Great House

"It wasn't that her face was open or revealing in any way. It's just that it appeared to be at rest, completely unaware of itself as the eyes took in all that happened before them."

"We search for patterns, you see, only to find where the patterns break. And it's there, in that fissure, that we pitch our tents and wait."

"I was familiar with the little mating rituals of getting to know each other, of dragging out the stories from childhood, summer camp, and high school, the famous humiliations, and the adorable things you said as a child, the familial dramas- of drawing a portrait of yourself, all the while making yourself out to be a little brighter, a little more deep than deep down you knew you actually were. And though I hadn't had more than three or four relationships, I already knew that each time the thrill of telling another the story of yourself wore off a little more, each time you threw yourself into it a little less, and grew more distrustful of an intimacy that always, in the end, failed to pass into true understanding."

"As for what, exactly, was said about the future, all I can say is that, speaking as indirectly as we were, transferred between us was only a feeling, or a shift in feeling, something like the sense of solid ground underfoot after walking for days or even months on spongy bog, a shift that I would be hard pressed, both then and now, but especially now, all these years later, to put into words."

and the end-all:

"But if every Jewish memory were put together, every last holy fragment joined up again as one, the House would be built again, said Weiz, or rather a memory of the House so perfect that it would be in essence, the original itself. Perhaps that is what they mean when they speak of the Messiah: a perfect assemblage of the infinite parts of the Jewish memory. In the next world, we will all dwell together in the memory of our memories. But that will not be for us, my father used to say. Not for you or me. We live, each of us, to preserve our fragment, in a state of perpetual regret and longing for a place we only know existed because we remember a keyhole, a tile, the way the threshold was worn under an open door."

well it's all out in the open now; i'm unediting this one

finals week meditations

1  cigarette breath, i watched a play like it was a movie last night
placing and rearranging in the slumbers of study, tenacious and yearning for an explanation of how and what i should feel
during the long drawls of finals week.

i become aware of the crescents forming on my fingernails, how limber and cold my hands feel under the fluorescent light.
i think i shall go insane. i think i cannot breath all the lives i've lived, am living and will pretend to live.

drowning in the ecstasy between work and play, piecing it out with the immense gravity of death possibly
waiting behind
the corner,
tucked away neatly behind a door frame.

i become desensitized to the all-knowing knowledge of when is when
and if enough is enough.

and so, my arms simply drift and hang in the indian summer heat- what great poetic weather.
and yet, i shall recover the metal scraps, the tinge of nerve and blood and live the next day
more unknowing, more clean, more substantial and less understanding still.

2  peaceful absinthe, still fluid.
i would like to drink in your ocean and feel, once again, whole.
whole like when the first sperm-drop fuses with the delicate egg.

 to float above, deliver commandments with little worry and much detachment
  to feel a human version of holy, celestial and trembling with All-Knowledge
   to sink in the love-mass, in synchronicity with myself- to embrace the end of a period to a question- its ultimacy.

and yet, i feel the atmosphere weighted on my shoulders, swallowed by gravity
-every tinge and tingle of my blood kills to be exposed to the seemingly inviting night air.

breaking bread is too difficult here. everything is unresponsive, nonreactive, hollow, dead, floats mindlessly-
rears its ugly head like the limp seaweed bobbing in salty black seas of real time.

the world is quiet after the fall from sin,
the cord is cut and yet still sparks- confusion runs rampant and we die, unknowing of our days.

2.2  a slight shuffle
a soft sniffle
a long withdraw
the coming of summer heat

wingtipped pens, looseleaf paper
an inorganic silence.

an indecision- a lack of words- stupid.


3  lover, you are such a fucker.
you monstrous draught- you are the action which washes, treads, tumbles and slams, shreds, hangs me out like
laundry on a single thread and watches, prowls, destroys me with your mercurial blue-gaze.

you, with your hot tongue and tissued lips, coaxed me from the sacred vestal, the hearth of home- warmth and goodness.
you blew smoke into my face and made my lipstick bleed; you danced the dance of mystics, the distillation of your soft perfume
intoxicated me, the feel of your shirt brushing against my cheek.

i wove tapestries of time, erasing doubt and regret, looked on from the stairtop and took the final plunge-
to no avail, but only the pristine realization that rescue was a random point of light, kneaded- in me, already, at conception.

i feel the incestuous waters of my form swell, macerated tomato puncture and explode within every thin, dark membrane,
seep every black-silhouetted blood corpuscle, kerouac's 'good glad fluid' and i swell the morning of, smelling of your desires
in the deep, purple night and clinging to the jugular vein, a pink,
thudding mash- bruise with the best sexual intentions- a valley-girl scarlet letter.


4  RAGE/
RAGE/ AT THE WORLD
RAGE/ AS IF TOMORROW WILL SCAR YOUR FLESH
RAGE ON/ ROCK ON/ BELIEVE IN MAGIC- BELIEVE IN HOPE
BELIEVE IN ALL THAT IS WORTH BEING ALIVE FOR (may not be much).

