Today's most gratifying piece of frivolous news had to be three year-old who, after being handed a freshly caught fowl ball at a Phillies game by her overzealous father, promptly threw it back into the field.
Not only do I laugh out loud every time I am revisited by this image, but I find it to be such hysterical karmic retribution for what I consider to be two of the most irritating human conditions: 1. The assumption that any instance of good fortune at least momentarily eclipses any need for human logic; and 2. Everyone's dumb preoccupation with their own children. I mean, come on, you're willing to sacrifice owning a tangible piece of sports history* for one solitary gesture that you likely deem as 'cute', even though your concept of cuteness has become so dangerously skewed by the affliction of early parenthood.
*Note: The magnitude of this description varies depending on what kind of baseball fan you are, I suppose, but I do not take the catching of a fowl ball lightly under any circumstances.
I harbor no real resentment toward parents or children or the dangerous combination of the two (two which you are likely responding, "Are you SURE about that?") I just find it truly, insanely hysterical that people who have children allow themselves to, on a REGULAR basis, be reduced to the same level of intellect as their spawn.
And will there come a day when my words prove hypocritical, and the sight of my own child's glowing smile is enough to reduce me to a pile of babbling mush? Maybe. But I'd like to think that I'd have the presence of mind to raise to kind of children who understand the sacred institution of Major League Baseball and who would behave accordingly.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
It just comes in where it left you last...
August ended just in time.
Just when wrapping yourself in a blanket of warm air begins to feel more like pushing your way through a vat of sticky pudding that someone left out too long, when your endless string of social engagements turns into one hangover too many, when your electric bill skyrockets to obscene levels because of an A/C unit that doesn't even work that well, and when the neighborhoods unknown by tourists become a little too eerily quiet on the weekends...
Just when you think that of all places to be in the dog days of summer, New York City is most definitely not one of them...
Suddenly, overnight, a cold front comes in and clears away the rotting garbage and the outfit-ruining impromptu rain showers and heat-induced fatigue and the mystery subway B.O., and ushers in a slight chill in the air that restores the spring in your step and bears a promise of, if noting else, a change.
And leave it to classy old New York, New York, to do it so exquisitely, so tastefully, right on cue.
-
I love Autumn for the same reason I love Spring...inherently fleeting and transitory, it always leaves you wanting more, aching for the time when it will come again.
Just when wrapping yourself in a blanket of warm air begins to feel more like pushing your way through a vat of sticky pudding that someone left out too long, when your endless string of social engagements turns into one hangover too many, when your electric bill skyrockets to obscene levels because of an A/C unit that doesn't even work that well, and when the neighborhoods unknown by tourists become a little too eerily quiet on the weekends...
Just when you think that of all places to be in the dog days of summer, New York City is most definitely not one of them...
Suddenly, overnight, a cold front comes in and clears away the rotting garbage and the outfit-ruining impromptu rain showers and heat-induced fatigue and the mystery subway B.O., and ushers in a slight chill in the air that restores the spring in your step and bears a promise of, if noting else, a change.
And leave it to classy old New York, New York, to do it so exquisitely, so tastefully, right on cue.
-
I love Autumn for the same reason I love Spring...inherently fleeting and transitory, it always leaves you wanting more, aching for the time when it will come again.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
New York strikes again.
Transported, enraptured, captivated.
These are just a few of the words I would use to describe the way I felt through every waking moment of "The Bacchae" tonight at the Delacorte in Central Park. Until tonight I had only been familiar with "Shakespeare in the Park" by way of reputation. I knew the following:
1) It took place in the Park,
2) It wasn't always Shakespeare,
3) It was free, and
4) People waited in line from 6AM to get tickets.
1 and 3 were hardly enough to get me past the absurdity of 2 and 4.
That said, when a friend offers you an extra ticket and your Thursday night is otherwise unplanned, you say yes. Besides, I love New York, and I love when entertainment intersects with the city's culture in such a way that, for the most part, attracts true New Yorkers with only a smattering of well-educated tourists among them.
I'm also not a scholar nor admirer of Greek Tragedy, much for the same reasons I don't like to take razor blades to my eyelids. The whole concept just seems ridden with unnecessary agony.
That said, I have a vague appreciation for the gut-wrenching brutality that drives the ancient genre, mostly because Northwestern force-fed it to me for a semester.
And if ever there were a way to experience The Bacchae or any of its contemporaries, I am now certain that it is this: In the heavy August air, buried just far enough into Central Park that the eerie rustling the trees and cicadas are not muffled by city sounds, in an amphitheater that, when you forget all too easily about the electricity required to light the stage or mic the actors, might as well be plucked out of another century.
What results is a theatrical experience - not one that can be credited to any individual component of performance or direction or design or production value - but a unique experience for which we only have to thank mother nature, literature that has endured for thousands of years, and a collection of people - actors and audience alike - with a shared commitment to give themselves over to the consuming powers of unbridled imagination.
These are just a few of the words I would use to describe the way I felt through every waking moment of "The Bacchae" tonight at the Delacorte in Central Park. Until tonight I had only been familiar with "Shakespeare in the Park" by way of reputation. I knew the following:
1) It took place in the Park,
2) It wasn't always Shakespeare,
3) It was free, and
4) People waited in line from 6AM to get tickets.
1 and 3 were hardly enough to get me past the absurdity of 2 and 4.
That said, when a friend offers you an extra ticket and your Thursday night is otherwise unplanned, you say yes. Besides, I love New York, and I love when entertainment intersects with the city's culture in such a way that, for the most part, attracts true New Yorkers with only a smattering of well-educated tourists among them.
I'm also not a scholar nor admirer of Greek Tragedy, much for the same reasons I don't like to take razor blades to my eyelids. The whole concept just seems ridden with unnecessary agony.
That said, I have a vague appreciation for the gut-wrenching brutality that drives the ancient genre, mostly because Northwestern force-fed it to me for a semester.
And if ever there were a way to experience The Bacchae or any of its contemporaries, I am now certain that it is this: In the heavy August air, buried just far enough into Central Park that the eerie rustling the trees and cicadas are not muffled by city sounds, in an amphitheater that, when you forget all too easily about the electricity required to light the stage or mic the actors, might as well be plucked out of another century.
What results is a theatrical experience - not one that can be credited to any individual component of performance or direction or design or production value - but a unique experience for which we only have to thank mother nature, literature that has endured for thousands of years, and a collection of people - actors and audience alike - with a shared commitment to give themselves over to the consuming powers of unbridled imagination.
Friday, August 14, 2009
This was fun.
Shamelessly stolen from Alyssa because, in the interest of conserving money, energy, and sanity, I am home on a Friday night:
Daily Intelligencer's 21 Questions →
Pretending I’m cool enough to be interviewed by NYmag.com.
Name: Kate
Age: 22
Neighborhood: UWS
Occupation: Singer, Actress, Usher, Theatrical Marketing Assistant
Who’s your favorite New Yorker, living or dead, real or fictional?
As a person he may not be my favorite, but Woody embodies New York for me.
What’s the best meal you’ve eaten in New York?
Probably caviar and champagne with my mom last Christmas at Petrossian, immediately before we saw Dustin Hoffman outside Carnegie Hall. Good day.
In one sentence, what do you actually do all day in your job?
Open mouth and make sound on pitch.
Oh, in my DAY job? Search for and implement new and effective strategies to uphold theater as a priority in the eyes of the public.
Would you still live here on a $35,000 salary?
I do, on less. Ouch.
What’s the last thing you saw on Broadway?
Ashamed to say Next to Normal, though this shouldn't be indicative of anything since I see pretty much everything that is on Broadway at any given point if I don't have to pay full price.
Do you give money to panhandlers?
Never. Street performers, often.
What’s your drink?
Morning: Coffee
Afternoon: Sprite Zero
Night: Miller Lite
Constantly: Water
How often do you prepare your own meals?
I work a mean microwave, but have taken to actually cooking (easy things) once or twice a week.
What’s your favorite medication?
Advil PM.
What’s hanging above your sofa?
A framed, black and white panoramic Henri Silberman photo of the Brooklyn Bridge/lower Manhattan. You know the one.
How much is too much to spend on a haircut?
$150.
When’s bedtime?
11:30 on weeknights, never on weekends.
Which do you prefer, the old Times Square or the new Times Square?
The old, if you're talking about the pedestrian plazas. Yuck. The last thing tourists need is another excuse to bring midtown to a standstill.
What do you think of Donald Trump?
I could care less. Completely ambivalent.
What do you hate most about living in New York?
Not having my car. Not that I would want to drive here.
Who is your mortal enemy?
Apathy.
When’s the last time you drove a car?
Two weeks ago. My beloved car, Roxie, gracefully navigating the twisting roads of suburban CT, where she belongs. Sigh.
How has the Wall Street crash affected you?
Emotionally and mentally far more than literally. It has significantly raised my sense of awareness, realism, and frugality.
Times, Post, or Daily News?
Times.
Where do you go to be alone?
My apartment.
What makes someone a New Yorker?
Being utterly unfazed yet deeply devoted to this city's limitless possibilities.
Daily Intelligencer's 21 Questions →
Pretending I’m cool enough to be interviewed by NYmag.com.
Name: Kate
Age: 22
Neighborhood: UWS
Occupation: Singer, Actress, Usher, Theatrical Marketing Assistant
Who’s your favorite New Yorker, living or dead, real or fictional?
As a person he may not be my favorite, but Woody embodies New York for me.
What’s the best meal you’ve eaten in New York?
Probably caviar and champagne with my mom last Christmas at Petrossian, immediately before we saw Dustin Hoffman outside Carnegie Hall. Good day.
