Why read?

My Dad made a new year's resolution to read six books in 2010. I said, isn't that setting your sights a little low? And he said no, not considering how busy I am. Really, though, I probably should have asked, why do you have to set that as a task for yourself? Why DO you read, anyway? Isn't it supposed to be for pleasure? Or are you reading to teach yourself tedious material, for the sake of increasing your knowledge? I guess people read for different reasons, and of course I should consider differences in fiction, nonfiction, poetry, journalism, etc, but even though I sometimes find myself setting page goals or racing to get to the end of a book rather than savoring the page I'm on at the moment, I've always enjoyed it. I'm sure my Dad enjoys it too and is just so busy that he has to schedule pleasure reading to fit it in. I couldn't really put my finger on why exactly I enjoy reading, except that it's always been able to both quench and spur on a certain curiosity about the human experience. When I need some truth, like if I'm having a crisis and I hate the world, I'll usually  find the wisdom I need in a book before I find it anywhere else.

I just found this article on Zadie Smith on the NPR website. Smith is quoted: "Nowadays I know the true reason I read is to feel less alone, to make a connection with a consciousness other than my own."

I think that pretty much sums it up.

Excerpts

 from The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam
Translated by Edward Fitzgerald

First Edition
XXVI
Oh, come with old Khayyam, and leave the Wise
To talk; one thing is certain, that Life flies;
One thing is certain, and the Rest is Lies;
The Flower that once has blown for ever dies.

XXX
What, without asking, hither hurried whence?
And, without asking, whither hurried hence!
Another and another Cup to drown
The Memory of this Impertinence!

XXXIX
How long, how long, in infinite Pursuit
Of This and That endeavour and dispute?
Better be merry with the fruitful Grape
Then sadden after none, or bitter, Fruit.

LI
The Moving Finger writes; and having writ,
Moves on: nor all thy Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all thy Tears wash a Word of it.


Fifth edition

LXIV

Strange, is it not? that of the myriads who
Before us pass'd the door of Darkness through,
Not one returns to tell us of the Road,
Which to discover we must travel too.

News coverage of Brittany Murphy's death

I can't believe another untimely and somewhat mysterious celebrity death is upon us. I'm still recovering from Steve Irwin, for Pete's sake, who I heard about during my birthday dinner (yes, he died on my birthday, inextricably bonding us), and that was in 2006! Then there was Heath Ledger in 2008, who I heard about through hysteric text message, and of course Michael Jackson, whose death I was afraid to infer from an unusually high frequency of his songs on the radio on the drive home from the grocery store. Tonight I was just browsing for something interesting in the news that I might want to write in here about, and lo and behold.
I'm interested in how quickly news crews picked up on this (she was pronounced dead at 10:04 am this morning and imdb.com has already added her date of death to her biography). Also, how quickly it spreads by word of mouth. I heard nothing of it at work tonight, but my sister just walked in the door a few minutes ago on the phone, saying, "It's a crazy world. I guess people won't miss her as much as Michael Jackson...maybe that's mean to say."

I'm also interested in the different things different news sources pick up on.

LA Times: "Bertolotti [Murphy's father] described himself as a "retired mobster" who now works in the movie business writing "scripts.""

Associated Press: "He [Murphy's father] said he used to be in the mob and served prison time on federal drug charges."

MTV.com:  ""Brittany Murphy and I did a USO Tour together in 2003," Alyssa Milano recalled. "She was a sweet soul, with a lot of talent and heart.""

MTV.com again: ""And critic Roger Ebert tweeted her praise, writing, "Brittany Murphy, dead at 32. She had a genuine quality.""

AP again: "Murphy's husband, wearing pajama bottoms and no shoes, appeared ''dazed'' as firefighters tried to save her, Staples said."

The Examiner: "The unfortunate part of all of this conjecture [about an eating disorder] is that no one could get through to Murphy even though a genuine concern about her health existed. Now, sadly, it is simply too late."

GMT, The Guardian: "Recently, after a whirlwind romance, she married the British-born producer and screenwriter Simon Monjack, from whom she appeared to have picked up something of a British accent."

The Guardian again: "Her death may not get the column inches achieved by Michael Jackson or Heath Ledger, but there was something about it which for me was unspeakably sad"

The Guardian again: "Murphy was absolutely perfect in the role [Tai in "Clueless"]: wide-eyed, immensely likeable, funny and yet shrewd – and she complimented Silverstone's deceptively airhead style tremendously."