5  soft velvet, tissue fabric against the horizons of my chest.
i feel the immense swell of the universe- creation of the cosmos

and suddenly- the forsakening of the world as we combine our
sacred energies to create one massive, coherent whole.

and suddenly, the crows sing in the distance and the night shivers against
the blue backdrop of some late atmospheric phenomenon.

And the world is no longer whole, but rather, inconsistent, unattainable
random patches of utmost serene and clean blue- pink sky.

And i return from my bedsheets, filled with a new horizon
that can never be.
And i seep in the blood of my own existence
And wish of another tomorrow, another chance to see betrayal.

gosh, it's like 2 in the morning

and i'm writing and i'm crying and i'm writing and crying, which is never a good combination. it's times like these that i hold onto some sanity and kiss and kiss goodbye emotions.

in these few long short-months

i have been in the library before the start of school, plotted, schemed, twisted myself into a pretzel and flowered the knot growing like a peach in my stomach. i drew in from old friends their thoughts of the future- those long awaited adventures in iceland, created a brat pack, created a dream team, loved someone except i did not love him, kissed and kissed and drove across mountain ranges at sunset, got lost in school and in my heart.

i teared to the rhythm of eloquent lectures- felt my brain contract and release, drained countless cups of 7$  coffee, went to club meetings with the air so dense, i swore for the first time in a long time, went to optional lectures at night, crossed train tracks, crossed train tracks while drunk, watched a play like it was a movie, watched a modern dance recital like it was a comedy, explored gallery openings, witnessed the physical pull of a good book, danced to jazz music, saw the blue of cigarette smoke.

got sick, recovered, was a victim to a fire alarm, rearranged sandwiches, felt my heart swell, held my breathe, cried, wrote, sang, slept, dreamt and understood certain dark things.

12 14 2012

you and your trabecular meshwork. stop.

i would think i was half-dead

slashed and stretched in all directions. time wears so thin and just barely brushes against my shoulders here at school. one quiet blink, one short gesture and suddenly the world is unexplored again- so new, it's exhausting.

i respond with a harsh, raw call- a crackling of the lips, a breaking of intonation- and i deflate a little more each time. i conjure a fresh, witty sentence; a brief moment passes and that golden strand withers and drifts into the conscious night air, and i am a little less whole.

 it's exhausting to wake up to the day and respond to its harsh demands of being charmingintelligenthappy. i can't know what that means anymore and i don't even know what i've become.

recurring thought in the peripheries of my skull

"i'm sorry, i think i really do like him/them/it! i just need to think it over some more."

not sick enough to not contemplate the poetry of death

chores for monday

the soft hum of an industrial heating system, a sticky exhale, the gasp of a breathe- a sweet unrest, silence under the stars, declarations and periods, sad eyes, streetlights and rain whispers in the indigo november night, immovable and flaccid under the span of track lights, ripped stocking, chapped lips, quiet coughs, a head rush and longing for revelation.

comme sisyphus

the most overused word is interesting. everydaythingone is interesting, you're interesting, having no class is interesting; everyone tells me i'm interesting. interesting is such a surface-level word; the author cannot dictate a specific feeling, cannot entertain book, thought, or each other.

so he uses interesting to tie down the anchor and purposefully injects some superficial meaning into the meaningless.

and i guess what i mean by meaningless is me. i'm nothing- just broken bones and heavy thoughts; what i speak on the surface- scintillating, irresistibly rich and spacious. i trade facts like commodities on the black market, set up brothels with the lines of plath and auden, and wait- carnivorously, salivating, dying for you to truckle, and buckle your knees.

my words are who i am and i am passed sloppily around the circle of men of the hearth. i feel so tired and used and you can't penetrate me because the me that i am is nothing- just air. 

best poetry

i'm so sick of hearing wimpy love poems. if you really want a challenge, write about happiness in the time of sadness. 

the killers kill.

blonde hair blowing in the summer wind. a blue-eyed girl playing in the sand.

i was new in town, the boy with the eager eyes.

saw Cinderella in a party dress, but She was looking for a nightgown.

change came in disguise of revelation, set his soul on fire

some kind of slick chrome American Prince, a blue jean serenade , finds a convenient streetlight, steps out of the shade- He says something like, "You and Me, Babe, how about it?"

a Dustland fairytale beginning- or just another white trash county kiss-

Miss Atomic Bomb, making out, We got the radio on,

and when i look back on those neon nights, the leather seat, the passage rite, I feel the heat, I see the light…

Juliet, the dice was loaded from the start
And i bet and You exploded in my heart

these changes ain't changing me- the gold-hearted boy i used to be

another head aches, another heart breaks i'm so much older than i can take

he's with the hippie in the park
coming over the dark
just trying to get some of that-little-girl-play

i wanna shine on in the hearts of men, i wanna mean it from the back of my broken hand

a teenage rush, She said, “Ain't we all just Runaways?