In one sentence, what do you actually do all day in your job?
Open mouth and make sound on pitch.
Oh, in my DAY job? Search for and implement new and effective strategies to uphold theater as a priority in the eyes of the public.
Would you still live here on a $35,000 salary?
I do, on less. Ouch.
What’s the last thing you saw on Broadway?
Ashamed to say Next to Normal, though this shouldn't be indicative of anything since I see pretty much everything that is on Broadway at any given point if I don't have to pay full price.
Do you give money to panhandlers?
Never. Street performers, often.
What’s your drink?
Morning: Coffee
Afternoon: Sprite Zero
Night: Miller Lite
Constantly: Water
How often do you prepare your own meals?
I work a mean microwave, but have taken to actually cooking (easy things) once or twice a week.
What’s your favorite medication?
Advil PM.
What’s hanging above your sofa?
A framed, black and white panoramic Henri Silberman photo of the Brooklyn Bridge/lower Manhattan. You know the one.
How much is too much to spend on a haircut?
$150.
When’s bedtime?
11:30 on weeknights, never on weekends.
Which do you prefer, the old Times Square or the new Times Square?
The old, if you're talking about the pedestrian plazas. Yuck. The last thing tourists need is another excuse to bring midtown to a standstill.
What do you think of Donald Trump?
I could care less. Completely ambivalent.
What do you hate most about living in New York?
Not having my car. Not that I would want to drive here.
Who is your mortal enemy?
Apathy.
When’s the last time you drove a car?
Two weeks ago. My beloved car, Roxie, gracefully navigating the twisting roads of suburban CT, where she belongs. Sigh.
How has the Wall Street crash affected you?
Emotionally and mentally far more than literally. It has significantly raised my sense of awareness, realism, and frugality.
Times, Post, or Daily News?
Times.
Where do you go to be alone?
My apartment.
What makes someone a New Yorker?
Being utterly unfazed yet deeply devoted to this city's limitless possibilities.
Friday, August 7, 2009
I love:
Being a New Yorker.
Having grown up as a 'New Yorker' by association, living in the burbs but always knowing this as "The City" (and for some time genuinely believing that everyone in the world referred to it as such), I have always felt strong ties to this place. I had a pretty thorough grasp on the culture, the neighborhoods, and certainly the mentality. I understood Billy Joel's subtle and near-constant lyrical allusions. But having officially resided here for a full year, having met with extreme failure and extreme success, having a much more thorough facility with the subway lines than I do with my multiplication tables, having slept under the starless sky night after night and listened to the M86 bus outside my window reassure me that even the Upper West Side does not sleep, having had multiple jobs and perfect kisses and missed connections and sleepless nights of both the intentional and unintentional variety and major hangovers and 5 mile runs and head colds and revelations all on this very island, I can finally call myself a New Yorker without a pang of insincerity.
Extra Innings.
Okay, I love baseball in general, and particularly a close game. But something happens about half way through inning 11, a sort of "we're all in this together" vibe similar to getting stuck in an elevator or a massive power outage. This is happening, and we're locked in it, and it will be over eventually, so instead of staring at the clock and wallowing in misery, let's embrace it completely. Let's relish the fact that this is a unique circumstance. And the ending, whatever it may be, is generally exciting.
Let it be known that I have never left a baseball game early, and once watched the Yankees win in the bottom of the 14th, which was, as you can imagine, most gratifying.
And with that, I have to get back to the top of the 13th.
Having grown up as a 'New Yorker' by association, living in the burbs but always knowing this as "The City" (and for some time genuinely believing that everyone in the world referred to it as such), I have always felt strong ties to this place. I had a pretty thorough grasp on the culture, the neighborhoods, and certainly the mentality. I understood Billy Joel's subtle and near-constant lyrical allusions. But having officially resided here for a full year, having met with extreme failure and extreme success, having a much more thorough facility with the subway lines than I do with my multiplication tables, having slept under the starless sky night after night and listened to the M86 bus outside my window reassure me that even the Upper West Side does not sleep, having had multiple jobs and perfect kisses and missed connections and sleepless nights of both the intentional and unintentional variety and major hangovers and 5 mile runs and head colds and revelations all on this very island, I can finally call myself a New Yorker without a pang of insincerity.
Extra Innings.
Okay, I love baseball in general, and particularly a close game. But something happens about half way through inning 11, a sort of "we're all in this together" vibe similar to getting stuck in an elevator or a massive power outage. This is happening, and we're locked in it, and it will be over eventually, so instead of staring at the clock and wallowing in misery, let's embrace it completely. Let's relish the fact that this is a unique circumstance. And the ending, whatever it may be, is generally exciting.
Let it be known that I have never left a baseball game early, and once watched the Yankees win in the bottom of the 14th, which was, as you can imagine, most gratifying.
And with that, I have to get back to the top of the 13th.
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
You hide your wings so well.
Thank you, 65 year-old Mr. Philharmonic Attendee, for your contagious energy and unshakable optimism.
Thank you for, during hour 11 of my 12 hour work day, reminding me how lucky I am to be 22 and healthy and surrounded by art in my favorite city in the world.
Thank you for not yelling at me when you couldn't get back into the concert hall between the two pieces in the second act. Thank you for knowing that it wasn't my fault - just my job - without me having to say so.
Thank you for cajoling me out of my near-comatose state with your genuine conversation. Thank you for listening to me over the Mendelssohn you were paying to hear. Thank you for reminding me that money and circumstances aside, the most important thing in the world is to do what you want. Thank you for assuring me that somehow, miraculously, everything else will fall into place.
Thank you for doing all this out of the kindness and sincerity of your heart, your youthful spirit eager to connect with someone younger rather than resent them for having decades head of them that you willingly admit you could have spent better.
Thank you for wishing me good luck. Not just saying it, but actually wishing it.
I promise to do you proud.
Thank you for, during hour 11 of my 12 hour work day, reminding me how lucky I am to be 22 and healthy and surrounded by art in my favorite city in the world.
Thank you for not yelling at me when you couldn't get back into the concert hall between the two pieces in the second act. Thank you for knowing that it wasn't my fault - just my job - without me having to say so.
Thank you for cajoling me out of my near-comatose state with your genuine conversation. Thank you for listening to me over the Mendelssohn you were paying to hear. Thank you for reminding me that money and circumstances aside, the most important thing in the world is to do what you want. Thank you for assuring me that somehow, miraculously, everything else will fall into place.
Thank you for doing all this out of the kindness and sincerity of your heart, your youthful spirit eager to connect with someone younger rather than resent them for having decades head of them that you willingly admit you could have spent better.
Thank you for wishing me good luck. Not just saying it, but actually wishing it.
I promise to do you proud.
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
You Know You've Been Working in Customer Service for Too Long When...
You eagerly volunteer heartfelt enthusiasm when someone so much as looks you in the eye.
"You too! Thank you for coming!"
That would be my overzealous yet nauseatingly genuine response to a gentleman this evening who, I later found out, was attempting to be scathing and facetious when he told me to "Have a great night."
Better to be oblivious and kind, methinks. Most of the time.
"You too! Thank you for coming!"
That would be my overzealous yet nauseatingly genuine response to a gentleman this evening who, I later found out, was attempting to be scathing and facetious when he told me to "Have a great night."
Better to be oblivious and kind, methinks. Most of the time.
Monday, July 27, 2009
An Admission.
My name is Kate Canary, and I have become a morning person.
"Hi, Kate".
I actually couldn't will myself to sleep later than 8:30 this morning even though I don't have to be at work until noon, and am decidedly too sore from this weekend's combination of pilates/outdoor running/elliptical to go to the gym without undermining any real muscular progress.
I can't help but feel like this time is thus wasted, though I have consequently had the opportunity to clean my apartment, do dishes, watch the entirety of Regis and Kelly AND Rachael Ray, thoroughly enjoy my morning coffee, and write this blog post.
Is this the life of a morning person? Is this why these people live their lives in such an inexplicably calm state? I'm the girl who would roll out of bed at 10:45 for an 11AM class (ungodly early, but a degree requirement) - just enough time to throw on some yoga pants and a sorority hoodie and stumble into class, kashi bar in hand.
Yet here I am, in an outfit complete with matching accessories, make-up, and an almost unnerving sense of readiness. Is this adulthood?
"Hi, Kate".
I actually couldn't will myself to sleep later than 8:30 this morning even though I don't have to be at work until noon, and am decidedly too sore from this weekend's combination of pilates/outdoor running/elliptical to go to the gym without undermining any real muscular progress.
I can't help but feel like this time is thus wasted, though I have consequently had the opportunity to clean my apartment, do dishes, watch the entirety of Regis and Kelly AND Rachael Ray, thoroughly enjoy my morning coffee, and write this blog post.
Is this the life of a morning person? Is this why these people live their lives in such an inexplicably calm state? I'm the girl who would roll out of bed at 10:45 for an 11AM class (ungodly early, but a degree requirement) - just enough time to throw on some yoga pants and a sorority hoodie and stumble into class, kashi bar in hand.
Yet here I am, in an outfit complete with matching accessories, make-up, and an almost unnerving sense of readiness. Is this adulthood?
Sunday, July 26, 2009
The Love Question
I am the kind of tired that comes from allowing yourself an adequate amount of sleep for the first time in ages. While I wouldn't trade back a single moment of this weekend's delicious slumber, I now remember what I was missing. There is a sense of reckless liberation that comes from not setting even one of the two alarms to which I awake on a daily basis (poll: anal or responsible?)
