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.