10.26.2012

when i meet new people, i'm charming and enthralling, and show a smooth, eggy exterior while everyone else whimpers and talks through their jammy smiles, holding their crisp secrets, paper slips neatly tucked in the intricacies of their veins.

i always look to them with such awe and relief. awe that they have such control and reservation and self-respect to hold their pristine shape. relief that they don't cheaply dole out masses of warm, pink flesh to be muddied and stepped on, that they still have some thing noble to be preserved.

i feel like a macerated tomato

or maybe perhaps like a piece of chalk. this is the most interesting mood. part of me is in a rhythmic frenzy, a transparent, diluted syrup rushes through my too real, perhaps mocking, mass of brain and the other, this irrevocably dense, white noise- feeling the existence of nothing, yet inviting the bone-crushing calamities of this world.

time deteriorates me; it scuds, wrings, tumbles and hammers, irons, hangs me out on a single thread, some lifeline that connects birthpointa and pointbeyond.

when i was in high school

there was a time when i thought of death everyday. i dreamed of being engulfed into the dark energy of some abyss. i ate the idea up and hid it in the pit of my stomach and every morning before school, i would pick up the fragments of this carefully composed pottery and hope one of its slivers pricked the tips of my fingers.

i didn't ask to see much of the world. at noon, i examined the chipped pieces of curb paint by the sidewalk in front of my house. at 5 o'clock, i'd ponder at just how beautiful my tree swing looked in the sunset, but never thought much, fearing that if i looked at it long enough, it would be so beautiful i might explode.

i've learned to feel a sense of completeness since then, especially when the sun sets here at school and entrances the grass and the steeples with its pool of young amber. or when i have a good conversation or when i cradle a loaf of bread under my arm. i've toweled off the morning fog and gained a greater picture of seeing. but i still don't feel whole- whole like the energy that fuses the delicate egg with a first sperm. maybe that wholeness is supposed to occur just once, just there. then our body turns positions and starts to lose battles and wars, giving and giving and ending with wiry, gray hair and saggy, translucent skin.

my legs map every nick and scrap of every childhood fall, foreshadowing the deplorable conditions of age. then i look at you with your fast walk and clear eye and incorrigible expression and i lose my breath, and cannot compare at all.

The day i was born

i almost died. And i've spent the rest of my life figuring out why i didn't.

Last year, i dreamt a dream that my rose printed tulip skirt, the one all the girls in my french class ooed and ahhed and bantered over, the one that made my waist look smaller than the 26 inches it is in the morning, disappeared from my dorm dresser, that someone had taken it while i slept while i dreamt. When i woke up, i felt that it was gone and it was and is, to this day.

When i was thirteen years old, i wanted to look like the idea of bavarian cream. my lips had been created and melted and sealed for thirteen years. the action of speech was an unpeeling, as sticky and sweet as the sugar molecules that fused the creamy, yellow filling into a jiggly solid. most of all, i wanted to feel coveted and surrender to the will of the lascivious mouths of every apple-cheeked, balding suit wearer who always found a timid excuse to miss little league games, even on sunny saturday afternoons.

now, i want everyone who looks at me to think of home. to have a face that reminds everyone of creaky doors, fireplace incense and the magic of warm apple pie.

A Moveable Feast.

I often find myself feeling nostalgic for moments I've never experienced- a secluded park picnic, a big frosted birthday cake, getting lost on public transportation. However marvelous these ideas appear, in retrospect, it isn't nostalgia that churns out these buttery images, but rather they are romanticized pictures of life that can't possibly be real life at all.

With the coming of good weather, I dedicated ample amounts of time to being pancaked on the grass and leafing through books, exploring small gestures of such creamy ideas and providing white flesh for visiting insects. Whenever the weather is good and I am happy, I view life as a grapefruit almost organically- sliced in half, exposing its radial symmetry and raw heart so willingly and without hesitation, its pulp ready for the taking, the plunge.

With the coming of bad weather, I bundle up and shut myself from the world and spend copious amounts of time pinching out my flaws and examining them one by one, the little gems that accumulate to a crystal mountain lodged at the back of my throat. I would like to magnify them and allow them to bleed ruby droplets of insecurity and anguish. I'd follow its trail of sinister breadcrumbs, hoping to land upright on my slippered feet and feel my version of wholeness. In some ways, it makes absolute sense that I only feel truly alive when the world is dark. And I think I exacerbate the situation the more I think of it. I just hope that when the bad weather dies down, I can keep whatever ounce of catalyst that motivates me to look beyond the black sea and live like a mighty river.

That awkward period between your birth and your death.

 I'm not burdened with a plight of social anxiety and I'm not particularly shy or uncomfortable around strangers, but I think it needs to be addressed that while I'm almost finished living my teenage years (or teenhood, or whatever lame excuse a person can have for a period of braces, and textbooks, and musky body spray), I can't help but see, by social standards, how uncool I really am.