On a whim, Dan and I went to see "(500) Days of Summer" today when our perpetually at-war schedules spontaneously aligned. I cherish my time spent with Dan, who will tragically be moving to Pittsburgh in the Fall. (To clarify, I consider this tragic only from a purely selfish standpoint; Dan is a unique and exceptional friend whose is utterly irreplaceable. Then again, his inability to be replaced is likely what has allowed our friendship to endure for so long, in spite of spending much of it miles apart. The move to Pittsburgh is actually something to be celebrated, as it marks the official beginning of what promises to be an extensive career doing what he loves.)
The movie was all I hoped it would be. Genuine, surprising, unpretentious yet at times profound. It drop-kicked this phenomenon called 'love' from its pedestal and redefined it as something accessible and real - something we may only find when we stop dressing it up as a trophy to be won and begin taking it for what it is: highly likely but utterly imperfect, often fleeting, rarely permanent, often agonizing and usually worth it.
And believe me, as yet another among a sea of women who can't help but think she deserves better than what she has been served in the love department, I find this difficult to admit. But the problem, it seems, is that we treat relationships as if they are an end to be reached. An answer to a problem. A light in the dark. We are putting entirely too much pressure on them.
The only relationship I have complete and utter faith in is with myself. And ultimately, that is the person I have to see when I wake up every morning, and the person with whom, whether I like it or not, I will grow old. The person who totally gets me.
Any other relationship, be it an intense unrequited crush or a lifelong commitment, is to be taken for what it is. It may change me for better or for worse; it will hopefully teach me something. It may last forever and it may create a hurt so deep that I think I will never recover. But I know who will be there when I do.
Trust me, I don't think I'm the first to extrapolate on the "No one can ever truly love you until you love yourself" philosophy. But it's a cliche for a reason, and also one that you have to experience first-hand to really take to heart. Of course I want to experience the kind of love with another person so influential that I question every single thing I believe. But doesn't the idea of this only happening once, even if it lasts forever, make it a little less interesting, exciting, even possible?
On a whim, Dan and I went to see "(500) Days of Summer" today when our perpetually at-war schedules spontaneously aligned. I cherish my time spent with Dan, who will tragically be moving to Pittsburgh in the Fall. (To clarify, I consider this tragic only from a purely selfish standpoint; Dan is a unique and exceptional friend whose is utterly irreplaceable. Then again, his inability to be replaced is likely what has allowed our friendship to endure for so long, in spite of spending much of it miles apart. The move to Pittsburgh is actually something to be celebrated, as it marks the official beginning of what promises to be an extensive career doing what he loves.)
The movie was all I hoped it would be. Genuine, surprising, unpretentious yet at times profound. It drop-kicked this phenomenon called 'love' from its pedestal and redefined it as something accessible and real - something we may only find when we stop dressing it up as a trophy to be won and begin taking it for what it is: highly likely but utterly imperfect, often fleeting, rarely permanent, often agonizing and usually worth it.
And believe me, as yet another among a sea of women who can't help but think she deserves better than what she has been served in the love department, I find this difficult to admit. But the problem, it seems, is that we treat relationships as if they are an end to be reached. An answer to a problem. A light in the dark. We are putting entirely too much pressure on them.
The only relationship I have complete and utter faith in is with myself. And ultimately, that is the person I have to see when I wake up every morning, and the person with whom, whether I like it or not, I will grow old. The person who totally gets me.
Any other relationship, be it an intense unrequited crush or a lifelong commitment, is to be taken for what it is. It may change me for better or for worse; it will hopefully teach me something. It may last forever and it may create a hurt so deep that I think I will never recover. But I know who will be there when I do.
Trust me, I don't think I'm the first to extrapolate on the "No one can ever truly love you until you love yourself" philosophy. But it's a cliche for a reason, and also one that you have to experience first-hand to really take to heart. Of course I want to experience the kind of love with another person so influential that I question every single thing I believe. But doesn't the idea of this only happening once, even if it lasts forever, make it a little less interesting, exciting, even possible?
Saturday, July 25, 2009
To blog or not to blog?
I guess it's a pretty decent sign that I'm doing valuable things with my life when I don't have time to blog. Come on, writing anything over 140 characters is so passe. Still, cultivating a personal writing outlet is becoming increasingly necessary as life becomes increasingly worth writing about. Which brings up my first question: ending sentences in prepositions as a stylistic choice: Go.
Kidding.
And, let's be serious. Blossoming professional and social life aside, there remains plenty of time that could be spent blogging when I am instead picking at my cuticles and watching reruns of 'The Real Housewives of New Jersey' or having a staring contest with my gym shoes.
But perhaps the dilemma I face each time I revisit the blank screen is walking the fine line between blogging about one's life (after all, isn't that all we really know?) and blogging about something greater, something more accessible to whoever lies out there in that great void to which we yield the moment we click 'publish'.
On one hand, we have the ultimate freedom, as we are pouring our thoughts into a public venue so vast that they can easily be ignored. On the other hand, the very public nature of a blog carries with it an implicit desire for others to read it, no? So how do we stay honest, yet relevant?
I guess we start with ourselves, and see where it leads us.
Kidding.
And, let's be serious. Blossoming professional and social life aside, there remains plenty of time that could be spent blogging when I am instead picking at my cuticles and watching reruns of 'The Real Housewives of New Jersey' or having a staring contest with my gym shoes.
But perhaps the dilemma I face each time I revisit the blank screen is walking the fine line between blogging about one's life (after all, isn't that all we really know?) and blogging about something greater, something more accessible to whoever lies out there in that great void to which we yield the moment we click 'publish'.
On one hand, we have the ultimate freedom, as we are pouring our thoughts into a public venue so vast that they can easily be ignored. On the other hand, the very public nature of a blog carries with it an implicit desire for others to read it, no? So how do we stay honest, yet relevant?
I guess we start with ourselves, and see where it leads us.
Friday, May 15, 2009
Could the following please fuck off?
1. The regular attendees of the New York Philharmonic who clearly do not want to be there.
Look, I can get past the fact that you have somehow been roped into your subscription by your wife, or your generous mother-in-law, or perhaps your own self-righteous need to appear cultured and sophisticated. And while I take my job seriously, my job is as follows: to assist you in finding your seat/the water fountain/restroom, to retrieve your wheelchair/walker, to prevent you from taking flash photography, using a video camera, hanging your mink coat recklessly over the railing of the third tier, hanging your child recklessly over the railing of the third tier, or other such idiotic behavior to which you folks seem inexplicably drawn. Deliberately excluded from this job description are the following: MAKING you enjoy the concert, letting you waltz into a concert forty-five minutes late, somehow granting you an intellect beyond your means, rectifying your foul mood no doubt prompted by your disgusting excuse for a spouse, shaving the head of the gentleman seated in front of you, or single-handedly spearheading an architectural overhaul of Avery Fisher Hall.
2. People I don't know who volunteer their advice to me on Twitter or elsewhere.
Look, I'm not going to stop you from following me. That's the whole point of this ridiculous twitter phenomenon--we have the ability to follow the updates of those who wouldn't give two shits about us if they even knew who we were in the first place. (In some cases, a strange backlash occurs in which we continue to follow someone who does not follow us because they are a member of a certain celebrity elite, but their updates prove ultimately to be so utterly banal and at times even agitating that we choose to stop following them. Read: John Mayer.) Anyway, if you are following me on twitter and I am not reciprocating said follow, it is because I don't give the two aforementioned shits about you. So when your inane, unwarranted advice clogs my list of @replies, it not only pisses me off, but makes me care even less about you than I did to begin with. If I complain via twitter, you can be almost certain I am doing it for comedic rhetorical effect, or simply for the therapeutic release of these feelings into the great unknown. Really, just leave me alone. I think twitter is really dumb anyway, but I buy into it because I'm a total sheep, and kind of an internet whore.
3. People who make spelling or grammatical errors in any public venue in an attempt to sound smarter than they actually are.
I'm probably guilty of it on [rare] occasion and I welcome your corrections with open arms. But when people unnecessarily strive beyond their verbal abilities it just frustrates and saddens me. No, it annoys me too.
Look, I can get past the fact that you have somehow been roped into your subscription by your wife, or your generous mother-in-law, or perhaps your own self-righteous need to appear cultured and sophisticated. And while I take my job seriously, my job is as follows: to assist you in finding your seat/the water fountain/restroom, to retrieve your wheelchair/walker, to prevent you from taking flash photography, using a video camera, hanging your mink coat recklessly over the railing of the third tier, hanging your child recklessly over the railing of the third tier, or other such idiotic behavior to which you folks seem inexplicably drawn. Deliberately excluded from this job description are the following: MAKING you enjoy the concert, letting you waltz into a concert forty-five minutes late, somehow granting you an intellect beyond your means, rectifying your foul mood no doubt prompted by your disgusting excuse for a spouse, shaving the head of the gentleman seated in front of you, or single-handedly spearheading an architectural overhaul of Avery Fisher Hall.
2. People I don't know who volunteer their advice to me on Twitter or elsewhere.
Look, I'm not going to stop you from following me. That's the whole point of this ridiculous twitter phenomenon--we have the ability to follow the updates of those who wouldn't give two shits about us if they even knew who we were in the first place. (In some cases, a strange backlash occurs in which we continue to follow someone who does not follow us because they are a member of a certain celebrity elite, but their updates prove ultimately to be so utterly banal and at times even agitating that we choose to stop following them. Read: John Mayer.) Anyway, if you are following me on twitter and I am not reciprocating said follow, it is because I don't give the two aforementioned shits about you. So when your inane, unwarranted advice clogs my list of @replies, it not only pisses me off, but makes me care even less about you than I did to begin with. If I complain via twitter, you can be almost certain I am doing it for comedic rhetorical effect, or simply for the therapeutic release of these feelings into the great unknown. Really, just leave me alone. I think twitter is really dumb anyway, but I buy into it because I'm a total sheep, and kind of an internet whore.
