"Most people are together just so they are not alone. But some people want magic. I think you are one of those people." -Broken English

California, I'm Not Coming Home

I have this little habit. Whenever I go to California, I decide that I must immediately pack up and move there. There's sunshine and ocean, scenic drives and melting sunsets. There's also my tendency to find myself in unrealistic situations when I visit somewhere glamorous like LA. Somehow I end up there for the Oscars, at parties in the Hollywood Hills, sipping champagne at the Chateau Marmont, being escorted in a limo by a fashion icon. This is not bragging, I swear. I know full well that this would not be how my daily life would be if I were to make the move out west, and yet, something inside of me when I am there likes to think its possible. In the city of angels, you believe in anything.

When I get back to New York I snap out of the dream. Why, oh why, would I ever think that I could just pack up my life and move to a city that I don't really think I would ever fit in? 

This past December, the amazing Caitlin Krisko and I were flown out to LaLaLand for a charity benefit in Beverly Hills at which she was asked to perform. The famous Chateau became our homebase for the week. By the second evening C was performing in the hotel lobby to an audience of Ryan Gosling and Penelope Cruz. "Oh my goodness," we exclaimed over and over again, "we simply must live in LA!"

We got back and I got over it pretty quick. But how was I going to disappoint C and change our plans to hit the road?

Last week C ran into our music idol at a bar. She introduced herself and they got to talking about the industry and making it big. "Why in the world would you move to LA and start all over again? Are you fucking insane?" he asked.

C and I are staying in NYC. If you were worried, just thank the Counting Crows.

Violation

There was an incident in college where someone stole a blank check from my purse and cashed it for $800, an amount that I just barely had at the time. I noticed a week or so later when I deposited some money at the drive-through bank window and was given a total balance of the exact amount i had just deposited. I went inside, furious about my missing money. "It's because of this $800 check you wrote," the teller told me, pointing to a print out of my transactions.

At 21 years old I had never had reason to write a check for that much money EVER. Even Ann Arbor rent, which seemed abhorrent at the time was significantly less. Taking handwriting samples and making comparisons btw this check and all others I had written, they gave me the fraudulently spent $800 back. It was insured, nothing was investigated, and I forgot all about it.

My first year in New York my apartment was robbed. I was in Cannes, France for the film festival (which was already the absolute worst week of my life) when I got the frantic call from my roommate. "Did you get back early?" She asked. I assured her I had not. "Well, someone else trashed the apartment then." Gone was my lap top, video camera (with treasured video of London and Ryan, whom I had no contact with at the time), and the beautiful photography camera I had bought with all my childhood bonds. In all, several thousand dollars worth of electronics.

With no signs of forced entry, the whole thing was deemed an inside job, but really hardly anything the police had time to care about. I'm still paranoid about my front door and petrified of my fire escape.

Today I was doing some online banking only to discover that I was violated AGAIN. ATM charges taking out $300 at a time, over and over again last Tuesday. I'm a waitress, I carry cash at all times so ATM machines to me are a thing of the past. I frantically tried calling the bank. 

"Please press 1 if this is about your checking account."

"For your benefit, please enter your account number."

"To better serve you, please enter your social security information."

"Goodbye."

CLICK

After 5 unsuccessful attempts, I gathered my stuff and ran to my closest bank branch. Within the hour I had learned that someone, somehow got access to my debit account information and had taken out over $1000 at a cash machine in RUSSIA. What was someone in Russia doing with my card information? Especially since I have my actual card still in my wallet!

When the check was stolen, I stopped carrying my checkbook in my purse. When the apartment was robbed, I changed the locks and put in a super strength dead-bolt. But this time I don't know how to protect myself. I feel painfully violated in a really creepy way.

The Sullivan Street Renaissance

BEFORE:

                       

AFTER:

:                   

Even the Cavaliers were loving it!

Photo Magic*

My photos that inspire me: Africa edition

Revisiting

I have always been an artist of words in my own right. The page has always been my canvas of expression, even when it was merely in the childhood way of diary writing. I have about 10 full journals from my adolescence. Elementary school all fits in own single diary, the kind with a little lock on the side and a pretty poem on the front (which I happen to still remember even though this particular diary I haven't looked at in years, "Sometimes I like to be alone Thinking, dreaming on my own Trying to see what makes me, me Following my own special path").  Once I hit the more anguished years of middle school and beyond I filled at least one journal per year, often an entirely new one over summer break alone. I was trying to discover myself and I left the imprint in words.