I think the quote from the Examiner is stupid for speculating about an eating disorder and just stupid because it doesn't make sense.

I like the Roger Ebert quote because he's not giving exaggerated praise, which people tend to heap on after someone dies. He didn't say she had definite quality, he said she had A definite quality. Meaning she might not have been leading lady material according to Hollywood, but she was distinct and memorable.

I also like the article from The Guardian because it's personal. The writer doesn't just mention "Clueless" because that was one of Murphy's most well-known films the way the other articles obligatorily do. He speaks of Clueless as "sublime" and of Murphy as a gem in the role of Tai. This is different from exaggerated praise because this person genuinely means what he's saying and isn't scrounging for something heartfelt-sounding to tweet.

If I were going to write a news story about Murphy now, I'd lean more to the personal. Now's the time for that, anyhow, and by personal I mean genuine, not just good PR.

The movies the news articles like to cite as her career-defining films, and which are great, don't get me wrong, are Clueless, Girl, Interrupted, and 8 Mile. But I, for one, think that this neglects some of Murphy's greatest work. Her face is familiar to me, not necessarily because of Clueless, but because of all the popular shows she made great guest appearances in when she was younger (Boy Meets World; Sister, Sister; Frasier; many others). She also scored supporting roles in tons of comedies like Drop Dead Gorgeous (wasn't she the girl who wished she was deaf and got her wish when a stagelight fell on her head? She was hilarious! If I'm wrong about that being her, oops, but the girl who wished she was deaf was hilarious). Not to mention Just Married, Uptown Girls, and Little Black Book where she took lead roles. All silly romantic comedies I probably wouldn't admit liking, but remember being charmed by. Then she was a prostitute in Sin City, a really cool movie. There's something I like about actresses who linger somewhere just beneath the surface of diva-dom. My fondness of them is more subconscious and real from noticing them in their supporting roles, rather than something I'm spoon fed by the media.

Tea for me please

I wish I had a tea shrine, with a Buddha statue and a wide variety of all kinds of tea from all different countries and candles, incense, tupelo honey, and books of poetry. I also wish I knew how to pronounce certain kinds of tea (Mate, Ceylon) which I'm familiar with taste-wise but never can remember how to order.

I hate it when people put brands on things that really are much too broad to fall under a brand, but I went into Teavana at Lenox yesterday and was thoroughly entertained and inspired.

And the bad writer award goes to

I gave a restaurant 3 out of 5 stars on yelp, and in my review I called them "crafty jerks" for their strategic pricing of tapas items. People who know me might be able to infer that 'jerks" in this case was playful, not malicious. I understand if it doesn't come off that way to outsiders, and that's my shortcoming. But I don't think it merited the chef/owner's condescending response to the review.

After cooling off, it occurred to me that I might be reacting so strongly because I think he's right, and I feel guilty, mean, and like a bad writer. I'm struggling to review restaurants objectively while developing a distinct voice that has style and is interesting to read (and can sometimes be brazen). I may have been unfair on the review in favor of creating a certain voice, and now that I'm getting called out on it, I'm defensive. I tried to keep my temper in check while I wrote him an apologetic (though explanatory) message. Still I got a second response from him telling me my review was ignorant and a misrepresentation of the restaurant.

Rather than figure out who's wrong, I'm more interested in figuring out why both of us are flaming up about this.

First, there's the whole restaurant industry and the delicate relationship between people providing service and people paying for it (which I find fascinating). There's definite etiquette on both sides--rules on proper service/food preparation and presentation as well as rules on proper tipping/reviewing, and when the rules are violated, it can be enraging to the other member of the relationship.

Second, there's the issue of personal egos at stake. He was understandably offended to be criticized about what he does for a living. I dread to think about someone reviewing my piano teaching negatively. But I also take pride in my writing, and when someone questions the validity of what I'm saying and how I'm saying it, not to mention when the person just completely misses my tone which may or may not include subtlety and sarcasm, I'm going to be a little bruised.

Since I spent probably an inordinate amount of time mulling over this last night and this morning, I had to do something to make myself feel better. Basically, I had to admit to myself that I could've been wrong. I revised my review and decided to be more fair on the next one. It's like swallowing a horse shoe to suck up your pride and admit fault, but once you do it I think it feels much better.