3. People who make spelling or grammatical errors in any public venue in an attempt to sound smarter than they actually are.
I'm probably guilty of it on [rare] occasion and I welcome your corrections with open arms. But when people unnecessarily strive beyond their verbal abilities it just frustrates and saddens me. No, it annoys me too.
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Facing it.
I used to awaken from reminiscent dreams of college with a melancholic sort of gratitude. For the rest of the following day I would perhaps yearn for those days but feel no real remorse or pain. Just longing.
Last night's dream was a vivid one, some conglomerate of three years of Informals/Pref Nights of sorority rush, hundreds of girls holed up in one house for endless nights, voices raspy but souls aglow with that strange, indescribable magic that comes during that week when, each year, you fall in love with the idea of sisterhood all over again. Last night's dream was a tapestry of faces and laughs and hugs and unexpected conversations on the stairwells and knowing glances and squeezed hands with people you may have barely known on a superficial level, but with whom you had something much more powerful in common. The uncontrollable laugher born out of ridiculous sobs triggered by altered song lyrics and senior speeches. Passed candlelight. Black dresses. Voices, shaking but strong, joined in song.
And last night, in this dream, Trisha was vivid--her smile, her laugh, and the feel of her one-armed hug as we squeezed as many girls in identical t-shirts into one photo frame as possible.
I did not know Trisha as well as I should have. But in dreams like this I am reminded of the Trisha I did know, one of the faces I would come to associate with the incredible bond we all shared within the walls of that house and would hopefully carry with us forever.
Logistically, her loss does not impact my life on an immediate level. We did not share weekly phone calls or facebook messages. I did not know where she had just been or where she was headed. For this reason, my grieving has been delayed, stifled. When it starts to hurt too much I can instantly suppress the reality of it all.
But when we come face to face in my dreams, when my heart will not listen to my mind, when I feel her presence, alive and beautiful, her open-mouthed smile and sparkling eyes and soothing voice and contagious energy, and then I wake up and know that she is gone, really gone, then I can grieve. Truly grieve. Her loss is an unthinkable tragedy not only to those who knew her, but to those who may have known her in the future.
I wish...I could do her more justice than that. But we do what we can.
I will never get behind the wheel of a car without thinking of her.
I will never return to the Phi without thinking of her.
I will never share a wonderful memory with my best friends without thinking of her.
I will never tell my family I love them without thinking of her.
And in that way, I hope, somehow, I am living for her.
Last night's dream was a vivid one, some conglomerate of three years of Informals/Pref Nights of sorority rush, hundreds of girls holed up in one house for endless nights, voices raspy but souls aglow with that strange, indescribable magic that comes during that week when, each year, you fall in love with the idea of sisterhood all over again. Last night's dream was a tapestry of faces and laughs and hugs and unexpected conversations on the stairwells and knowing glances and squeezed hands with people you may have barely known on a superficial level, but with whom you had something much more powerful in common. The uncontrollable laugher born out of ridiculous sobs triggered by altered song lyrics and senior speeches. Passed candlelight. Black dresses. Voices, shaking but strong, joined in song.
And last night, in this dream, Trisha was vivid--her smile, her laugh, and the feel of her one-armed hug as we squeezed as many girls in identical t-shirts into one photo frame as possible.
I did not know Trisha as well as I should have. But in dreams like this I am reminded of the Trisha I did know, one of the faces I would come to associate with the incredible bond we all shared within the walls of that house and would hopefully carry with us forever.
Logistically, her loss does not impact my life on an immediate level. We did not share weekly phone calls or facebook messages. I did not know where she had just been or where she was headed. For this reason, my grieving has been delayed, stifled. When it starts to hurt too much I can instantly suppress the reality of it all.
But when we come face to face in my dreams, when my heart will not listen to my mind, when I feel her presence, alive and beautiful, her open-mouthed smile and sparkling eyes and soothing voice and contagious energy, and then I wake up and know that she is gone, really gone, then I can grieve. Truly grieve. Her loss is an unthinkable tragedy not only to those who knew her, but to those who may have known her in the future.
I wish...I could do her more justice than that. But we do what we can.
I will never get behind the wheel of a car without thinking of her.
I will never return to the Phi without thinking of her.
I will never share a wonderful memory with my best friends without thinking of her.
I will never tell my family I love them without thinking of her.
And in that way, I hope, somehow, I am living for her.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Good things.
There are a number of exceptionally good things happening right now. And in the spirit of sharing all good things, I intend to list them now.
1. A new Joe Coffee has opened up at 85th and Columbus. I only know of Joe Coffee because I saw a news segment months ago declaring that this establishment (with three downtown locations, one in Grand Central) reigns supreme among Manhattan espresso enthusiasts. Being somewhat prone to periods of unflagging loyalty to particular coffee chains (including an embarrassing 6-year tryst with Starbucks which shall furthermore be known as 'The Dark Years'), I knew that trying a cup of Joe Coffee would likely be my demise, as the aforementioned locations simply forebode me from becoming a frequent customer. But now, my abstinence is relieved by this lovely Upper West Side location, and I celebrated this 90 degree day with my first cup of many--a small iced Americano--simple and classic. And simple as it was, this refreshing combination of espresso and water did not disappoint, and I think Joe and I have an extremely beautiful future ahead of us.
2. I have a lot of really great friends. Allow me to elaborate. In the past week I have reconnected with more people than my sorry excuse for a memory can conjure, most of whom I haven't even had a real conversation with since I graduated from Northwestern nearly a year ago. I ventured back to Chicago/Evanston for an extended weekend to see my beloved a cappella group perform in their annual spring show. Over the course of four days I was able to spend quality time with almost every single person I could have ever wished to see again in my post-graduate life. The ease with which I fell back into genuine rapport with these friends instilled in me a real optimism about life and relationships; about the way that real friendship, no matter how frequent the phone call or close the geographical proximity, is the most natural of occurrences, and something to be celebrated, not to be forced or manipulated or micromanaged. So thank you to all of those who contributed to this discovery--you know who you are.
3. I'm bored. This is good only because I am looking at an exceptionally varied and busy late spring/summer, and this period of down time is essential in my preparedness for my upcoming projects and responsibilities. Switching gears is never easy, but I pride myself on being particularly adaptable, and it is high time for Kate to kick into high gear. Get ready.
4. I love New York. After being in the wonderful greater Chicago area for just a few days, a place I called home for a rather significant 4 years of my life--and a place I love and relish and will always cherish deeply--I know that I belong here completely. Not only is it home, but it is the place where I am most complete. And I celebrate this, because I know that while I want to travel the world and experience as many places as possible, I will always have a home base that completely speaks to the person I am, and the person I aspire to be.
1. A new Joe Coffee has opened up at 85th and Columbus. I only know of Joe Coffee because I saw a news segment months ago declaring that this establishment (with three downtown locations, one in Grand Central) reigns supreme among Manhattan espresso enthusiasts. Being somewhat prone to periods of unflagging loyalty to particular coffee chains (including an embarrassing 6-year tryst with Starbucks which shall furthermore be known as 'The Dark Years'), I knew that trying a cup of Joe Coffee would likely be my demise, as the aforementioned locations simply forebode me from becoming a frequent customer. But now, my abstinence is relieved by this lovely Upper West Side location, and I celebrated this 90 degree day with my first cup of many--a small iced Americano--simple and classic. And simple as it was, this refreshing combination of espresso and water did not disappoint, and I think Joe and I have an extremely beautiful future ahead of us.
2. I have a lot of really great friends. Allow me to elaborate. In the past week I have reconnected with more people than my sorry excuse for a memory can conjure, most of whom I haven't even had a real conversation with since I graduated from Northwestern nearly a year ago. I ventured back to Chicago/Evanston for an extended weekend to see my beloved a cappella group perform in their annual spring show. Over the course of four days I was able to spend quality time with almost every single person I could have ever wished to see again in my post-graduate life. The ease with which I fell back into genuine rapport with these friends instilled in me a real optimism about life and relationships; about the way that real friendship, no matter how frequent the phone call or close the geographical proximity, is the most natural of occurrences, and something to be celebrated, not to be forced or manipulated or micromanaged. So thank you to all of those who contributed to this discovery--you know who you are.
3. I'm bored. This is good only because I am looking at an exceptionally varied and busy late spring/summer, and this period of down time is essential in my preparedness for my upcoming projects and responsibilities. Switching gears is never easy, but I pride myself on being particularly adaptable, and it is high time for Kate to kick into high gear. Get ready.
4. I love New York. After being in the wonderful greater Chicago area for just a few days, a place I called home for a rather significant 4 years of my life--and a place I love and relish and will always cherish deeply--I know that I belong here completely. Not only is it home, but it is the place where I am most complete. And I celebrate this, because I know that while I want to travel the world and experience as many places as possible, I will always have a home base that completely speaks to the person I am, and the person I aspire to be.
Monday, April 13, 2009
Next Stop: Your High School Years
Spending a long weekend at my parents' house in the suburbs must be somewhat akin to entering a different dimension. Even in spite of having to come to their rescue as they lose the bitter war of Them versus Their Computers (who are constantly out to get them, in case you were wondering.); watching them lose a missing object only to find it, and moments later lose something else; and the myriad flaws in their inherently frustrating efforts to communicate with one another.
And, of course, having to call animal control when a rabid skunk starts stumbling in circles around the front yard, only to have a stocky moustached man in uniform pull into the driveway, saunter over to the doomed creature, and shoot it with a shotgun. How very West Virginia.