That's not really a self-depreciating statement, is it? Maybe the very notion of bringing up this topic expresses my subconscious desire to become a better, cooler version of me, like one of those kid moguls or espresso-drinking, turtleneck-wearing, poetry-slam-going girls whose names are Sloan or Annie or Tony.

But I think the real reason behind this post is to say that it's unhuman to feel confident and calm and collected all the time and that it's time to start embracing all the out-of-place feelings we have hidden or been embarrassed by since the emergence of Homo sapiens and our own complex central nervous systems. Simply put,  we are exciting and funny and intelligent creatures in our most unadulterated, unairbrushed form, and that should be admirable in this carnivorous world.

I guess what sparked this conversation is the coming of the new school year. The first day awakens and arranges on a chaotic platter firsts of every kind: a first self-introduction, a first handshake, and a first time away from comfort and security that poses a time for fervent self-awareness.

It's perfectly normal to want to present your best, and it's perfectly normal to feel insecure- everyone probably feels the same way when thrown into a precarious sea of strange fish! So what if you didn't get the right professor, what if you forget someone's name, and what if you misspeak on the first day of class? If the human mind is incapable of defining perfection, then you certainly don't have to strain yourself into that mold.

Last semester, I somehow wrangled my schedule so that I had lectures only on Tuesdays and Thursdays. On these two days, my classes stacked neatly together, one followed diligently after the next, dishing out a liberal span of free time any other day. But with such a tight schedule, I had to frequently go from the two tips of campus within a designated time slot. Thus, I relied on public transportation.

What I found rather peculiar about those morning bus rides was that often, even on crowded buses, the ride would be deafeningly silent, all due to our particular attachment to cellular devices. It's rather comical to stand back and watch with no great intensity the texting wars we are having with others meters and miles away when we could be having a genuine conversation with someone next to us. The same applies when walking on campus. I wonder how many leaves we've crunched on or how many blooming cherry blossom trees we've walked past and let slip from our definition of truly living. All because it would awkward or uncool, by our standards, to appear in tune with our surroundings. But ironically, by our standards, we all appear uncool in acknowledging, through our actions, this insecurity.

Well here's my acknowledgement: Guys, I'm awkward. And I feel, behave, and speak awkwardly in certain times and spaces in our space-time continuum. But I've got a bigger life to live and a bigger person to be in my and other peoples' lives and hearts.

Do you want to know what I think is cool? For a person to realize that there are missteps in life via cultural constraints and that it's fine to feel weird and insecure at times, just like the rest of us  do, but that it's necessary to not dwell on those feelings. Because once we look past the shortcomings that make us the incredible human beings we are, not only will we build a greater respect for mankind but for ourselves.

Please excuse me for my purge of links.

The green smoothies are quite well. I've also discovered something called exercise, which is the art of mooching off of my free gym membership. Beyond these summer events, I have also begin diligently following (more like stalking) particular websites in this complex online community the 21st century has dished out to us. I always find it fun to explore new dot coms; in pure nerd fashion, I feel as if I enter new lifestyles and worlds. Therefore, I arranged a list of my favourite sites which you can peruse through, if you'd like.

Personal Style & Fashion:

I find the idea of clothing deeply interesting. I am a firm believer in the idea of apparel as portable art and the mood a specific garments conveys in the veins of its thread. To scoff and compare fashion to frivolity is quite a draconian concept, in my opinion. And who cares if the crowd rolls their eyes, anyway? For the wearer with style, fashion is magical. 

The Daybook

Sydney is modern woman who believes in modest dressing. In other words, she is the master of not showing too much skin and looking like a true lady. Every time I am tempted to wear something that makes me look like an off-duty stripper, I think of the magic in conservatism- which can make me look mysterious minus the weirdness (which I am well-stocked in, already).

 In addition to impeccable style, her blog is totally chuckle-worthy-and she lives in the Washington, DC metro area! Which could mean that I can turn on my actual stalker status, or just look through the places she talks about and feel comfortable in knowing that those places are actually attainable. She recently hosted a Madewell event which I would have totally gone to had I not been in Italy. Oh, the sacrifices we must make...

Stylelikeu

You know those dreary days you have on sunny days when you just want to wear a sundress but cannot find the right accessories/sunhat/shoes to twist it into your own(#firstworldproblems)? Well this website, which is run in a Magazine-esque format is the incredible miracle berry. The editors of Stylelikeu host interview sessions with the fashionable peoples in the universe in their Recent Closets segment. Better yet, they categorize individual fashion philosophies in the easy, breezy sidebar, so you can pick and choose whether or not you are vintage or modern on any given day.

Furthermore, the writing style is rich without being academic (term paper summer -no, thank you). My favorite interviews (besides the ones I've mentioned previously) are Gaby Basora & Zoe Potkin and Jane Belfry. For more of an analysis into fashion and the way we feel, I highly recommend Second Skins, and Styelikeu's insights on femininity and androgyny.