Not enough people would kill for Radiohead

That's what a friend said to me once. I don't really see how anyone could dislike Radiohead. Tonight I got to thinking about why I like a band, or what makes a group legitimately good. In Radiohead's case, it's because they've created such a distinct style without resorting to fleeting trends/gimmicks. They don't try to be pretty (and, face it, they're not). They dress like normal people, kind of like bums even. Their music is it. But I'm not left wanting. Thom Yorke's pure, haunting voice, the enchanting melodies, and mega-fresh beatz are more than enough. They just play/sing what moves them, so it moves the audience. With music, you can kind of just tell when someone's following their heart and when they're in it for the fame.

Can anyone think of

a 20th century American coming of age story with a female protagonist?

I never thought about it. But my friend Molly pointed out that McCullers's The Heart is a Lonely Hunter is one of the only ones (and even then, the female is just one of a a few main characters and the others are male). Mick is a pre-teen awkward kind of tomboyish girl who smokes cigarettes and climbs things and has a severe physical and emotional reaction when she listens to classical music. She doesn't even have a girl's name really. Just something to think about.

Your concept of sound is very pastel

Dr. Fredriksen said today.

erggggghhh no it's not! In my head, it's vivid. Colorful. Maybe I don't hear red when I play in C Major like Scriabin, but with certain pieces (including the nocturne I played for him), I know with certainty, albeit abstractly, how they should sound/feel. I know what notes I want to have more gravity, I know when it should be warmer or fiercer, I know what my heartbeat should feel like before I start.

It's an issue of technique that's keeping me from communicating. And maybe just not listening to myself with enough of an out-of-body point of view. It's kind of like how I figure I come off in some social interactions--I think I'm coming off a certain way but sometimes it just doesn't rub the person the right way. Communication has always been a woe of mine, maybe one of the reasons I was so drawn to writing (to spend more time around confusing, ambiguous, wonderful language) and to music (for the beauty of ideas that are maybe beyond words).

Battling

OK. I tried the just forget about it approach, telling myself it's all mental and there's really not a problem, so why can't it go back to feeling the way it used to when I would play? I tried trying to make my fingers strong, but different teachers will tell me different things about whether that's good or bad, and I'm probably making too big a deal out of it. I tried physical therapy. Now, after my lesson with Dr. Rosenkranz, this is what I'm going off of: give my weight to the keys, but don't let my wrist flop down--maintain a solid arch with good shock absorption; remember to lift fingers--they don't have to do ALL the work but they do have to do their job; think in terms of impulses--always start from above and incorporate lots of clean lifts from the keyboard while playing (this sort of conflicts with a thrust motion I learned from Niehaus, but the more I think about it, maybe it doesn't have to).

I still can't decide whether the warmups I do are helpful or not, because sometimes I won't do them and I won't notice a difference. Today I didn't do one. And today it felt horrible to play for the first 45 minutes or so. It felt so foreign and painful and I found out it's probably a bad move to play really introspective and emotional Beethoven sonatas when you're going through an emotionally difficult battle, because I got emotional in the practice room. I wondered WHY I have to be going through this, what I did wrong to deserve this. I probably believe in karma too much and I have a taste for drama. Anyway, the hopelessness got channeled into restless anger. I was not going to settle. I refused to believe I don't have control over the situation, so I stopped being weepy and started bouncing around trying to get the blood flowing into my hands. It was unbelievably chilly indoors for December, and I wondered if that had anything to do with anything. I did some rapid sun salutations next to the 9-foot grand I was lucky enough to snag. I swear every bone in my body cracked; I must not have moved very much today (makes sense since I was sitting in an office all day). I threw my arms around until they were floppy like Raggedy Ann and they had no choice but to be limp and relaxed. I blew hot air on my palms and rubbed them together like I was trying to start a fire. I screamed at my brain in case it was playing a trick on me and fabricating the pain.

Then I kept Rosenkranz's wisdom in mind and sat down to play again. Something worked, at least a little. I could play the Chopin nocturne with enough volume to create satisfying angst at the climax, which was enough. God I miss being able to run downstairs in my PJs, throw my hands on the keyboard, and go. It used to feel so good. I wonder if every great pianist has gone through a physical battle like this. Except it's not just physical. In fact, on a bad day, it's heartbreaking.