All of the aforementioned quirks aside, the very notion of 'home' is something that will always be unique and cherished. To, for sporadic bursts of time throughout the year, be able to abandon every single distinction of adult life and exist peacefully in this world virtually free of obligation.
Still, isn't family the greatest obligation of all? And watching one's parents age somewhat clumsily is never easy. But it's nice to know how very needed I actually am.
And it's really nice to know that when I feel the need to slip out of the screaming New York energy and into this alternate reality, even if just for a day or two, it awaits me just an hour away.
And, of course, having to call animal control when a rabid skunk starts stumbling in circles around the front yard, only to have a stocky moustached man in uniform pull into the driveway, saunter over to the doomed creature, and shoot it with a shotgun. How very West Virginia.
All of the aforementioned quirks aside, the very notion of 'home' is something that will always be unique and cherished. To, for sporadic bursts of time throughout the year, be able to abandon every single distinction of adult life and exist peacefully in this world virtually free of obligation.
Still, isn't family the greatest obligation of all? And watching one's parents age somewhat clumsily is never easy. But it's nice to know how very needed I actually am.
And it's really nice to know that when I feel the need to slip out of the screaming New York energy and into this alternate reality, even if just for a day or two, it awaits me just an hour away.
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
A new one.
If you haven't noticed, I just posted a couple of poems I wrote a few years ago. I'm starting to write again and thought I'd churn one out tonight to get the gears working. But I'm a little rusty, so be kind.
Note: This and the previous are blank verse, which is by definition unrhymed iambic pentameter.
Manhattan
I did not plan to dance with you tonight.
My shoes are plain, my hair a mess of curls
Unaltered from their natural array.
A heart that seems almost not mine
Weighs heavy, like a stranger’s burden
I offered to bear. Still, you are here,
A presence far too striking to ignore.
Your face is chiseled tactfully by time.
Your arm extends to me in invitation.
Your voice compels me. What is there to do
Except to dangle helpless from each word?
You ask me for a dance. I first decline,
For I am not a girl of grace or beauty.
I turn and walk away, only to see you
Inexplicably standing before me.
You watch. You wait. You ask me once again.
Embarassed, I begin to make excuses,
Hoping you’ll abandon the pursuit.
You shift your weight, but hold your fixed gaze.
You cause a gust of wind as you exhale.
I shiver in response, and just like that
Your arms enfold me. And we start to sway
From side to side, accompanied by you.
The hum beneath your streets, the laughs
And cries on every corner are your song.
I tell you I should probably head home.
And you just smile and whisper on my cheek -
“You are already home.” And I believe you.
© Kate Canary 2009
Note: This and the previous are blank verse, which is by definition unrhymed iambic pentameter.
Manhattan
I did not plan to dance with you tonight.
My shoes are plain, my hair a mess of curls
Unaltered from their natural array.
A heart that seems almost not mine
Weighs heavy, like a stranger’s burden
I offered to bear. Still, you are here,
A presence far too striking to ignore.
Your face is chiseled tactfully by time.
Your arm extends to me in invitation.
Your voice compels me. What is there to do
Except to dangle helpless from each word?
You ask me for a dance. I first decline,
For I am not a girl of grace or beauty.
I turn and walk away, only to see you
Inexplicably standing before me.
You watch. You wait. You ask me once again.
Embarassed, I begin to make excuses,
Hoping you’ll abandon the pursuit.
You shift your weight, but hold your fixed gaze.
You cause a gust of wind as you exhale.
I shiver in response, and just like that
Your arms enfold me. And we start to sway
From side to side, accompanied by you.
The hum beneath your streets, the laughs
And cries on every corner are your song.
I tell you I should probably head home.
And you just smile and whisper on my cheek -
“You are already home.” And I believe you.
© Kate Canary 2009
Discovery
18 May 2005
Discovery
The details of the circumstance are vague.
I clasp onto a hazy recollection
Spawned more from sheer emotion and impact
Than any fact. The date was surely summer
—No—autumn, perhaps? Or some occasion
On which my father’s brother and his wife
Abandoned their Manhattan for an evening
In the country—not unusual.
So vivid still remains that odd sensation
Of youth as prison, with bedtime shackles
Keeping me from things I’d never relished
Like late-night conversation with the grown-ups.
Begrudgingly I plodded to my bedroom
(A girlish fantasy of rosebud hues)
And even those maternal lips on my forehead
Could not relieve the stinging, nagging thought
Of life’s great fleeting moments slept away.
Just moments after, surely dreams did take me
Away, as two rooms over, mumbled laughter
Evolved into some quiet melody.
Interjected with a cough, or clinking glasses,
There played, imperfectly, a perfect song.
A high E flat awoke me from my slumber,
So with no choice I went to meet its maker.
On tiptoes, creeping toward the melodies
I felt a flutter as the music swelled.
It sounded not like anything I’d heard
On big flat discs Mom had that spun around.
It moved me in a way my childish heart
Could barely comprehend, I came alive
From some angelic voice just steps away.
Poking my porcelain face around the corner
I hoped not to be seen at three feet tall.
The image there before me, I believe,
Still burns within the center of my soul.
My parents, elders, ultimate protectors
Stood gathered as my uncle’s fingers danced
Along the ivories. They were transformed—
Singers, now, remarkable performers
Embodied by my very own creators.
In some ways life loses its novelty
As self-defining moments slowly slip
Through older, somewhat aged, judgmental fingers.
As so I thank the tender days of youth
For granting me a genuine impression.
I found my heroes fifteen years ago.
© Kate Canary 2005
Discovery
The details of the circumstance are vague.
I clasp onto a hazy recollection
Spawned more from sheer emotion and impact
Than any fact. The date was surely summer
—No—autumn, perhaps? Or some occasion
On which my father’s brother and his wife
Abandoned their Manhattan for an evening
In the country—not unusual.
So vivid still remains that odd sensation
Of youth as prison, with bedtime shackles
Keeping me from things I’d never relished
Like late-night conversation with the grown-ups.
Begrudgingly I plodded to my bedroom
(A girlish fantasy of rosebud hues)
And even those maternal lips on my forehead
Could not relieve the stinging, nagging thought
Of life’s great fleeting moments slept away.
Just moments after, surely dreams did take me
Away, as two rooms over, mumbled laughter
Evolved into some quiet melody.
Interjected with a cough, or clinking glasses,
There played, imperfectly, a perfect song.
A high E flat awoke me from my slumber,
So with no choice I went to meet its maker.
On tiptoes, creeping toward the melodies
I felt a flutter as the music swelled.
It sounded not like anything I’d heard
On big flat discs Mom had that spun around.
It moved me in a way my childish heart
Could barely comprehend, I came alive
From some angelic voice just steps away.
Poking my porcelain face around the corner
I hoped not to be seen at three feet tall.
The image there before me, I believe,
Still burns within the center of my soul.
My parents, elders, ultimate protectors
Stood gathered as my uncle’s fingers danced
Along the ivories. They were transformed—
Singers, now, remarkable performers
Embodied by my very own creators.
In some ways life loses its novelty
As self-defining moments slowly slip
Through older, somewhat aged, judgmental fingers.
As so I thank the tender days of youth
For granting me a genuine impression.
I found my heroes fifteen years ago.
© Kate Canary 2005
Good Morning, April
17 April 2005
Good morning, April. Long time since
You’ve graced us with your smile.
Your hands have aged, but still maintain
The softness of their style.
I’ve missed your dandelion locks
And rosebud-painted cheeks,
The tranquil - yet, awake - allure
That stagnant Winter seeks.
Your scent pervades the mild air—
Extravagant perfume.
Your radiance fights off the night,
Extending afternoon.
I hear your voice in thunderstorms;
You choke on raindrop tears,
While your life’s brevity you mourn
Still after all these years.
Don’t cry, dear April, May’s embrace
Will keep your flowers safe,
And when it’s time, leave them upon
The edge of summer’s grave.
© Kate Canary 2005
Good morning, April. Long time since
You’ve graced us with your smile.
Your hands have aged, but still maintain
The softness of their style.
I’ve missed your dandelion locks
And rosebud-painted cheeks,
The tranquil - yet, awake - allure
That stagnant Winter seeks.
Your scent pervades the mild air—
Extravagant perfume.
Your radiance fights off the night,
Extending afternoon.
I hear your voice in thunderstorms;
You choke on raindrop tears,
While your life’s brevity you mourn
Still after all these years.
Don’t cry, dear April, May’s embrace
Will keep your flowers safe,
And when it’s time, leave them upon
The edge of summer’s grave.
© Kate Canary 2005
Monday, April 6, 2009
Don't you know it's gonna be alright?
Current Song: "Revolution" - The Beatles
You know it's baseball season when I suddenly have a new lease on life.
I am having the most incredibly Zen day. Centering myself. Letting go of grudges, of all negative energy. Being kind and gracious to those I love. Putting a gigantic "Handle With Care" stamp on my precious relationships.
Watching the Yankees opening day in Baltimore. I'm so lucky that the game was on at 4, as I have to work tonight. Bal'mer is in the lead, but not by much.
It's been cloudy and raining all day, but every once in awhile a flood of sunshine spontaneously pours through my window. I can't help but see it metaphorically. Like, the cloudier the day, the more opportunity for silver linings.
Cheesy? Maybe. But it feels good. And this is my effort to share it with you.
You know it's baseball season when I suddenly have a new lease on life.
I am having the most incredibly Zen day. Centering myself. Letting go of grudges, of all negative energy. Being kind and gracious to those I love. Putting a gigantic "Handle With Care" stamp on my precious relationships.
