regarding hell and effort.

Part I: Hell

" Four blocks, run and hide, don’t walk alone at night. Cityscape, city change before they die." - Tegan & Sara, "Hell"

A few brief words on what it feels like for a girl - if the girl is me, anyway, which is the only sort of girl I know how to be. Today I walked through the Brooklyn blizzards into Greenpoint, and as I walked I thought about the route I take so often to friends' houses and favorite bars. To me, it's an eventless and innocuous journey, one I use to sort out the contents of my brain and fall in love with whatever's in my headphones.

Then there's the matter of what happens after you get where you're going. Sometimes, you'll find your female friends declaring that you're about to marry someone you've hung out with maybe twice. Other times, your guy friends are willing to grant you temporary dude (or sometimes better, "hot chick who hangs out with the dudes") status, but when you get up to leave the bar, they try not to let you walk the fifteen blocks home because they're certain you'll be raped, mugged, or worse.

"Four blocks, I should mention in a song if I want to get along with change, who doesn’t want to change this?"

Most of the time, you don't think about these things. A tiny percentage of the time, however, you wonder what you're more in danger of, getting married or getting mugged. You hope desperately that there's an in-between.

Part II: Effort

After I walked through the blizzard into Greenpoint, my friend Kate and I headed to the beer store to warm ourselves by a crackling fire (and, well, drink a beer). Somewhere in the course of conversation, I thought aloud about what it is that makes me well-liked at my job, as I know it isn't effort. "I don't think I try," I admitted. "I don't really think I ever try at anything."

This bothered me a great deal, leading me down the path of least resistance to a terrible mood and an early departure. Walking home (still, I might add, through further blizzard), I thought long and hard about things I have tried at, and I made a shortlist.

Things I Have Tried At:

• 1. Modern Deductive Logic. (Hardest thing ever.)
• 2. Boys. Not very many of them. In fact, I can count exactly three.
• 3. Classical Greek. (Second hardest thing ever.)
• 4. Happiness. I can't explain this one exactly but I've had people ask me, repeatedly, how I can be so happy so much of the time. I have never known how to say, "I tried."

By contrast, things I have not tried at include the bulk of those things I consider important: music, writing, most creative outlets, baking bread, philosophy, other people (most of the time)...the list is as long as the first is short.

Here is the part in most blog entries where I come up with an insightful and / or concise conclusion. This time, all I have to say is that this is a problem I don't know how to fix.

a snow day

There is a small window of time where snow in New York City is beautiful and in all it's glory. You have to catch it before the masses enter, muddying it up and turning it into an ugly inconvenience. Since my eyes snap open so early these days, I decided to take advantage of my grandma-like tendencies. And I walked through the beginnings of a snow storm, passing only a handful of brave souls attempting to plow head first into their days as usual.






On a clear day this view looks directly into mid manhattan, as pictured in a previous post. If you look closely enough, you can start to make out the buildings across the river.

i was never bored at all

"Far away they tell me you're not really well, but no one's really well these days -
I will not let this be, if you won't let this be." - Matt Pond PA

"Oh jeez. Being a person is just the scariest fucking thing." - me, in an email to my best friend, approximately five minutes ago

I've been whining about the listlessness, the uselessness, the "why does nothing happen that's good and honest and lovely?" complex that is the month of February. I've been whining in part because it feels true and in part because, honestly, it can be nice to complain and not apologize for it. Sometimes it feels weirdly reassuring to feel bad.

Over the past week or so, I've become obsessed with the archives of a Yahoo! mail account that I stopped using around 2005. In it are some of the most honest, raw, loving letters any person could ever hope to receive. That they are in electronic rather than paper form is a fact that has never bothered me; they've remained a part of me regardless, and their importance is centered around the fact that most of them were written hastily in the computer lab at the New School. Where the art of letter-writing has long been a lamented, lost form, there is much to be said for the urgency of email and our ability to rapid-fire respond to situations with song-lyric subject lines and run-on sentences that give away our excitement.

I have a friend I've written about many times, one I keep sort of tucked away in my consciousness and hang out with rarely considering she lives in a neighborhood I frequent. We have a sliding-scale sort of relationship: sometimes I know that she will disappear. Sometimes I will send her a long, rambly email every month or two for the better part of a year before she responds. Still, we are friends; still, I refer to her as one of my closest, and these old emails are something I have that proves it above all else.