There's nothing but shit in food service

I will generally stay out of people's way. Sometimes, I've been told, this makes me come off as a snob. But honestly I'm usually too afraid of fumbling a social interaction when I'm not sure how to handle it, and I'd rather appear a snob than a fool. So usually the only time I won't follow this rule is when I feel strongly that a wrong or an unfairness is being committed against me. Then I can't keep my goddamn mouth shut. Long story short, I told another server he was heartless. Business was slow all day, money was scarce, sidework was still plentiful, and tensions were high because of it. I can understand all of this. But what I can't understand is when I've been at a place more than a month, and there are still surprises on what's supposed to get done at the end of the night. When every night it's different, but if somebody tells you with enough authority you have to listen to it, even if it's something petty, the very SAME petty thing that I got yelled at for asking someone to do yesterday instead of just shutting up and doing it myself. When it's midnight and I have $40 in my pocket total and I thought I was on my way out the door. Anyway, he didn't take the heartless comment well, then made me feel bad by explaining to me as if I were a child exactly why I was wrong, which flipped me upside down and made me crazy, because for once I thought I was understanding him and where he was coming from, but no. Then he basically threatened to tell the managers on me. And I realized if that happens, I won't have a friend in the world at that restaurant. My stay-out-of-everyone's way mentality has worked thus far in keeping me alive but it's also meant nobody really knows me that well or trusts me, certainly not well enough to even consider my word over his. And if I get another "team player" lecture,GAG, I do just as much for that restaurant as anyone, it'll take every spark of my energy to keep from walking out right then.

I overheard one of the busers today saying he wanted to get a tattoo on his back...of Zucca...with toilet paper trailing down because it shits all over him.

A Crappy Thanksgiving to You, Too

People can be downright rude. I just got back from Famous Hair where I wanted to get an eyebrow wax (pretty routine), and I was flat out turned away with no apology. Even though last time I got it done there, around 7:45, so I knew they'd be open, there was only one girl in the salon and when I walked in she said, "Can I HELP you?" and I, already seated and ready to indulge in a magazine while she finished a haircut, replied, "Oh, I just want an eyebrow wax." To which she said curtly, "I have nobody on right now who can do waxes." And went back to her scissors. No explanation, no indication of the next time someone who did waxes would be in, just angry energy. So I left. As I made my way to my car, I stopped to look back at the shopping center and see if there was possibly another place nearby, like a nail salon or something, that would be able to wax. I was studying the neon shop titles when a loud honk jarred me out of my contemplative trance. Apparently I was blocking an empty parking spot. I don't think I was standing there that long, and there are more polite ways to let me know I'm in the way other than blaring a loud noise in my ear. Since my car was right next to the spot in question, I just stepped sideways a little bit and started rummaging for my keys. A lady and her son got out of the car. He looked at me like a scared puppy, then she yanked him and stalked away.

I know tomorrow's Thanksgiving. The girl at the salon probably just wanted to get home and thought it rude of me to come in so close to closing (well, an hour and 45 minutes before), and the car horn lady probably had to grab something last-minute at Kroger and I was smack in the middle of a coveted spot close to the entrance. I know family's the priority for most people and when something or someone threatens to get in the way, it's natural to get a little bitchy. But it's amazing how long it took me to stop feeling disgruntled from those two back-to-back encounters. The bad energy seeped in and after a few minutes, I was still feeling agitated even though I had forgotten why. It makes me hesitate to go back to that hair place, even though the best eyebrow wax I think I've ever had was from there.

Now I know it's easy, since I want to make a point, to attribute all this rudeness to Atlanta being a big city. At least I'm aware of my bias. Still, I'm going to say it anyway--I don't think this would ever happen in Bowling Green. Let me just outline the town as best I can after my 2 day visit. First, there's some sort of rule that no chain restaurants can set up shop there. That means no Applebee's, Olive Garden, or Friday's with that blasted Guy Fieri. There's also a clock tower in the center of downtown which reminds me of the one at Cornell, one of the only things I loved there. And all the people I encountered, even the students, who, considering the size of BGSU and its emphasis on athletics, I might expect to reek with college cockiness, were so pleasant. Some people might say there's not enough to do there. But, there are more than 3 bars. That's already a head start on Williamsburg. Speaking of home, I really love the picture I took while I was there this weekend and I want to put it somewhere. So here you go.