Watching the Yankees opening day in Baltimore. I'm so lucky that the game was on at 4, as I have to work tonight. Bal'mer is in the lead, but not by much.
It's been cloudy and raining all day, but every once in awhile a flood of sunshine spontaneously pours through my window. I can't help but see it metaphorically. Like, the cloudier the day, the more opportunity for silver linings.
Cheesy? Maybe. But it feels good. And this is my effort to share it with you.
Sunday, April 5, 2009
When I grow up...
Really all I want is to be a good person. And a good friend. Honestly.
And it's hard because these little demons get in the way. Shyness, laziness, selfishness. Guilty, guilty, guilty.
I will conquer them. Mark my words. But the first step is admitting you have a problem.
And it's hard because these little demons get in the way. Shyness, laziness, selfishness. Guilty, guilty, guilty.
I will conquer them. Mark my words. But the first step is admitting you have a problem.
Saturday, April 4, 2009
This is fact, not fiction. For the first time in years.
Current song: "A Lack of Color" - Death Cab for Cutie
I do believe that anything good never comes easy.I do believe that passion requires sacrifice.
But I also believe that sometimes we are given explicit road signs, in black and white, that we stubborn creatures choose to ignore in an effort to be strong, persistent, even noble.
And lately, I consistently feel locked in futile pursuit of something someone else has chosen for me. A pursuit that at it's very core goes against every fiber of my being.
It's cowardly for me to imply that someone else has chosen this path for me. I chose it for myself. But only because of my incurable desire to please others.
Who am I doing this for?
And I am screaming this question at the top of my lungs, only I am standing at the bottom of an empty canyon drowning in the echo of my own unanswered voice.
I do believe that anything good never comes easy.I do believe that passion requires sacrifice.
But I also believe that sometimes we are given explicit road signs, in black and white, that we stubborn creatures choose to ignore in an effort to be strong, persistent, even noble.
And lately, I consistently feel locked in futile pursuit of something someone else has chosen for me. A pursuit that at it's very core goes against every fiber of my being.
It's cowardly for me to imply that someone else has chosen this path for me. I chose it for myself. But only because of my incurable desire to please others.
Who am I doing this for?
And I am screaming this question at the top of my lungs, only I am standing at the bottom of an empty canyon drowning in the echo of my own unanswered voice.
Friday, March 27, 2009
I learn to get by on little victories.
Current Song: "Little Victories" - Matt Nathanson
After a week of disappointments of varying magnitude, some tragic and some just lame, today is radiating a kind of promise I haven't felt in awhile.
And it really is about the simple pleasures. About a 65 degree day when you actually have time to go running outside. About the sweet and unnecessary email from a friend. About the concert tickets that just happened to go on sale the moment you discovered them. About the perfect cup of coffee.
Is it completely unromantic to believe that life really is about the day to day joys? Moments. Not dreams, not journeys. Just moments. Is that simply an impatient perspective?
I'm content to live a life of truly fantastic moments. And if, once in a rare while, they string together to make one really great day, that's just magic.
After a week of disappointments of varying magnitude, some tragic and some just lame, today is radiating a kind of promise I haven't felt in awhile.
And it really is about the simple pleasures. About a 65 degree day when you actually have time to go running outside. About the sweet and unnecessary email from a friend. About the concert tickets that just happened to go on sale the moment you discovered them. About the perfect cup of coffee.
Is it completely unromantic to believe that life really is about the day to day joys? Moments. Not dreams, not journeys. Just moments. Is that simply an impatient perspective?
I'm content to live a life of truly fantastic moments. And if, once in a rare while, they string together to make one really great day, that's just magic.
Monday, March 23, 2009
"The War of Art": An Anticipatory Book Review
I recently began reading Steven Pressfield's "The War of Art", a self proclaimed "examination of the internal obstacles to success". The book aims to identify that inner demon that allows us to, time and again, abandon our own goals in spite of our creative inclinations. Simply put, it is a lengthy embellishment on age-old cliche "Resistance is futile."
As a rule of thumb, I generally don't read books that:
a) Have titles that play on titles of actually literary masterpieces (in this case, 'The Art of War', a military treatise written by SunTzu centuries ago. Yes, I did wikipedia the author, but yes, I was already well aware of this work. Let it be noted that I call this book a 'masterpiece' on the sole basis of reputation; as I find my time much better spent watching Sex and the City than reading military treatises.)
While vaguely clever, the title 'The War of Art' is most likely an attention-grabbing ploy to catch the eye of anyone who has 'The Art of War' buried in their subconscious. And if you paid any attention in high school history class, you probably do.
b) Could possibly be categorized in the self-help section of your local Barnes and Noble. The entire notion of 'self-help' books capitalizes on the very human condition that Pressfield demonizes: Resistance. His fundamental argument (as far as I can tell at this point, as he repeats it nearly every other sentence in the first ten pages of the book), is that we as humans have the passion and imagination to be incredible, visionary self-starters, but that when it actually comes to the grunt work of pursuing our dreams, we make up excuses to postpone them indefinitely.
I don't disagree with this. It's a pretty accurate and, if you'll forgive me, obvious assessment of human nature and particularly of American society, where we're constantly in search of the next best thing.
But did Mr. Pressfield ever consider that reading a book about how to overcome resistance and more efficiently pursue our dreams is, in fact, another form of resistance?
Though I have only recently started the book, thus far it promises to be a 170-page guilt trip for those who suffer the incurable condition of resistance--who never follow through with lofty plans, exercise regimens, entrepreneurial endeavors, artistic ambition.
Is Pressfield's examination of this condition in some people accurate? Sure. But I can't help but think that in a species that has yielded such individuals as Beethoven, the Beatles, daVinci, Steve Jobs, Mother Theresa, and Barack Obama, to name a few, 'resistance' is not quite the epidemic he proclaims it to be.
I will finish the book and see if my opinion changes. But the first few chapters had me too worked up to not begin the discussion.
And I can't help but think that, a mere 4 pounds away from a 38 pound weight loss goal I set for myself 9 months ago, or with a rapid progression on a musical instrument I have always wanted to play, or with each step I take toward being a happy, healthy, and independent young woman, I am not the likely culprit he had in mind.
Some goals were meant to be achieved, some were meant to be reassessed and altered, and some were meant to yield fantastic failure and provide your friends with some good blackmail years down the line. I'd be willing to argue that the true triumph here is the ability to distinguish among them.
As a rule of thumb, I generally don't read books that:
a) Have titles that play on titles of actually literary masterpieces (in this case, 'The Art of War', a military treatise written by SunTzu centuries ago. Yes, I did wikipedia the author, but yes, I was already well aware of this work. Let it be noted that I call this book a 'masterpiece' on the sole basis of reputation; as I find my time much better spent watching Sex and the City than reading military treatises.)
While vaguely clever, the title 'The War of Art' is most likely an attention-grabbing ploy to catch the eye of anyone who has 'The Art of War' buried in their subconscious. And if you paid any attention in high school history class, you probably do.
b) Could possibly be categorized in the self-help section of your local Barnes and Noble. The entire notion of 'self-help' books capitalizes on the very human condition that Pressfield demonizes: Resistance. His fundamental argument (as far as I can tell at this point, as he repeats it nearly every other sentence in the first ten pages of the book), is that we as humans have the passion and imagination to be incredible, visionary self-starters, but that when it actually comes to the grunt work of pursuing our dreams, we make up excuses to postpone them indefinitely.
I don't disagree with this. It's a pretty accurate and, if you'll forgive me, obvious assessment of human nature and particularly of American society, where we're constantly in search of the next best thing.
But did Mr. Pressfield ever consider that reading a book about how to overcome resistance and more efficiently pursue our dreams is, in fact, another form of resistance?
Though I have only recently started the book, thus far it promises to be a 170-page guilt trip for those who suffer the incurable condition of resistance--who never follow through with lofty plans, exercise regimens, entrepreneurial endeavors, artistic ambition.
Is Pressfield's examination of this condition in some people accurate? Sure. But I can't help but think that in a species that has yielded such individuals as Beethoven, the Beatles, daVinci, Steve Jobs, Mother Theresa, and Barack Obama, to name a few, 'resistance' is not quite the epidemic he proclaims it to be.
I will finish the book and see if my opinion changes. But the first few chapters had me too worked up to not begin the discussion.
And I can't help but think that, a mere 4 pounds away from a 38 pound weight loss goal I set for myself 9 months ago, or with a rapid progression on a musical instrument I have always wanted to play, or with each step I take toward being a happy, healthy, and independent young woman, I am not the likely culprit he had in mind.
Some goals were meant to be achieved, some were meant to be reassessed and altered, and some were meant to yield fantastic failure and provide your friends with some good blackmail years down the line. I'd be willing to argue that the true triumph here is the ability to distinguish among them.
Sunday, March 22, 2009
I feel so much spring...
There is an open call tomorrow that I have vowed to myself I will go to on sheer principle. The stipulation being (because when is there not a stipulation with me?) that I will go no earlier than 8AM, and if I don't get seen, so be it.
I am attending said open call for two reasons. One being that, though I have no desire to do summer stock, I have little else going on this summer yet. Thus, any pursuit of summer employment is a valid one.
The second, and more legitimate excuse, is that I have a voice teacher who believes in me with every fiber of her being and wants to see me perform professionally. And until I come up with a valid alternative (e.g. an internship, other non-performing job), I will continue to pursue these opportunities for no other reason than a respect for her...
Okay, I realize that seems a bit convoluted. But, practical person that I am, I really can't break the "I don't want to do musical theatre for a living" news to my creative mentor until I can back this decision up with a tangible alternative.