There is so much heartache and confusion in these words that they're painful to read, and at the same time, it's hard to remember how it felt to be in the mindset her responses are meant to soothe. We watched each other get our hearts broken and we hid inside our favorite records to make ourselves feel better about it, and to date there is no person who makes me feel better about having my heart broken than this girl.

And when I say "better", I mean that sometimes being hurt can feel like the brightest, clearest, worth-it thing in the entire world, and when you find someone who can put words together in such a way that feeling bad feels totally amazing, you better keep them forever...even if that means your relationship with that person is unconventional and seemingly improbable in its own lifespan.

Somewhere in between re-reading emails early this morning at the office and arriving home to put words down in written form, I came to a certain acceptance with the knowledge that who I am as a person is someone who is wildly, unforgivably attracted to slightly off-kilter people. These people will never respond to me in an orderly fashion, and their actions may often mismatch their intentions. They will sometimes be damaged in ways I can't fix, or simply just unwilling to give attention to things they're not wholly consumed by at any given moment. They are usually brilliant in some striking and unforgettable way; they are complex and withdrawn in a much more subtle, hard-to-parse manner.

These are the people I will always love the hardest. These are the people who might not answer my text messages for six months in a row, but will spend three years trying to make me the perfect mix tape and end up with a shoebox full of half-constructed A-sides underneath their bed. I can't predict the future, but I will not be surprised if one day I finally marry one of these people and have weird and unforgettable children who disappear for months on end and then write "I love yous" all over my mailbox with finger paint.

Take the ones who can make you feel really good about feeling bad, and keep them in whatever manner they will allow you. That's really the only advice I could ever give anyone.

oh, tegan and sara

I love Tegan and Sara. And by that, I mean I love Tegan and Sara. To the point where Flynn and I, several years ago now, re-created the above photo:



Sure, we were both working for their record label at the time and were completely surrounded by everything T&S influencing us to the point of actually staging this. But still. This obviously means I'm a tad obsessed. And I'm completely okay with this.

Why, oh why, do I love them so, you ask? Somehow, by chance, these twins have found their way into my life at such impressionable times. And I'm the kind of person who will love certain things, not because they're necessarily good, but rather because I hold a strong autobiographical sentimental attachment to them. I never asked for Tegan and Sara to play such a significant role; I just kept happening upon them. College? Check. Living overseas and working at a small record shop where I played "So Jealous" as much as was allowed by my co-workers after seeing them by chance in college? Check. Moving to NYC and happening to get a job at their record label? Check.
Now I've only had the pleasure of seeing them live five times, but every one has been in a different stage of their career (and mine). Time 1 was at a small bar/venue I worked at in college, where they played to a crowd of about 30 and I manned the soda bar in the back of the room. It was my first time hearing their music. Their on-stage banter and catchy music left me mesmerized. They were witty, talented, hilarious and just downright pleasant. Who wouldn't love that? The next four times would find the crowds and venues getting larger. Every increase in venue size was accompanied by a similar increase in ticket price.

Now don't get me wrong, I'm all for supporting the artist and actually paying for tickets for bands that I really want to see. I've gone so much as to spend $45 dollars per ticket per night for their 2 night stint at Town Hall a few months back. But recently, they announced an "intimate" show at the Music Hall of Williamsburg. Ticket price: $75 dollars. SEVENTY FIVE DOLLARS?! At first I thought "hey, maybe they're donating some of their proceeds to a good cause, perhaps to Haiti"? But no. Those twins who I love so dearly have suddenly become greedy animals and are completely screwing me over. I couldn't bring myself to buy a ticket. Mainly because I just can't afford a ticket; times are tough. As much as I want to be at that show, I can't be. Maybe they think that by charging $75 they are limiting this "special" event to the die-hard fans. But it seems they're only alienated us. And in the process are making us feel terrible about the entire situation.

Tegan and Sara, I ask you this: Why?

Thoughts; just a few thoughts.

"When Levin thought about what he was and what he was living for he found no answer and fell into despair; but when he stopped asking himself about it he seemed to know both what he was and what he was living for, since he acted and lived firmly and definitely; in this last period, indeed, he lived far more firmly and definitely than he had before." —Leo Tolstoy, Anna Karinina


I relish the moments that I'm able to spend alone. I wasn't always this way, but over the years have become the most content in these times. But with these moments come others where my mind goes into overdrive. My thoughts will almost always take control and over-analyzing becomes the entire days agenda. This usually leads to emotional extremes in every direction, spiraling out of control. But, like Levin in Tolstoy's Anna Karenina, I sometimes have to stop myself from this over thinking and start simply doing, or else despair will find it's way in. It is at these times that I become most productive. And this morning, after a full Saturday of seclusion and reflection, I once again headed to The Metropolitan Museum of Art, this time getting lost in 1700-1800 France. As I wandered in and out of these great halls, extreme in their own gilded ways, I replaced my own thoughts with those in the stories and histories I hold so dearly.