Homework

According to Dr. Fredriksen, at 22, I should know "who's who" at music schools. Then he asked me who was on the faculty at Indiana and when I hesitated to answer he said I should really just be able to rattle off names. Man. Time to google/youtube/stalk some teachers. It is pretty sad, my lack of exposure to these things...but I always kind of wonder how people just build up that sort of knowledge, not just about music teachers, but about anything! Sometimes I really crave an old film to watch, and apart from browsing Netflix or a movie store, or getting a recommendation from a film major friend, I'm not always sure how to pick something that's good. I can get on some pretty good search engine binges, imdbing, etc., and learn cool stuff, don't get me wrong, but before the internet, seriously, what did people do?

Practice Log

As a piano teacher, I need to be always thinking sort of backwards. Any good teacher needs to be able to do that, actually, to think like the student to elucidate things in the best possible way. Sometimes, during lessons, I'm finding that memories from when I was a 6-year-old piano student, memories I thought had basically evaporated, are still lurking somewhere in my head, down a dusty corridor behind some old coats, more intact than I thought. It's really fun when that happens, but I wish I had more control over it and that it weren't just an automatic response to an outside trigger. When I was really little I used to always swear that I would never ever ever forget what it was like to be a kid. It's scary how hard it's getting to keep that promise.

Anyway, I want to start keeping kind of a record of things that go on when I practice now, as a 22-year-old piano student, to make it easy to stir up those memories when I get further down the road and hopefully am teaching people like myself.

As for today, URERJGHUEIRPHGHGHHZXCDF tendonitis. I'm pretty confident it's gone, but the tension  that started showing up before it got so bad I sought out professional help still creeps up too frequently and it's really starting to piss me off. It's hard not having regular lessons, but it also forces me to really think for myself. I am constantly focusing on how my arms feel when I play. This may or may not be a good thing--am I overthinking it again? Do I need Sarno? No, I don't think so. Today was a little challenging, but I spent a long time warming up (which I never used to do ever), I was very gentle at first, and I didn't have any pain or stiffness later. Also, I think this is crucial: I've been focusing on where the pressure comes from when I push down on the keys. I really think my fingers simply haven't been strengthened enough and I've been trying to make up for it by using quick bursts of power from my wrists/elbows/tendons, especially for the weaker fingers, 4 and 5. But when I started spending a few minutes every practice session doing some finger pressing exercises--isolating a finger by holding every other finger down on a key and then pressing very gently but firmly with that finger down onto a key repeatedly (slowly)--things have been improving greatly. But it's as much a mental as a physical exercise. It takes so much mental power to change where the strength is coming from, since I'm so used to compensating for my fingers' weakness by engaging other muscle groups. I've even been thinking about it while I type during my internship (9-5 in front of a computer takes a toll). It's slow going, and I just hope 1) I've pinpointed the problem correctly and 2) I will have the patience not to rush it and fall back into the same trap. It's like an embouchure change for a brass player--a long tedious process that makes you feel like a piece of shit because you're forcing yourself to play below what you know your technical and musical abilities are in order to eventually increase those abilities (and in my case in order to avoid physical pain).

Something cool: I decided to try filming my hands while I played with my Canon Powershot, and it wasn't bad quality considering the camera's not really made to produce quality audio recordings. I positioned it from different angles, and it really made me see/hear things about my playing I wouldn't have been able to otherwise, and provided a new way to discipline myself without a teacher around.

Comforts of Nostalgia

For a long time down here, I've been leading a pretty anonymous existence. My kittens are pretty much the only ones who know who I am or want to play with me. I think that's why it's been so hard for me to get a sense of this place. Because how you feel about a place has a lot to do with how you feel about yourself IN that place. And I've been feeling a bit like a machine. Wake up, eat, look for jobs. Practice, look for jobs. Drive around, use internet at sister's house to look for jobs. Scoop litter.

With such a glamorous life, I guess it's pretty weird for me to miss my hometown. Even though most of my friends tend to get bogged down there and won't shut up about how little there is to do in Williamsburg, I never really get bored there. I love walking down Duke of Gloucester (especially in the fall/winter, with all the little bonfires outside the taverns). I love the fact that there are 3 bars total, and that a great view of the James River (polluted as it may be) is within biking distance from my house. And while it's not Star's Hollow small (if you get my reference, then you can't make fun), I like how it's unusual for me to go a day without running into a couple of people I've known since childhood.

