promise the party

Friday nights in Manhattan have increasingly become strange, forbidden creatures as we've gotten older; one day, the cool scruffy older people turn into the trying-to-be-cool scruffy younger people, and it becomes harder not to raise eyebrow when people try to make you go into crammed bars playing songs that everyone loved in 2002.

Still, there's one thing that can get a borough-adverse old person to a loud Manhattan club on a Friday night, and that is the birthday party of a stranger. Birthday parties (and parties in general, really) of people I don't know are my favorite kind of party, and I find that even when I'm feeling hesitant to attend events hosted by people I know and love, I can usually manage to get myself to the party of someone I don't know with little trouble.

(When you're alone amongst strangers, you're still essentially having alone time.)

And so last weekend, I hit Manhattan on a Friday night with two friends, all of us thinking that at best something interesting might happen. For the most part, it didn't, but crowd-watching offers a unique opportunity for memory. Days prior, I'd put myself in a slightly different alone-among-others setting in both an effort to calm myself after a tough day and to continue the project of aloneness I've been slowly and silently working on for the past month. I went out for a drink at one of my favorite bars, and I remembered suddenly where all of this "parties of strangers" business began.

Here is a confession: I drink for two reasons. The first reason I drink is because I am very, very fond of the taste of whiskey (and beer, to a certain extent.) The second reason is a bit more complicated and a tiny bit shameful: I drink because it's the easiest way to get people to tell you everything about themselves they wouldn't ordinarily say.

There's one other good way to get people to say such things about themselves, and it involves the formality of an interview and the presence of a need for the interviewing. For years now, I've dabbled here and there in some vague form of music journalism; at a certain point, I engaged myself in it enough to actually schedule interviews with bands. One afternoon, I found myself on the phone with a singer-songwriter promoting his band's final, posthumous album, trying to figure out how to ask questions about a project that no longer existed. We ended up engaged in a lengthy discussion about writing processes; from there, writing in general; from there, the school we both happened to have taken the writing program at.

What was meant to be a twenty minute interview turned out to be a ninety minute conversation, and following it I had the weird feeling that I'd made a friend on accident. Emails were exchanged, and at some point a few weeks later, he happened to invite me to his girlfriend's birthday party. I gathered up my begrudging boyfriend that evening and set off for Greenpoint to make some friends of strangers.

The events that followed have been made fuzzy by years (and assuredly, alcoholic beverages), but what I remember best is how astounded I was to be in the presence of such a truly bizarre mix of people from all manner of the arts. Teachers, artists, and theater producers alike were gathered together, and not knowing how any of them fit together in the relationship puzzle was this great, fun mystery to unlock. I can't remember ever putting myself in a more awkward or more intriguing situation, and when I left that bar I felt as though things in my life were really and truly changing.

For whatever reason - probably just the pure awkwardness of meeting someone in person after you've barely but meaningfully connected with them in another manner - I didn't become fast friends with the songwriter in question; I think we sent one or two more random emails and then never heard from each other again. I've never seen any of the people from that night again, and I doubt I would recognize them if I ran into them in the street. Still, there's something so compelling about the stories of strangers, something that feels important in a way that opens up your world.

So when you're standing years later in a shitty Manhattan bar drinking a ten dollar whiskey, you're quite ready to say "sure" when the lumberjack-chic fellow next to you wants to start a dance party, because you in truth have no idea what might happen after that. It can never hurt to find out.

up in the air

"There are then cases where faith creates its own verification. Believe, and you shall be right, for you shall save yourself; doubt, and you shall again be right, for you shall perish. The only difference is that to believe is greatly to your advantage." - William James

It is highly likely that you either had a Valentine's Day that involved a date of some sort, which probably also involved some kind of candy or dinner or perhaps a movie. It is also quite likely that if you did not partake in some form of the former, you spent at least part of your day having negative feelings about the holiday's existence or your relationship status.

I considered following both of these paths, and rejected both options. (Truth be told, I'm sure navigating the first would have been a little bit difficult, but I'm nice enough that I like to think I could get a date if I really tried.) Instead, I spent a large chunk of my evening at my favorite bar with one of my favorite people, getting rather drunk, eating a shameful amount of french fries, and having a pretty serious conversation about faith and religion.

I have written previously about my shocking lack of an opinion when it comes to spirituality, and I surprise myself more and more by realising just how much of it I'm open to. I have always been grateful to have been raised an agnostic, presuming that it's given me the tools I need to question things before I subscribe to them. Still I wonder: what if it has given me the same problem that those who've grown up in organized religion might have? What if I'm stuck in questioning mode and never able to take a leap of faith because I can't see outside of the way I was raised?

These questions were all posed as I dipped fries into ketchup, knocked back Jamesons, and shared funny looks with the bartender. I came to a weird conclusion that this is an avenue in my life that needs to be studied, and I came to an even weirder one that maybe I should start by giving up agnosticism for Lent. Is it as hard for me to believe in something as it is for me to make an effort? (Are they essentially the same thing?)

Along these lines, I had a relatively stressful and unpleasant sort of week, which was punctuated on Friday by a series of exclamation points in the form of big, work-related news that falls under the category of "good problems to have." Immediately after coming to terms with the idea that I don't know how to try, I have been faced with realities that mean I am going to have no choice but to try. If that's not the work of a higher power, I don't know what is.

So I'm terrified, and there's been a lot of hand-holding done on the friend front because of it, and I've got three days of anxiety attacks under my belt as I cruise on into whatever it is life has to offer me. Friday night I went out with another close friend, the first person to hear the story of my day. "What if I fail?" I asked him with fear in my heart.

He took a swig of his beer. "If you fail, then you fail. But...you're not going to fail."

Here is what I know: I have to try, and I believe in the words of William James far more than I believe in myself. I don't really have a good idea of what Lent is or the story behind it, but I'm willing to start there and give up something that's been a very central part of my life for a long time. I'm not going to convert to a religion and I'm not going to suddenly change the way that I live my life, but for forty days, I am going to give up doubt.

Wish me luck - or, as it happens, belief.

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.