While at museums, I am always confronted with the reality that disturbs me to great lengths. As I walk the halls attempting to place my head in that of the artists, I can look in any direction and see someone distracted by their phone. Watching the world become completely dependent on constant communication through devices from social networking to the latest smart phone greatly perturbs me. It has become completely accepted that time spent with friends or family, at home or out and about, will always include more than are there physically. Obsessive text messaging, twitter, and facebook updates to anyone and everyone who will listen have worked their way into our every day, every hour, every minute. When did constant communication over the most mundane things become a mandatory part of our lives? Is everyone out there that attention starved?

Perhaps this stems from me not having a smart phone and not working in front of a computer. I'll fully admit to having fallen into these habits when I did work in front of a computer all day. They were little breaks in my work that seemed innocent enough. But were they? After posting/e-mailing/texting something to someone/something, I immediately wanted results. It somehow boosted my sense of worth that someone somewhere was in-tune with what I said or did at that exact moment. But why? Why do we need this instant gratification and self-assurance through such attentions? Why were my emotions all over the place based on what a person posted that may or may not have anything to do with me? By exposing ourselves we lose our privacy, but I suppose privacy isn't important anymore, is it? My over thinking of this subject has caused me to take a break. I go days without checking facebook, and I rarely use my twitter account, and in fact have set it on private for the few posts that I do write. Don't get me wrong, I can see the benefits. News updates, and keeping in touch with friends who I don't get to see often. But honestly, are people this bored with their lives that they need these constant connections? Are they trying to impress the person they are with by showing how popular they are in answering as many texts/calls/e-mails/twitter mentions/facebook updates that they possibly can? When I'm with someone who does this, I've found that I automatically reach to my phone as some kind of obscure retaliation. I would rather not surround myself with these people who make me feel bad about not checking my phone every 3 minutes. Why would I want to be around someone who's own insecurities make me question my own? To me, I see these people and I instantly judge. I can't help it. In my eyes, by needing this constant companion that feeds its owner with the attention they crave is a definitive sign of weakness. In the past I've fallen into such weaknesses, and in hindsight am completely embarrassed by these actions.

By taking part in this blog, I'm a complete hypocrite. I know this. But for me, this isn't about attention. In fact, only a a small handful of my closest friends who probably will be told everything I write on here in person at some point have been given this blogs address.

There is nothing firm or definitive in these devices and methods. They merely leave things open-ended in the most passive aggressive way. I only wonder what Tolstoy would write about this all if he were alive today...

But here I am over-thinking again.

the importance of being earnest (and writing about it)

Approximately nine years ago, I went to see one of my favorite bands, and their bass player jumped off the stage after their set and introduced himself to me. A little while later, I wrote him this email. It's a little too honest and it's a little too exhuberant and it's a little embarrassing - but if I had never written it, I'd have gone through these nine years without one of my closest friends.

I share it here because I'm pretty sure the best things come from being a little too honest or a little too embarrassing, and I am more likely to forget this fact than anyone.

[He said this morning, about the below, "this is not nerdy. who doesn't dream of the job of being understood!"]

Hey Matt -

First of all, I have to preface this email with the following. (It turns out to be relevant, honest.)

The Posies have been my favorite band for about five years - and while that made me somewhat a latecomer in terms of the band's lifespan, what I lost in time I have always made up for in enthusiasm. And when Ken Stringfellow's first solo record came out at the end of 1997, I shut my ears to all the negative reviews because what *I* heard in that record was more than the wankery of which he was accused. I heard a lo-fi and heartfelt album full of bedroom songs and one of the most sincere broken hearts I've ever encountered, offset by the kind of disjointed drum tracks that splice through the thoughts in our heads. It made sense to me when not much else did, just as the Posies always have; it was there for me when I needed it, and I sometimes feel like that, above all, is what transforms a good record into an amazing one.