Lately, though, life in Atlanta has started to materialize a little. Even though now I'm still a bit of a machine, at least I'm a working machine. I'm making money and interacting with people on a regular basis waitressing, teaching piano or being at my internship. And where before I felt like a lot of my attempts to translate my nonexistence in Atlanta to an existence online were disappearing into internet oblivion, now it's BECAUSE of the internet that I found two new piano students from Williamsburg! Mom and daughter are both studying and mom took me into bedroom at the first lesson to show me a huge painting of the Governor's Palace hanging above their bed. Daughter was good friends with a little girl in Williamsburg whose dad plays tennis with my dad. There's also a good chance my mom, a maternity nurse, helped deliver both kids.

 I'm being sentimental--it's only been a few months, and there are great things about being in a city. But it's pretty great to be able to mention Ironbound Road and have someone know exactly where that is. At least I'm not recreating Colonial Williamsburg in my bedroom.

Digital Camera Abuse

It's at every social gathering I go to. Some portion of time must be devoted to taking pictures, looking at and reacting to each one directly after it's been taken. There's this hilarious picture from my study abroad trip to England where we're in a night club, but all we're really doing is being glued to our cameras. When I 'm dancing, nobody really cares (except the person taking the picture and the other people in the frame who are also posing for the picture) because they're all staring at their own cameras, probably at pictures they just took of themselves!

I'm totally guilty of the camera obsession, too; I'll admit it.. Is it just because of vanity? Does everyone just want to achieve that perfect picture that captures them from their best angle in the best light, next to the coolest people doing the most interesting thing? That's probably part of it. I wonder if we'll still have all these pictures somewhere on our computers when we have kids. I like to root through my parents' old pictures, but there are so few of them. Basically just their wedding and the occasional Polaroid from camp or something. But we like to document every moment, significant or not. I just don't get why I and, it seems, so many other people get so much fascination out of seeing themselves on that digital screen.

Running away from something...

I was lucky to have one of the best things that's ever happened to me happen because I was running away from something. I hated Cornell so much that I thought I'd better just go in-state and save money while I suffered through this terrible ordeal of college. But then by some stroke of luck or fate or strange subconscious magnetism, W&M really was the closest thing to a dream school I think I could ever have found. But now I'm not sure if this strategy of running away is actually that sustainable or effective.

Lately I've been asking myself more and more why I'm in Atlanta. I at least know logically why I made the decision to come here. The obvious reasons, I wanted to get out of Williamsburg, and two family members live in Atlanta. It seemed advantageous enough. It's a big city with lots to do for fun and (you would think) lots more opportunities than I would have had staying at home. But I've applied to way too many journalism, office assistant, receptionist, museum, and cool independent restaurant jobs and gotten rejected or flat-out ignored. So much for opportunity.

Now, my current situation: waitressing at a bar/pizza joint, driving 50 minutes every week to teach 4 little kids piano in Alpharetta, interning at Atlanta Magazine. Excluding that last one, I'm not sure I had to move to get to partake of these wonderful opportunities. The Atlanta Magazine internship is actually pretty cool, apart from being unpaid, and it's definitely worthwhile for building my resume and experience. As for the other two, I had a much better waitressing job in Williamsburg, and I only drove 10 minutes to teach lessons.

I'm really not trying to complain, even though that's what it sounds like. I'm just trying to sort out why my sense of place here isn't that strong--it doesn't even feel very different to me. Just more difficult since I'm paying my own rent now and I have hardly any connections down here. Sense of place seems like such a prominent thing for some people I've talked to, people who can compare multiple cities and who actually prefer one to another. These people are also the ones who tend to give Williamsburg so much flack for being boring (haters attacking my beloved colonial haven and almost-small-town-like intimacy). As for me, the only city I can say really made an impression on me that way was Bath--all the Georgian architecture, tons of beautiful parks and historical areas, and maybe that was only because I was just wooed by its Europeanness. I don't know, I probably just haven't really discovered Atlanta yet because I've been too busy trying to finance my survival and prepare for grad school auditions. Or maybe I need to spend some time away to realize how much it has seeped in unconsciously. OR, perhaps I'm discounting the importance of my lack of experience living in different places, not to mention my lack of experience living in cities at all and I just haven't honed my criticism yet.