The Man Repeller

This sounds totally unladylike, but holy glitter fuck do I love Leandra and her style. The name Leandra rhythms with Diandra which, in my mind, conveys an image of a Park Av. antique of a lady with clusters of pearls and matching pastel Chanel suits. But Leandra is totally young, and totally modern. Her clothes are glorious- but most gloriously is her styling and her IDon'tGive persona about fashion only about matching and attracting the opposite sex. Hence, the Man Repeller.

But surprisingly and rather recently, Man Repeller got hitched! And my God, her wedding dress is so Carrie Bradshaw-esque, I've already confronted my mother so she would have the precise idea of my own white dress.

Design/ Decor: 

I'm no aspiring graphic designer, but I know a good design when I see one.  I am also turning into a bit of a font snob. Having long since abandoned Comic Sans, I cringe at my instant messaging days in 7th grade (10 pt. Arial, 'nuff said). And in the spirit of my off-campus living next university year, I have been glued to home arrangements and am currently channeling Northern European white-washed walls housing colorful trinkets and blown glass vases. 

Design Love Fest 

Bri describes her blog as the place "where types and images totally make out", which is totally kinda erotic and totally, definitely true. Based in sunny Los Angeles, Bri specializes in incorporating fistfuls of colour and life-of-the-party prints. It is practically home to every combination of youth, glamour, and freedom. From her blog, I take away the inspiration to be a kid again, which is awfully difficult sometimes, and shop in quirky stores such as Tattly. I will be putting my second of this tattoo into good use on campus next year. 

Anthropologie Home
My dream- which I have had since I was basically born- is to live in the country and be a domestic goddess with a rustic garden patch with a rusted chicken coop. I seriously contemplated switching my major to biology the other day so I could maybe possibly be a botanist and finally learn how to water plants correctly.

I don't peruse the house & home section of Anthropologie nearly as much as I should- I just prefer to drool over kitchen towels and throw pillows in real life. Besides Crate&Barrel, the stores of Anthropologie could be my second home. I am not sure who designs the layouts of each store, but I literally need to hug them for their ingeniousness for they have mastered the marketing and branding of their products and manages to daily lure in poor college students (me) into their disgustingly lovely lair.

Pinterest
Okay. No detailed explanation required. If you are of the female gender, Pinterest (or as my mother thinks of as "Pin-interest") is practically impregnated into your design addiction. It's kinda like a coke addiction, but worse, because my For the Home 'tash keeps piling up daily, free of charge.

This is the one and only time I will mention this partially because I believe in marriage equality not only in the normative sense but also in the figurative, two-working-spouses sense, but future husband beware- be prepared to become acquainted with handing over the credit card.

"Intellectually Stimulating" Content

I coined this phrase in spring semester with the intention of describing information or subject matter that organically initiates intellectual conversation. This sector of my ever-expanding mental file includes fun issues such as the difference between sex and gender, feminism in modern America, religion and global custom practices, and what I should eat for dinner.

TED
If you haven't heard of this website, you are missing a major portion of your diet. I am shocked that even some college professors aren't aware- get on it, econ prof. A general summary: TED, or Technology, Entertainment, Design, is a nonprofit organization that hosts two conferences annually dedicated to people and innovation. To become an attendee of one of these conferences is like getting the only gold star on your English paper in a sea of a thousand, which, to put it lightly, is quite impossible for me right now (in addition to the hefty $6000 entrance fee). Luckily for us, TED records these amazing speakers who speak about a range of inspiring issues and uploads them FOR FREE on the web.

TED videos can be inspiring, tear-jerking, funny, educational, a basic smaggering of information that make me ever hopeful about the brilliancy of our world. My favorite speeches include Amy Tan's speech on creativity, Jennifer 8. Lee's hunt for General Tso, A.J. Jacobs's year of living Biblically, and Susan Lim's Transplant cells, not organs. Every time I think I know enough, TED tells me more.

Rookie Mag

Rookie Mag is an online magazine started by Tavi Gevinson of Style Rookie who, by my definition, is the coolest, most awesome 15/16-year-old best friend I wish I had in high school. Seriously, this girl is mad talented. To add to this slew of linkage fanfare, I will also lift a quote by her from a recent Rookie article:

"If I look at anyone long enough, I will fall in love with them. I only want friends and   romantic partners who are the same way, because people are beautiful and that’s why life is interesting. Even though I believe in evolution, I think there’s something holy about the fact that what it’s resulted in is human consciousness and the ability to make and appreciate art and appreciate each other, so I feel like we should all be doing that more, and that means appreciating parts of each other that are weird and hairy and smelly."

Doesn't that just make you want to jump off a bridge because its beauty resonates so profoundly, its vibrations cannot help but help you commit suicide. Just kidding. But honestly, I am so glad there is at least one high school girl that gets it- meaning the meaning of life beyond schoolyards, bad hair days and chiffon prom dresses.

