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).