I love to read my old journals. Sometimes they are hard to take in, the lack of confidence and petty dramatics of the teenage years are often comical, and yet painful to recall. If only I could go back and tell that younger self how little it would all mean one day. How easy it really is to just love yourself and know others will follow. There have been times over the last couple years, since finding myself in New York, that I've thought how much I wish my 7th grade self could only see me now.

There was a milk commercial when I was a child that I recall. Both a male and female version, with a gawky child feeling insecure as they gaze into the mirror. But their image ages a few years, and then a few more, encouraging the younger self about their future (which of course involves being beautiful and popular by drinking milk). I think about this commercial a lot, even years later. I read my old journals and wish so much I could assure that young self about her future. If only she could see me now...

To my younger self...

in love and saddness

It was early winter (or late fall depending on your personal perspective) when it ended. I should have known, should have felt the changing wind and understood that the seasons were not the only thing in my life growing cold quickly. Even now, years later, with the wisdom of time and knowledge of the way things would eventually turn out, the remembrance of that night still brings the salty burn of tears to my eyes.

I was at Denny's, chainsmoking cigarettes and drinking cup after cup of luke warm coffee. It was cheap though, open 24 hours and just far enough off campus to escape the scene which always developed at the university library or the central coffee shops. The fact that I could smoke my cigarettes while enjoying an endless supply of coffee for the bargain price of $1.50 was the main draw though. The perfect location for the procrastinating mind.

Jules and I were studying for our African American Press mid-term but all I could thank about was my own South African who had yet to make his nightly phone call. There was a knot in my stomach as I sat staring at my disturbingly silent cell sitting next to my open text book on the table. I pulled out another cigarette, trying to calm my nerves. Jules tried to reassure me that it was still early, only 9pm, there was no need to be upset. Unfortunately though, that made it 2am in London where he was living, which I knew was a bad sign. His bar closed at 11 and I always got a call not too long after, either from a phone box outside his work or the one near his flat.

Two nights before there had been a fight. Scared and insecure I sat in the cold solitude of my car, surrounded by the black night in tears. I can't do this anymore. I'm too afraid of losing you and terrified in loving you. Are you frightened too? Are you just as lost? Am I alone?

It was perhaps the first time I admitted outloud that I feared our love may not be enough.

To be continued...

Things I love today

Six word memoirs from Smith Magazine

The work of the amazing artists from the Art Department

Fashion Week updates from NY Magazine

A good old fashion cup of coffee... mmmm...

6 Word Memoirs

Everyone has a story and obviously everyone wants that story told.

When I was home over Thanksgiving my mom and I visited my brother's 5th grade class (my brother being their teacher). We had just gotten new puppies and the kids were bouncing all over themselves with excitement to pet the furry babies. And they all had their own story they were desperate to tell.

"I have a cousin that has a dog like this... well not really like this one cause its actually white not black, and its a lot bigger than this but its a dog... and one time i got to play with it and it was so cute. Like this one."

"My friend's brother wanted to get a dog but he couldn't so he got a turtle."

"I once had a puppy but it bit someone. And it wasn't really my puppy but my neighbors puppy but i liked to pretend it was mine cause it was cute and i really never had a puppy cause my dad is allergic but i did have a cat and my dad wasn't allergic to that at first but then one day he sneezed so then we thought he was allergic afterall maybe..."

The stories went on and on and within 5 minutes my head was exploding with stories that these kids were convinced were just about the most important stories i had probably ever heard. Because doesn't everyone think their story is as vital to everyone else as it is to themselves? i keep a totally self indulgent blog filled with information that pretty much has nothing to do with anyone other than myself so i know how these kids feel...

There's a tale that Ernest Hemmingway was once prompted to write a story using only 6 words. His response, “For sale: baby shoes, never worn.”

Maybe we should all start trying to tell our stories with this in mind instead.

My roommate came up with this one over breakfast, the story of her life is 6 words:
"It is all my parents fault"

To sum up my own life, i've come up with just this:
"I still don't have the answers"