Rookie is a collaboration of girls from the blogosphere and beyond that focuses on developing and strengthening your inner girl- which I totally believe exists in guys as well. It is feminist-based, which has a scary facade, but simply means equality of the sexes, and covers everything from personal style to playlists. To keep with the high school spirit, each new post is reveal each weekday in time intervals: 3 pm (after-school afternoon special), 7 pm (dinner time), and 11 pm (sweet dreams). I love their dedication to their viewers, their dissection of  girl hate (which I think is the best article I have read in a long time, and which I have been a victim to too many times), and their eclectic mix of articles focused on empowering the modern girl . 

Rookie Mag has also helped me discover the incredible style of Arabelle and the incredible writing of Jenny Zhang. Needless to say, I am super bummed about Rookie Roadtrip not coming to Washington...

This American Life 

So, my relationship with my radio is sort of schizophrenic. Lately, I either listen to what my parents listen to (which is the classical music station, and which my favorite segment, Saturday's livestream of opera at the Met, I seem to always always miss) or the country radio station- because I've embraced the whole living-relatively-close-to-the-South thing, okay? Gosh, I love Eric Church.

Thus, I don't dedicate enough time listening to National Public Radio on the radio. I have always loved Ira Glass (and have been always slightly jealous of his voice- as smooth as blown glass bubbles) and I now love listening to This American Life on my laptop- Jubilee! It all started as an innocent homework assignment from my General Psychology Professor and turned into a love fest. When was the last time you thought of psychopaths? Of the United States' war with Panama? Of the meaning of money? As happy as I am to be trapped in a croissant factory, I am more happy lounging on my bed at the darkest of night and listening. It is the most relaxing and interesting amalgamation.

 Entertaining:
I am not the most amazing party host, partially because I am not old enough to drink and what's a party without liquor? I desperately wish to be one of those 1950s housewives who wear Lilly Pulitzer-esque dresses with a slender, cool glass of pink lemonade in hand, effortlessly distributing cocktail napkins around the living room crowd. You can see I have a vivid imagination.

My Suitcase Heart

Janis, a Canadian blogger posts deliriously delicious pictures of her everyday life, which makes me think her life revolves around parties in the best sense of the word. She makes everything look so easy, breezy. Gorgeous picnics are deduced to watermelon-in-hand snapshots of people just basically having a good time. Party for twenty? No big deal; lemme just whip out a candlelight feast from the back of my pocket. Basically all of her posts include food and nature- a girl near and dear to my heart.

THAT'S ALL, FOLKS, but is only just an excerpt to the collection of blogs/mags/websites I very much like. This makes me sound like I have no life, which I don't (for the most part). Happy Following!

The Summer of the Green Smoothie & Other Shindigs

 (via Joy the Baker)- because all green smoothies practically look the same.

A couple of weeks ago, I remembered that I had a blender. For the past decade or so (boy, don't I sound old now?), it had been conveniently tucked away in storage, masked under a cardboard box and getting acquainted with dust bunnies.

But ever since its being discovered, I developed the most miraculous recipe with it. It is simply a green smoothie, and it is so so delicious. Yes, it may smell like freshly mowed grass at first, and it may be an acquired taste, but it is seriously healthy and a seriously lazy solution for gals like me who dislike eating a plateful of raw spinach without dressing, think most store-bought dressing as fattening and unnecessary, and lack the patience to whip up the Barefoot Contessa's vinaigrette (however amazing it may be) every day.

The recipe only calls for three actual ingredients (unless us first-worlders count ice an actual ingredient). I pile on handfuls of triple-washed spinach (again, I am too lazy to wash my own spinach), two handfuls of frozen blueberries (which, in itself, is a great substitute for popsicles), and gradually pour in 1/2 cup of organic soymilk (again again, not sure if organic even matters when it comes to the matter with soymilk) into a medium-sized blender. To achieve a generally smooth consistency, I pulse the mixture and then whirl.

You may choose to add ice cubes to the blender, but because my blender is from, like, 1986, it doesn't process ice so well; so I generally use already crushed ice. It is a rather thick mixture at first, but once the ice begins to melt, it is the perfect smoothie consistency. The soymilk's creamy and nutty mixture overrides the majority of the spinach's earthy essence and the smoothie tastes like blueberry pulp with sprigs of summer.

To be even more adventurous (and smashingly healthy), I halve the spinach portion and substitute with fresh kale- the most glorious super-food on the planet- which enhances the woodsy essence by a few decibels. These recipes make me want to become a rawtarian which I cannot possibly do because I love roasted sweet potatoes too much.

Another amazing snack that I've discovered this summer is Boulder Canyon's Rice & Bean Natural Salt Artisan Snack Chips whose name is bigger than the calories in a serving. I've never been a fan of fried potato chips, and these are the perfect alternative. Wegman's carries two variations- Chipotle Cheese and Sea Salt (I'm partial to the former). 


I don't eat out as frequently as I used to. Instead, I've been boiling, steaming, roasting, et al. at home; it's been fantastic. I've also become addicted to Pinterest, which is a great starter to a productive summer (I kid).

