any circumstances. I don’t care if Kanye, Pharell, the Ying Yang Twins or “25 cent” does it. You’re not in a rap video and neither are the girls you “holla” at. Zero times out of 10 will a lady respond to that (unless of course, you are trying to attract Lo-Lo from the street corner). Time and time again have I seen you out in the city, trying to get the attention of women, shouting, “hey!” HEY is for horses. Seriously. Chances are you’re not going to wrangle a girl in off the streets. If you see a potential out and about, try making eye contact, if she looks at you try smiling. If she sticks around after that then she might think you’re cute. Then, and ONLY then do you approach her. At that point you can say “Hi.” If she smiles, you’re IN. If she looks up and turns away you probably don’t have a chance. Get over it.

Read very carefully. In fact, copy and paste this baby to your desktop: 1) a look can say a thousand words. If you’re out somewhere in the “scene,” you see a cute little thing and you’re unsure of what to say, then don’t say anything at all. And don’t linger around her like some creepy fungus that has nowhere to go. Do your own thing. If she likes you, she’ll remain in your vicinity. More often than not your gut will tell you if a girl is interested. Things like body language, eye contact, inquisitive responses – these are signals that she’s digging you. Remember: A look and a smile. Try it a few times, it builds suspense…and then make your way over. 2) Confidence is everything. Be true to yourself, always. Don’t try and be the suave guy if you’re a goofy guy. And don’t force yourself to be funny if you’re shy and reserved. We all have a thing for the strong-silent type as we do for the class clown. Be confident with who you are because it, and lack of, always exudes. 3) Wit and humor can go a long way. All girls adore a sincere guy who can make her smile. But there’s a fine line between funny and obnoxious. One way to refrain from the latter is not to get wasted. Stay composed and aware of the words that are coming out of your mouth. There’s nothing worse than a sloppy, drunk dude trying to kick game. And don't be too cocky; major turnoff.

Oh and one final, very important note: DON’T EVER touch a girl you don’t know. Please don’t try and grab her arm when she walks by. And don’t sneak up behind her on the dance floor either. A defense mechanism immediately triggers in females, which results in automatic failure on your part.

My experiences being single in New York City thus far have been mixed, but mostly positive. Since I’m not inclined to respond kindly to random guys just about anywhere at this point in my life, I’m always the observer. And what an amusing role it is.

Good luck gentlemen. May the force be with you.

At Home and Alone

No roommates. Just me and Miles jamming on a Thursday night in 5A. A glass of Riesling by my side and some Gouda is perfection. I forgot what it felt like to be home alone all night. A nice excuse to get romantic with myself. Light some candles and sandalwood incense. Sit around in my underwear or plaster my face with a papaya mask. Sing at the top of my lungs to Fiona or lay somberly on the red futon til I fall asleep, book in hand. An overflowing sack of laundry hanging on the back of my bedroom door taunts me. But that’s not very romantic is it?

I love times like this. It gives me space to stretch out, mind and body, in my tiny (tiny) haven in this restless city.

(A thought sent to me today): "Our primary relationship in life is with our selves. No one else goes through every experience in life with us. We are our one permanent companion. We are constantly looking at the world, instead of looking at ourselves, we don't often see what's magnificent about ourselves that others do. When we take the time to experience ourselves the way we would experience someone we love and admire, we become our best companion and supporter on life's journey."

We exchange words and have no idea the weight they carry. People speak without thinking one hundred times a day. Once said, it’s out there, you made the impression, no getting it back. Recently I’ve been expressing my personal thoughts less and less, verbally that is. I’ve been learning that expressing myself aloud benefits no one, especially not me. That’s why I prefer writing. The amount of time it takes for your thoughts to reach your hand, then signal your hand to write, then send it back to your brain as you mentally recite and write simultaneously – that time is more vast. It is stretched. That time allows for reflection, as brief as it might be.

True, there are times when the impulsive way can be valuable and insightful, but how much can that really mean? So many times do we regret the words we blurt out or actions we take driven by pure emotion. Writing gives the ability to make a decision. It helps to translate the thoughts that hurt us, beg us and delight us. They all deserve to have a voice. I just choose to write because I find when I speak, I don’t feel as much movement. I also feel less logical. I can talk and talk for hours (and I have) trying to make a point and never feel fully satisfied with my explanation or claim. But I can write one impeccable and saturated sentence that gives me peace.

It used to be that I could write safely and solely for myself. Uninhibited I was, in my room with my pen and paper. Mounds of journals spanning 15 years, never read by another soul. Now, I am more selective because I know people are reading my thoughts. Somehow I feel I might be cheating readers and myself. I’m sure it would be liberating to just put it all out there. Afterall, what good are thoughts if they have no destination?

Mirror, Mirror

A lounge is a lounge. There is only so much you can say about the latest hot spot before it fades away into the minds of city socialites. We are always looking for the new fad and savvy clubowners are receptive to that.

A long, narrow space, Glass Lounge provides a sleek setting and a small, yet suitable patio in the back. Though barely enough space to dance it is inevitable because the blend of hip-hop and oldschool begs patrons to do so. Drink prices are standard New York and the crowd is classy and can lean more toward the brown side on certain nights.