I believe that she will continue to teach me as long I should choose to study. Which, at this point, is indefinitely, as I believe in preserving one's instrument, and singing for singing's sake. But I will admit that breaking the news to her that I may not, indeed, be bound for a life as a musical theatre is by far the hardest part of that decision.
One step at a time. Spring is upon us, money (albeit a modest amount) is coming in. My friends and family are healthy and, all things considered, happy. In spite of recent tragedies, I am filled with a sense of gratitude and promise. And I choose to embrace it as fully as I can.
P.S. Major shout out to KJ, this blog's only admitted devotee. Thank you for supporting my torrid love affair with the English language.
I am attending said open call for two reasons. One being that, though I have no desire to do summer stock, I have little else going on this summer yet. Thus, any pursuit of summer employment is a valid one.
The second, and more legitimate excuse, is that I have a voice teacher who believes in me with every fiber of her being and wants to see me perform professionally. And until I come up with a valid alternative (e.g. an internship, other non-performing job), I will continue to pursue these opportunities for no other reason than a respect for her...
Okay, I realize that seems a bit convoluted. But, practical person that I am, I really can't break the "I don't want to do musical theatre for a living" news to my creative mentor until I can back this decision up with a tangible alternative.
I believe that she will continue to teach me as long I should choose to study. Which, at this point, is indefinitely, as I believe in preserving one's instrument, and singing for singing's sake. But I will admit that breaking the news to her that I may not, indeed, be bound for a life as a musical theatre is by far the hardest part of that decision.
One step at a time. Spring is upon us, money (albeit a modest amount) is coming in. My friends and family are healthy and, all things considered, happy. In spite of recent tragedies, I am filled with a sense of gratitude and promise. And I choose to embrace it as fully as I can.
P.S. Major shout out to KJ, this blog's only admitted devotee. Thank you for supporting my torrid love affair with the English language.
Friday, March 20, 2009
Why?
It's the single greatest unanswered question of human existence.
Intelligent creatures that we are, we need reasons to accept things. We need reasons to understand.
So when a complete freak accident cuts short the life of a brilliant, beautiful, compassionate and kind 22 year-old, it's the question we keep coming back to.
The hard part is, we can fill in every detail, solve every part of the mystery, and still not have our answer.
And we can choose to be angry, because it is such an irrational, unfair, ridiculous tragedy.
And we can choose to take it as a reminder of how lucky we are to be taking the very breath we are taking at the very moment we are taking it.
And we can choose to take it as an excuse to reach out and reconnect with the people we love.
And we do all of these things, to an extent. None of which answer the eternal question.
This is the kind of soul-numbing tragedy to which words and actions can do no justice.
This is something about which I will ask "Why?" for the rest of my time on this earth.
And it is moments like this that we all have to cling to some sense of something greater than what we know. And in that greater thing, whatever or whoever it may be, lies the answer. It has to.
Intelligent creatures that we are, we need reasons to accept things. We need reasons to understand.
So when a complete freak accident cuts short the life of a brilliant, beautiful, compassionate and kind 22 year-old, it's the question we keep coming back to.
The hard part is, we can fill in every detail, solve every part of the mystery, and still not have our answer.
And we can choose to be angry, because it is such an irrational, unfair, ridiculous tragedy.
And we can choose to take it as a reminder of how lucky we are to be taking the very breath we are taking at the very moment we are taking it.
And we can choose to take it as an excuse to reach out and reconnect with the people we love.
And we do all of these things, to an extent. None of which answer the eternal question.
This is the kind of soul-numbing tragedy to which words and actions can do no justice.
This is something about which I will ask "Why?" for the rest of my time on this earth.
And it is moments like this that we all have to cling to some sense of something greater than what we know. And in that greater thing, whatever or whoever it may be, lies the answer. It has to.
WHAT THE LIVING DO
by Marie Howe
Johnny, the kitchen sink has been clogged for days, some utensil probably fell down there.
And the Drano won't work but smells dangerous, and the crusty dishes have piled up waiting for the plumber I still haven't called. This is the everyday we spoke of.
It's winter again: the sky's a deep, headstrong blue, and the sunlight pours through the open living-room windows because the heat's on too high in here and I can't turn it off.
For weeks now, driving, or dropping a bag of groceries in the street, the bag breaking,I've been thinking: This is what the living do. And yesterday, hurrying along those wobbly bricks in the Cambridge sidewalk, spilling my coffee down my wrist and sleeve, I thought it again, and again later, when buying a hairbrush: This is it.
Parking. Slamming the car door shut in the cold. What you called that yearning. What you finally gave up. We want the spring to come and the winter to pass. We want whoever to call or not call, a letter, a kiss--we want more and more and then more of it.
But there are moments, walking, when I catch a glimpse of myself in the window glass,
say, the window of the corner video store, and I'm gripped by a cherishing so deep
for my own blowing hair, chapped face, and unbuttoned coat that I'm speechless:
I am living. I remember you.
Johnny, the kitchen sink has been clogged for days, some utensil probably fell down there.
And the Drano won't work but smells dangerous, and the crusty dishes have piled up waiting for the plumber I still haven't called. This is the everyday we spoke of.
It's winter again: the sky's a deep, headstrong blue, and the sunlight pours through the open living-room windows because the heat's on too high in here and I can't turn it off.
For weeks now, driving, or dropping a bag of groceries in the street, the bag breaking,I've been thinking: This is what the living do. And yesterday, hurrying along those wobbly bricks in the Cambridge sidewalk, spilling my coffee down my wrist and sleeve, I thought it again, and again later, when buying a hairbrush: This is it.
Parking. Slamming the car door shut in the cold. What you called that yearning. What you finally gave up. We want the spring to come and the winter to pass. We want whoever to call or not call, a letter, a kiss--we want more and more and then more of it.
But there are moments, walking, when I catch a glimpse of myself in the window glass,
say, the window of the corner video store, and I'm gripped by a cherishing so deep
for my own blowing hair, chapped face, and unbuttoned coat that I'm speechless:
I am living. I remember you.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
R.I.P. Natasha Richardson
Every time a public figure dies, I do everything within my power to ensure that my feelings on the matter are genuine before jumping on the grief bandwagon. I do, a lot of the time, feel like the human race thrives on tragedy in small doses (kind of like a flu shot?) as it serves as a necessary reminder that as long as we are alive and healthy, we should really just stop complaining.
That said, Natasha Richardson's death has caused me to shed real tears, in the privacy of my own home, not for show. Having been blessed with the opportunity to see her in a Roundabout benefit reading of "A Little Night Music" in mid-January, her talent and grace are particularly fresh in my mind. And I can, technically, say that I saw her final Broadway performance.
A performance that moved me enough to make special note of it, EVEN among the work of fellow stage-gods Victor Garber, Stephen Pasquale, Vanessa Redgrave. But as I said to my parents the next morning, who had so kindly passed the hot tickets on to my friends and me, Natasha Richardson's portrayal of Desiree Armfeldt "made me feel as if I was hearing 'Send in the Clowns' for the first time." And to anyone who has even a fragment of knowledge about musical theatre, this is the highest kind of praise.
Aside from awakening us to the fragility of the human body, the unpredictability of life, the sheer lack of logic in the workings of fate...this tragedy also calls to attention the smallness of not only the theatre community, but the Manhattan community. The idea that Ms. Richardson's family is grieving a mere 18 blocks from where I write this makes the whole thing seem even more disconcertingly real.
The point is not to dwell or be melodramatic. The point is to take a necessary pause and give this event the attention it deserves. And so I ask her to rest in peace, and to sing and sing and sing for all eternity.
That said, Natasha Richardson's death has caused me to shed real tears, in the privacy of my own home, not for show. Having been blessed with the opportunity to see her in a Roundabout benefit reading of "A Little Night Music" in mid-January, her talent and grace are particularly fresh in my mind. And I can, technically, say that I saw her final Broadway performance.
A performance that moved me enough to make special note of it, EVEN among the work of fellow stage-gods Victor Garber, Stephen Pasquale, Vanessa Redgrave. But as I said to my parents the next morning, who had so kindly passed the hot tickets on to my friends and me, Natasha Richardson's portrayal of Desiree Armfeldt "made me feel as if I was hearing 'Send in the Clowns' for the first time." And to anyone who has even a fragment of knowledge about musical theatre, this is the highest kind of praise.
Aside from awakening us to the fragility of the human body, the unpredictability of life, the sheer lack of logic in the workings of fate...this tragedy also calls to attention the smallness of not only the theatre community, but the Manhattan community. The idea that Ms. Richardson's family is grieving a mere 18 blocks from where I write this makes the whole thing seem even more disconcertingly real.
The point is not to dwell or be melodramatic. The point is to take a necessary pause and give this event the attention it deserves. And so I ask her to rest in peace, and to sing and sing and sing for all eternity.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Fact.
I have to say, every time I pick up a guitar, it becomes clearer.
I am a musician.
It's one of the only things that really makes sense to me.
I am a musician.
It's one of the only things that really makes sense to me.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Top of the mornin' to ya!
I have seen the face of God, and it is the weather today in NYC.
Which, of course, is juxtaposed with the fact that my 10 miles of running this past weekend seem to have rendered me completely immobile. A lingering case of plantar fasciitis has reared its ugly head in my right instep, and my calves are in that kind of searing pain that can only be relieved momentarily assuming the runners stretch at inopportune moments.
I really don't think I did anyting wrong. I am not an inexperienced runner. I think the forumla for distaster was:
Running outside, for the first time in a long time, on an uneven surface
+
Running 30% farther than I intended to
+
Insisting on repeating this the next day, in spite of the pain I was in.