Reflection on Italy: Part 3

I guess when you spend a great deal of time in Italy, it loses its mystique. It's like when you stop yourself amidst the sightseeing and eating, and think, wait this is it. All of the glamour that surrounds the country stops being so mysterious and grandmothers with loose skins donning floral dresses, carrying plastic brown shopping bags in which onion spurts dangle from starts becoming a common sight.

But it's not sad, I don't think, because that's what traveling does; it peels back with its sharp, incisive metal tweezers another translucent layer of skin. Yet it also reveals a pink, undiscovered mass of questions directed at ourselves. I suppose travel changes you because it limits your supposed life and opens the world that could have been. Every time I see a new culture, I question the essence of my foundation. What if I was born here or there...just how different would I be?

My mother started the holiday with a memo pad, scribbled in jumpy cursive all the churches we must visit, not because we were religious, but because that's where Bernini and Caravaggio lived. The sculptures and paintings in real-life have this magical quality that the Baroque artists captured so exquisitely. The drama of the scene whispered down the quiet nave, and resonated inside the audience.

But I think another layer of Italy spoke more directly. It was after we had visited the town of Siena and were driving to this old farmhouse we were staying for the night. It was sunset on a cloudless May day, and passing the rolling hills of Tuscany with the window down and the wind in my hair, seeing the patches of green and yellow and the richly dense sky pencils, I felt this great calm blanket settle in. It was this moment of enlightenment when I started crying for this dimensional platform surpassed any marble or canvas I'd ever seen. The pastures radiated and the world was majestic. To be born here, I realized, is to be the same nature as the earth, and to die in this land is to be reawakened again.

I felt the same great sense when I was climbing Mt. Vesuvius. In that densely matte gray fog lies a white emptiness and an absolute silence. I heard my heart beat, and the breathe of my every exhale. Heaven and Hell were figurative for I was encapsulated in this great unknown. It wasn't so much frightening as it was an immensely meditative experience for when you cut the cord, you realize that the music mustn't always play. When you watch the world pass, alone, you receive the messages of the earth and of yourself.

James Joyce

In describing the diction of Finnegan's Wake, Wikipedia provides a slough of literary terms inconceivable to the average man. How discouraging and what a futile attempt to dive into the world of advanced literature.

Reflections on Italy: Part 2

Venice- the city I was most concerned about. Of course, the streets of water truly meander and rustic homes line like bricks between cross sections and quiet streams. It would be a scenic town except for the grossly overweight tourist-local ratio.

 

I hadn't really understood the local culture until the last night. Restaurants open late in Italy and the city comes to life after the kitschy tourist shops drawn down their iron curtains and the morning travelers fold their eyes. Even at 11 o'clock, pools of golden light illuminate from antiquated shrines dedicated to antediluvian gastronomy while outside, streets are blanketed by darkness, grey and quiet. Locals stand and sit in perfect company, reclining against bar counters with glasses of deep red wine or sinking in frothy booths, hugging egg-yolk yellow pastas.

And so is the culture of Italy. Conversation breathed in every dining experience and our dinners lasted an average of 2 1/2 hours. Waiters chatted comfortably with patrons and with neighborhood friends outside on cobblestone streets before welcoming them in, pet in tow and patiently palmed checks until the party requested for the bill. Cappuccinos, in their petite cups, tottered out, symbolizing the end of a meal.

The gastronomy is, without exception, delicious. And, as expected, homemade is always best. My favourite meal was at a Tuscan farmhouse we had rented for the night. The couple who owned the property were warm and wholesome and invited us to dine in their wine cellar, which had exposed pink bricks and dusty bottles of wine lining wooden shelves. The red wine was product of their private vineyard and the thick, glutenous spirals of pasta, sauteed artichokes and braised beef were rich, hearty chef d'oeuvres of her kitchen stove. There was a dimensionality to each of the dishes, whether from the gleaming olive oil or from the placement of fruit, that projected artisan modesty.

Reflections on Italy: Part 1

It's been more than a month since I departed for Italy. And I guess with the jet-lag and meandering in tow, this post has long since been delayed.

My parents love to say the word Italy with a particular zest, stretching out its syllables like the way a harmonica attempts to play slurs or the way gritty caramel feels against your tongue. Their interpretation of the country, in my opinion, is a bit of a paradox. Italy is rude and rushed, its city streets lack a clear dividing line and cars mingle haphazardly in a broth of congestion and diesel fumes. Yet Italy is smooth and slow in the tangents off of major intersections, and encrusted in the aged, gleaming cobblestones lie cafe nooks, gems offering coffee in its most archaic form.

My notion of Italy was abstract. Unlike my parents, who had invested months learning to decipher some unspoken code of the authentic Italian lifestyle, I was at school, with a head swimming with facts and figures and eyes targeting future exams rather than future travels. Did I have wanderlust? I guess so, and even more so after the mad rush of May. But even then the idea of Italy was an ambiguous geometric shape. I wasn't sure when my flight left or how many days I was going to stay. My only desire was to discover a most perfect setting, and immerse in the emotions of seeing absolute symmetry. I wanted to be in awe and I yearned to have my breathe drawn away by a serene encounter with God.