It feels like I'm just going round and round. Obviously I just don't know Atlanta (having sisters here actually only compounds the problem--hanging out with them and being around their established lives makes me realize even more how unestablished mine is, and, even further, makes me less interested in claiming ownership over the city) and that explains my feeling of displacement. I was so worried about feeling trapped in Williamsburg that I just had to find somewhere to bide my time this year. Running away strategy, meh. Now, figuring out where to run towards.

Look

Scriabin's moustache.

Also, watch this guy's eyelids while he plays the Debussy prelude I'm working on.

Mind Over Matter?

I used to think I was very in touch with my body. And I had sort of come to accept that the myriad small and extremely annoying but not life-threatening conditions I had developed in college were a result of "aging." Come on, now. I'm 22 years old. But ever since I was, like, 13, I've had little nuisance pains and a proneness to getting sick. 13 was when I was diagnosed with minor scoliosis which caused major back pain, and it was when I started getting migraines. I used to say, if this is me at 13, I'm going to be in a wheelchair by the time I'm 30. So naturally, in college, I just had illness after illness, and weird stuff, too.

One winter my foot just started hurting for no reason. My second toe became bluish purple and a little swollen even though I had not injured it. The doctor told me it was "Raynaud's Phenomenon," this thing where the blood vessels to your foot sort of constrict and circulation is so poor that your feet turn white then purple then red or something. I got mono sophomore year. Junior year, I got like 3 UTIs and developed digestive issues (sorry if that's TMI), and then fall of senior year I had 3 migraines in 3 days, accompanied by the typical blinding light aura thingie. Usually the aura goes away 10 minutes into the migraine, but this time my vision simply did not return to normal. Coincidentally, it was exactly the week before my final 25 page research paper for my Virginia Woolf seminar was due. When I went to the eye doctor, instead of solving my problem, he found two new ones. Chronic dry eye and blepharitis. Everything sounds worse when you put chronic in front of it and I was devastated. Further, I was banned from contacts for 3 months minimum. The blepharitis I still think is largely meaningless--it's this eyelid condition where you supposedly have to scrub them a lot every morning and night to get rid of it, but it has never caused me any pain or irritation and I can't see it--but it was not what I needed to hear at that point in time. To top off my college career of ailments, in the spring of senior year, 5 weeks before my senior piano recital, I developed tendonitis in my elbows. It started out as stiffness when I played, and as I began to pay attention to it, desperately trying to stop it from progressing, that's exactly what it did. It got worse and worse until I was taping my forearms to practice and icing them every night. I even went to the chiropractor every week for a massage and adjustment on my arms, neck and back to get rid of any tension that might be causing the pain. The tendonitis is a major reason why I'm not in grad school right now--because I didn't want to start my M.M. and end up forever associating music with pain.

So I moved to Decatur for the year. When my sister's friend who's also a pianist found out I had tendonitis, she started testifying to me about this book she read. Turns out she had it, too, only hers was so bad she couldn't even pick up a glass of water. The book she swears by is called "The Mindbody Prescription" and it's by Dr. John Sarno from NYU med school. To summarize it briefly, it claims that most pain can be attributed to what Sarno calls a subconscious "rage", i.e., the pain is not real--it's an illusion created by negative energy in your brain. The healing takes place simply when the patient begins to accept the possibility of Sarno's theory. I pretty much thought it was silly. Like I said, I was very much in touch with my body. I felt strongly that my mind listened to my body, didn't trick it into feeling something that wasn't there. Also, it was one of those paperback bestsellers with the flashy covers, sort of resembling a self-help book, which my English major snob persona looks down her nose at.

But I started to flip through it, read a few success stories (one lady just yelled at her brain for tricking her and her pain immediately stopped), and I just started to play around with the idea. I kind of didn't honestly believe it, but thought, hey, maybe I'll just pretend to believe it and see what happens. Maybe my subconscious is easily tricked or maybe I bought into the theory more than I led myself to realize, but within a few days my arms stopped hurting almost entirely. I could practice for almost 3 hours without feeling tired. And when I thought about it, all those other conditions from college had completely disappeared on their own once I stopped dwelling on them. Now this is by no means a plug for the book. In fact, I still think it's kind of silly of Sarno to call the whole thing a "theory" and have this drawn-out method when all he's is really doing is uncovering a basic principle--that your mind is very powerful. And maybe even evil when you let it get out of your control. But once you realize the power (awareness is key), your mind is a tool at your disposal.