I'd be lying if I said that I'm not slightly masochistic when it comes to physical fitness. But to me, there are few things more rewarding (or potentially damaging) than competing with oneself.
Anyway, the most frustrating part is that I can't go running on this glorious, beautiful, the-world-must-be-made-of-cotton-candy kind of day.
On top of that, it's ST PATRICK'S DAY! And for those of you who know me, you know that I "My Dad is a McKennery, my Mom is a Maloney, and my grandmother is a Flaherty", because I proudly proclaim it whenever I encounter another Irish person. So even though I don't have any celebratory plans of note, here's a general Erin Go Braugh to all you fellow meat and potato lovin' drunks out there.
Which, of course, is juxtaposed with the fact that my 10 miles of running this past weekend seem to have rendered me completely immobile. A lingering case of plantar fasciitis has reared its ugly head in my right instep, and my calves are in that kind of searing pain that can only be relieved momentarily assuming the runners stretch at inopportune moments.
I really don't think I did anyting wrong. I am not an inexperienced runner. I think the forumla for distaster was:
Running outside, for the first time in a long time, on an uneven surface
+
Running 30% farther than I intended to
+
Insisting on repeating this the next day, in spite of the pain I was in.
I'd be lying if I said that I'm not slightly masochistic when it comes to physical fitness. But to me, there are few things more rewarding (or potentially damaging) than competing with oneself.
Anyway, the most frustrating part is that I can't go running on this glorious, beautiful, the-world-must-be-made-of-cotton-candy kind of day.
On top of that, it's ST PATRICK'S DAY! And for those of you who know me, you know that I "My Dad is a McKennery, my Mom is a Maloney, and my grandmother is a Flaherty", because I proudly proclaim it whenever I encounter another Irish person. So even though I don't have any celebratory plans of note, here's a general Erin Go Braugh to all you fellow meat and potato lovin' drunks out there.
Monday, March 16, 2009
She comes and goes and comes and goes like no one can.
It seems that as soon as I get to making some kind of committed decision about my life, the proverbial pendulum swings suddenly and violently in the complete opposite direction, imploring me to do something, anything else.
If I take this audition, and I get it, will it uproot me from my life?
If I take this job, and I get it, will I ever be able to audition again?
Would I rather be in New York, living a stable life in my favorite place in the world...
Or pursuing something I'm not sure I love anymore, touring in places I don't love, for fear of having otherwise 'given up'?
It seems that I have a paralyzing fear of moving forward.
It seems that I am just as terrified of finding happiness as I am of the complete opposite.
And for lack of any emotional direction, and any logical understanding, I have to force myself unwillingly to commit. To something. Whatever it is. The next thing.
For the past year I have completely abandoned my belief in fate and put my entire life into my own hands. I need to allow myself to believe in destiny, just a little bit. I don't think my life is entirely out of my control, but I can't bear the thought that everything lies in my hands. Can anyone?
I want so badly to do something relevant, without having to compromise who I am.
This has incontrovertibly been the most difficult year of my life to date.
If I take this audition, and I get it, will it uproot me from my life?
If I take this job, and I get it, will I ever be able to audition again?
Would I rather be in New York, living a stable life in my favorite place in the world...
Or pursuing something I'm not sure I love anymore, touring in places I don't love, for fear of having otherwise 'given up'?
It seems that I have a paralyzing fear of moving forward.
It seems that I am just as terrified of finding happiness as I am of the complete opposite.
And for lack of any emotional direction, and any logical understanding, I have to force myself unwillingly to commit. To something. Whatever it is. The next thing.
For the past year I have completely abandoned my belief in fate and put my entire life into my own hands. I need to allow myself to believe in destiny, just a little bit. I don't think my life is entirely out of my control, but I can't bear the thought that everything lies in my hands. Can anyone?
I want so badly to do something relevant, without having to compromise who I am.
This has incontrovertibly been the most difficult year of my life to date.
Writing is what was missing. This time, anyway.
I'm back! I'm back. And I am resisting deleting yet another blog and starting "fresh" (a notion that is highly overrated and if you ask me, completely non-genuine, as it is impossible to erase those things which have contributed to who we are, how we think, and what we do).
I just came across a lot of things I had written in the last several years--just general musings as I waited in O'Hare or sat awake on a school night with a jarring need to understand myself. The following is one example. I give it to you, and with it a promise that this blog will attempt to be nothing if not sincere, spontaneous, and an absolutely necessary outlet in preserving the sanity of yours truly.
A Moment of Clarity
13 October 2007
When I think about the person I was a mere three years ago as I timidly made the greatest transition of my life unto that point—that is, from high school to college—of course I am shocked and amazed by the ways I have grown. I have conquered things socially, physically, emotionally, and mentally which would have sent my high school self running in the opposite direction. But there is something about college that forces you to be your own rock—to know yourself wholly and unashamedly, and to triumph over even your deepest fears and insecurities. There is no hiding from yourself in these years; this has been perhaps a harder learning experience for me than for those friends who were more self-assured in their high school years.
I guess what I’m trying to say is that upon entering the final year of the supposed ‘best four years of my life’, my sarcastic and sometimes cynical point of view on my college experience is met with increasing disapproval. As general sentimentality heightens among those around me, my own personal frustrations become more logically and eloquently defined. I feel like my friends take it as a personal affront when I comment on the reality of what this experience, at least for me, has been. There is no arguing the fact that some of the single most precious memories of my twenty-one years have been spent in this city, on or around this campus, with these people. I wouldn’t try to deny that fact for a second, and if you think me ungrateful, I am not being clear.
That said, my time at Northwestern has served as a rude awakening in many ways. An awakening of the responsibility that comes with independence, of each and every single one of my complex but not unusual insecurities, of the difference between good friendship and bad, of the genuine possibility and feeling of loneliness. Upon applying to this school I deemed it a ‘perfect fit’ due to its theatre program, proximity to a big city, academic integrity, and so on. In hindsight I recognize the inherent irony in the fact that there will always be something about me that just doesn’t quick click with this place, and vice versa.
More than anything I’ve learned that there is nothing wrong with that. My youthful idealism has evolved into a much more genuine—yet not unromantic—understanding and appreciation of those things which are good. I realize nothing is perfect. Nothing. I realize that misery is real, and comes in sometimes intolerable droves, but eventually—inevitably—gives way to an ever clearer, heightened state of content.
Tonight, one of my best friends said in reference to the utter perfection that is college, ‘Everyone you love is within a one mile radius.’ It’s a beautiful sentiment, and I only wish that I could perceive my world here in the same way. There are people here I would die for. But there are also people, places, and things all over the world that are pulling me from here so fast that I feel like I’m already gone.
The last thing I would ever want is for the people who have made this experience worthwhile to think that I take them for granted. That couldn’t be farther from the truth. But the romantic in me is far from convinced that this is the best life has in store for me. So maybe the idealist hasn’t gone away at all.
I just came across a lot of things I had written in the last several years--just general musings as I waited in O'Hare or sat awake on a school night with a jarring need to understand myself. The following is one example. I give it to you, and with it a promise that this blog will attempt to be nothing if not sincere, spontaneous, and an absolutely necessary outlet in preserving the sanity of yours truly.
A Moment of Clarity
13 October 2007
When I think about the person I was a mere three years ago as I timidly made the greatest transition of my life unto that point—that is, from high school to college—of course I am shocked and amazed by the ways I have grown. I have conquered things socially, physically, emotionally, and mentally which would have sent my high school self running in the opposite direction. But there is something about college that forces you to be your own rock—to know yourself wholly and unashamedly, and to triumph over even your deepest fears and insecurities. There is no hiding from yourself in these years; this has been perhaps a harder learning experience for me than for those friends who were more self-assured in their high school years.
I guess what I’m trying to say is that upon entering the final year of the supposed ‘best four years of my life’, my sarcastic and sometimes cynical point of view on my college experience is met with increasing disapproval. As general sentimentality heightens among those around me, my own personal frustrations become more logically and eloquently defined. I feel like my friends take it as a personal affront when I comment on the reality of what this experience, at least for me, has been. There is no arguing the fact that some of the single most precious memories of my twenty-one years have been spent in this city, on or around this campus, with these people. I wouldn’t try to deny that fact for a second, and if you think me ungrateful, I am not being clear.
That said, my time at Northwestern has served as a rude awakening in many ways. An awakening of the responsibility that comes with independence, of each and every single one of my complex but not unusual insecurities, of the difference between good friendship and bad, of the genuine possibility and feeling of loneliness. Upon applying to this school I deemed it a ‘perfect fit’ due to its theatre program, proximity to a big city, academic integrity, and so on. In hindsight I recognize the inherent irony in the fact that there will always be something about me that just doesn’t quick click with this place, and vice versa.
More than anything I’ve learned that there is nothing wrong with that. My youthful idealism has evolved into a much more genuine—yet not unromantic—understanding and appreciation of those things which are good. I realize nothing is perfect. Nothing. I realize that misery is real, and comes in sometimes intolerable droves, but eventually—inevitably—gives way to an ever clearer, heightened state of content.
Tonight, one of my best friends said in reference to the utter perfection that is college, ‘Everyone you love is within a one mile radius.’ It’s a beautiful sentiment, and I only wish that I could perceive my world here in the same way. There are people here I would die for. But there are also people, places, and things all over the world that are pulling me from here so fast that I feel like I’m already gone.
The last thing I would ever want is for the people who have made this experience worthwhile to think that I take them for granted. That couldn’t be farther from the truth. But the romantic in me is far from convinced that this is the best life has in store for me. So maybe the idealist hasn’t gone away at all.
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