I thought I would find it in a majestic cathedral or a quiet chapel. I thought I would surely find it in the Vatican, which with the setting of the afternoon sun, welcomed magnificent prisms of golden light. The marble interior exhaled slivers and pockets of cool air while pilgrims shuffled quietly along the nave and rested in creaky wooden benches.

But there was a lack there. And unlike my predictions, I was to discover enlightenment in very unexpected places.

For once, I would like to find a blazer that does not make me look like I'm 50-years-old or Cher Horowitz.

I mean, really, can it be that difficult?
And from my experience and long string of flawed trying-on sessions, it surely seems this way.

The meaning of summer.

Consumed full fat Starbucks and picked at Five Guys french fries in the car today. What a rebel I am.

The cigarette never ends.

My three favorite profiles from Stylelikeu. I adore them to no end.

Scout Willis

Sarah Sophie Flicker

Maria Elba

Italy 5/18

Engulfing one ball of mozzarella per day and a bottle of red wine. Fat and happy.

College, in retrospect.

My year ended Thursday. I can describe it as a flurry of crinkled memories, like some iridescent snowstorm that just gushed and blew me into May. Honestly, I look back on the year only to remember snippets of conversation and images like film stills, and the classrooms and where I sat. It was great, actually, that I spent time with friends, strangers and myself.

My education has reached great capacities, yet in the most unexpected way. I came to college wanting to absorb everything, to soak up some rich broth like a sea sponge yet left knowing that I absolutely knew nothing at all, that nothing of this world is absolute and everything is on the verge of achieving a balance between some two dramatic dichotomies.

I guess I left college with goals toward improving myself and my image of myself. These ballooned about during my final week, during finals week. I remember distinctively, after spending days and nights in the commotion of the library, amidst the highlighters, note cards, and subdued conversation, I came home one night to an absolute and alluring silence that seemingly fed my soul. My head was swimming with facts and figures and percentages as I crawled until the covers. Yet under the dim yellow light, I stared at the coolness and solitude and finally understood the importance of being alone, even for brief moments of time.

That time created this great synthesis which amounted to a general questioning of myself and my actions and the frailty of life. I discovered that academic success does not, in any way, guarantee happiness, that I could honestly die tomorrow, and then what would my life have been? Would I even consider it significant- would my name be etched in some little corner of some desk or even on a piece of gravel?

I was recently recommended Tolstoy's A Confession in which Tolstoy dissects the general basis of his life and living- the ultimate, universal questions. In the questioning of his purpose, he attempts to encompass the infinite, which is absurd in both the philosophical and general sense. He questions why man is not dead yet, why we continue living if answers of science were acceptable enough. If we all know we are going to die and that mankind holds mere seconds of the universe's attention, why not die already? Why are we resilient and so stubborn?

An answer can be for the existence of God. That we live with this inherent notion, perhaps subconsciously, that we are to dedicate our entire beings to mapping the stars of the unknown and of an all-powerful being or energy. If this were true, then we are all on specific journeys of worship. On my first day of religion class, my professor offered a definition of religion as an "ultimate concern"- a concern regarding the end of time. Yet perhaps this answer cannot be so neatly classified into a religion, but a faith. To be faithful, I've come to know, is one of the most difficult actions in the world because it follows no path and offers no conclusive evidence of its existence except our interpretations. Yet to have it sealed with wax in our hearts is a deeply treasured essence connecting us, human nature and the world.

Tolstoy's questions are addicting and intoxicating and I cannot escape them. But I must go on living and questioning and observing as I continue my college education.

After a rejection

you should just die, explode or wither in the sun or flick off with an automatic switch. Yet why can't we?

Convincing enough.

here.

Something Interesting.

There’s something interesting about the initial moments after someone has decided to like you. It seems as if that person cannot entertain any thought except how bathed in yellow light you are or how smooth your skin looks or how many teeth you have. 

It is in those instance when I want to shout from the mountains the endless lists of flaws I, like anyone else, have, or perhaps even more. That image has been photoshopped and stamped and seamlessly ironed, seas away from the ugly muck that is reality. For me, it holds a certain type of expectation, to be well-mannered, kind, to speak softly and curtsy. 

The eyes say it all, that look of enchantment and light that twists at my soul, and makes me want to wear a big coat, some protective layer between me and the rest of the world I’m supposed to be.

I often wonder what it feels like to like someone wholeheartedly (not that I haven’t experienced a fragment of that nerve). But to embrace the fullness of another person is so foreign and so frightening. There are always knots of doubt in my mind I can never loosen.

The same cannot be said about some things. Like experiences, like every single time I step out of my Art History class, when I see the whole world shift and the afternoon sun and wind invigorate me and I’m left with this immense awe of life and of seeing. If only I could cloak this feeling onto a person. Would I, then, be any wiser?