So of *course* I was ready and waiting for his 2001 release when it came out - a combination of songs I'd already attached myself to long ago mixed with newer and even more promising stuff; I knew that "Touched" would be as fully developed and carefully thought out as it deserved to be. I knew that if there was one thing that I could count on this year, it would be the excellence of that record, and I knew that it would make me smile and cry at the same time, which is always the true test of what matters musically.

And I wasn't disappointed - at all. The new record met and then exceeded my expectations, and I'm still as in love with that voice as I always was. This was never in question.

Here's where the point of this story comes in: I've been caught off-guard. Because I know that at the end of the year when I sit down and write a rambling review of the year's amazing music that only my best friend will give a shit about, not one but *two* albums will be above Ken Stringfellow on that numbered list. The first is one that, frankly, I'd expected - because it's been a while since Drip broke up, and because it would never even occur to Andy LeMaster to create anything less than perfect and Now It's Overhead proves that point with ease.

The second album in question is "The Convenience of Indecision," by this little band called Sorry About Dresden who I've loved since first listen, and whose new album I knew would be really good, but...this is so much more than that. This is "I'm not even going to tell you how long this has been on repeat in my stereo because I try not to frighten people" good. And it's here for me when I need it.

So basically I just wanted to say thanks, firstly, to the Dresdens in general for being the Dresdens.

All of that said, I would also happen to be the girl known to far too many people as "Sienna's best friend," and the first girl to bug you about that Drip radio show (as opposed to Stephanie from WI, who I don't actually know, but I think we've now embarrassed poor Sienna by accident), and I don't think I ever actually introduced myself at the NJ show, so hi, I'm Sarah. Anyway, would you still be willing to make me a copy of the show? I would be happy to send you blanks in return, or I could trade if there's anything I have that you might want a copy of. I don't have much in the way of boots, and I'm not sure how big of a Posies fan you are, but I have a few decent shows of theirs.

So let me know, and thank you, and if this is really incoherent or I've written it in Greek or something it's because I'm horribly sick and I am on so much cold medication I can barely see straight and I'm having one of those nights where I wish I'd never heard the words "grad school". Hope the rest of the tour went well and Matty's head is okay.

-s.

a field guide to being alone.

Life as I know it is a series of birthday dinners and other celebratory gestures. In June, it's a sneaky sort of delight: "I've been out dancing every night - and I'm not getting anything done!" In February, it's a slower sort of regret: "Oh. I'm not getting anything done."

February is the month where everyday ordinary things seem hard: getting out of bed in the morning when you can hear the wind howl and it's still dark, working through your office To-Do list even when the things on it are simple and mundane. You find yourself with clear, bright intentions. This week you have 15-18 miles to run, you have to do your taxes, you have a few story ideas burning in your head and you're actually quite excited to attempt to pin them down and force them into language.

What unfolds instead is this dance of birthdays, the call of happy hour, the simplicity of invites to dinners at friends' homes, the lure of a rock show, and the innocence of "do you want to stay and have a drink?" It is rare for any of these nights to be late or wild or overly drunken, but they manage to suck such a nice slot of time that when you arrive home, you convince yourself of a deeper exhaustion that has you sliding into bed earlier than expected.

You are, in effect, keeping yourself distracted from being alone, but the only reason why is that it's February.

And so you wake up one (still February) morning and find that your day's plans have been cancelled due to a snowstorm that never came, and you note that you have yourself a weekend and nothing to fill it with but yourself and the notebooks, novels, and records that inhabit your living space. Shocked, a bit scared, you send a few messages intended to land you in someone else's world as soon as possible. And then, slightly dissatisfied at having to make an effort, you scale back.

If you're feeling any kind of discomfort about being alone, the first thing you must do is be alone for as long as possible until that feeling dissipates.

Then, from the cold hard ground of February come new signs of life in your brain: you listen to one of your favorite albums for an entire afternoon, you spend the entire day reading one of your favorite books, and you take the sudden Saturday silence of your Blackberry to mean that you're doing what's intended of you.

And then you remember that your entire existence used to look a great deal like this. You remember what it was like to go to rock shows alone, to spend weekend afternoons at the movies by yourself, to do everything in good measure by yourself because no one else's company quite matched what you wanted it to be. There's so much to be heralded about this fact no longer being the case, and about having a world filled with people who act in new and interesting ways every day.

Still, there's something to be said for this variety of alone, and you start googling the band whose record you're playing to see if they have any shows coming up. You might buy a ticket, just one, and you might consider this all part of a new project you like to call Alone.