You must be wondering, "well, what's so different about this place?" Aside from just being a new and different scene, Glass Lounge has an interesting mirror scheme going on. Once you make it to the front of the (often slow moving) line for the unisex bathroom you will notice a long horizontal mirror. As you wash your hands and check yourself out in the mirror you won't see what is on the other side...10th Ave. But those walking along 10th Ave can see what's going on, on your side. That's right. As you innocently adjust your make up or smooth down your hair, "Harry the Bum" is peering in at you. A little creepy? Yea, I think so. Nevertheless, Glass Lounge is...a lounge. They play good music and the crowd is relatively cool. Just don't forget to wash your hands when you leave the bathroom...someone might be watching...

Glass Lounge
287 10th avenue New York, NY 10001
http://www.glassloungenyc.com/

cha·os (ka'os')
n.
1. A condition or place of great disorder or confusion.
2. A disorderly mass; a jumble
3. often Chaos The disordered state of unformed matter and infinite space supposed in some cosmogonic views to have existed before the ordered universe.
4. see also Rakhee's life (at the moment)

Home Hiatus

The past few days have been exciting and emotional. Over the weekend one of my best childhood friends, Nandini, was married to a great guy named Amit. They've been together for eight years and finally tied the knot on April 15, 2006 at Union Station in Washington D.C. (my hometown). If you were anywhere in the vicinity of Union Station I'm sure you heard about it. It was quite the spectacle! I was one of 10 bridesmaids! All of the events leading up to, and including the ceremony and reception, were incredibly fun and festive. By far one of the most unique Hindu weddings I've been to.

When I return to New York I will give a more detailed description of the events, culture and meaning behind the ceremony.

Just wanted readers to know I'll be posting something new shortly. So check back soon!

Isn't it funny that a country which declared itself a place where "all men are created equal" over 200 years ago still battles with Civil Rights today? Even more interesting is the fact that the United States was built off of the blood and sweat of immigrants and still thrives off of the practically free and often inhumane labor of these same freedom seekers.

This past Monday, thousands of immigrants rallied on the mall in Washington DC, along with others in various cities around the country including New York City. The masses fiercely objected the potential law which will essentially reduce and make immigration to the U.S. much more difficult. Some have referred to it as the Hispanic Civil Rights movement. To me it represents the entire population of immigrants: past, present and future. Though I come from a family of non-American-born citizens I have never taken this issue into much consideration. But when I think of my family, along with the hundreds of thousands of others, that came here and paved the way for their children, who are now huge intellectual and powerful resources for this country, I can't quite understand the need for further restriction. It almost feels like biting the hand that feeds you. Afterall, who works our farms, constructs and cleans our buildings, and assmebles all of our frivolous material needs?

Sometimes it still blows my mind that the Civil Rights Bill was passed only 40 years ago. Up until 40 years ago we had segregated schools and a part of our population wasn't even allowed to vote! 'Slowly' seems to be the pace and 'surely' is the hope -- but we indefintely have a long and winding road ahead of us.

Read the whole article:
http://www.nytimes.com/2006/04/11/us/11immig.html?ex=1144987200&en=3658f0b9ffb8fc6b&ei=5087%0A

Jesus and Judas

Religion has always intrigued me. I distinctly remember playing in my backyard at the age of 9, with my friend Megen (the daughter of a preacher), "You're going to hell" she said. I asked why and she responded with the words of her Father, "Because you don't believe in Jesus Christ. So when judgment day comes the world is going to blow up and Jesus will take all the Christians to Heaven and the rest will burn in hell." I didn't cry or run to a church in fear for my life. I calmly went to my mother and asked if this was true, "You tell her and her family we don't believe in hell," my Mother explained. It was smooth sailing after that. No hell for me.

I find it fascinating that a great majority of the world live according to scriptures and ancient laws, without question. Religions have been passed down for centuries, through unknown hands, twisted and tainted by institutions and theorists. How could you possibly take it for face value? The fact is, it's all interpretation. I believe that what we follow today is scarcley true to the intententions of the original religious movements. I mean, have you ever heard of the game "telephone"?

A recent discovery was made in Egypt that could potentially turn "fact" into fiction. A scripture was uncovered, about Jesus and Judas, implying that the 'ultimate betrayal' was more of an agreement between the two friends. Yesterday's article in The New York Times said:

The account goes on to relate that Jesus refers to the other disciples, telling Judas "you will exceed all of them. For you will sacrifice the man that clothes me." By that, scholars familiar with Gnostic thinking said, Jesus meant that by helping him get rid of his physical flesh, Judas will act to liberate the true spiritual self or divine being within Jesus.

Another piece of the puzzle I suppose...but even if Jesus himself came back to earth, and told us the Church was all a sham, who knows if we'd believe him.

Read the whole article, go to http://www.nytimes.com/2006/04/06/science/06cnd-judas.html?ex=1144555200&en=d59683ca1c4d906d&ei=5087