Another finding that made me marvel at the power of the mind: Paul Rudnick. The 51-year-old has lived his entire life on little more than candy and desserts. He's healthy, skinny and happy without those 11 servings of vegetables per day. The happy part is I think what makes it all work.

Toilet training the kitties

"We're finally moving forward with this!" Becca shouted with glee as she bounded up the stairs with our new purchase, a shiny red plastic bowl. Up until now, it's been easy stuff. Just raising the litter box inch by inch by piling old textbooks underneath. Now that it's the same height as the toilet, it's time to nut up or shut up.

When we first got Emberzetta and Frances, one of us mentioned toilet training as a joke. I don't even remember how it got brought up. But then I googled "how to toilet train your cat" and surprisingly found some detailed, reasonable instructions on how to make it happen. Really, if we never had to buy litter again, not to mention having to scoop nasty poop daily (I never imagined 2 kittens could produce such a sheer quantity of waste), that would be awesome.We both thought it would be worth it to try.

So even though my sister and I have young, moldable cats, we're about to enter the danger zone where even the best and brightest have let a turd or two slip. We're about to make the switch from box to no box. This involves putting a large mixing bowl (hence the purchase) inside the toilet and filling it with litter so the cat knows where to aim. But the online instructions warn: if you move too fast and the cat gets frustrated, he'll go on anything absorbent (clothes, towels, your bed). Even if the cat does everything right, this part of the process is not without its challenges. To get the cat used to going without litter, you have to slowly decrease the litter in the bowl down to NOTHING. Do you realize how bad cat shit smells when there's no litter to cover it up? I nearly choked today when Emberzetta took a dump in the newly repositioned litter box (now it's on the toilet, not next to it) as I brushed my teeth. Must be all that oceanfish flavored Purina. Without deodorizing crystals, the instructions again warn: "By the time you're down to a token teaspoonful of litter in the bottom of the bowl, your next-door neighbors will probably be aware of the precise instant your cat has used the toilet." This isn't even to mention that we have to be around almost all of the time to predict when each kitten is going to get the urge, then train them on proper foot positioning by forcefully holding feet in place as they do their business (on the toilet seat rather than in the litter like they're used to).

Just gotta keep thinking about the reward...

Facebook's at it again

Today Facebook found me another new boyfriend! "Meet Black Men," the ad said. If I could only have a black single dad. Nice v-neck sweater on this one, though.

H-A-double L-O, W-double E-N spells...

There was an old woman all skin and bones
Ooooooooooooo

I wanted to link to a video of this favorite elementary school Halloween song of mine, or the one in the title of this post, but good versions don't exist on Youtube.

There is this, though. Oh, Sanderson sisters. Halloween is my favorite holiday.

A Legitimately Good Day

After almost 2 months of looking for jobs and getting none, on just one day I got 2! I start training at Zucca Bar and Pizzeria in Decatur on Wednesday, and I'll be teaching piano with Metro Music Makers as soon as they find me a student. AND after I called our landlord this morning, the maintenance people came by to fix our heat within a couple of hours (for the 2 sudden freezing days we had this weekend, Becca and I were stuck with a furnace that blew cold air). To top it off, it's the type of weather where you can go outside and smell fall, but the sun still has a warm enough quality to it so the leaves look all coppery.

That's Weird...

I just realized I made Wizard of Oz references in both of my last two posts. What is that movie doing in my unconscious?

Compliments From Strangers, Vol. 2

Today a drunk stranger at the Halloween parade told me I had a beautiful nose. Then he asked me how many times I'd been told that. Every freaking day, DUH. It's a great nose. Maybe not as great as Margaret Hamilton's in that movie...but it holds its own.

Packin' Some Protein

Boneless, skinless, and chicken breasts, oh my! OK that doesn't really work but I am just so thrilled at this recipe I found. And I came across it simply by googling "chicken breast recipes." I am very grateful to Google. And to Linda Larsen, who posted all of these great easy recipes (easy according to her, and probably to everyone else, but I'm kind of an amateur--hey, at least I made it through). Chicken crusted with honey mustard and pecans (I substituted walnuts) is nestling happily into my stomach right now, and there's still lots leftover. Very basic ingredients, not a lot of prep time, undeniably delicious. And how great, since chicken is so cheap and good for you, but is so easy to make dry and boring and useless? I will definitely be trying some of her other posts.

Afterthought: If you decide to try the recipe I made tonight, don't be afraid of the dilemma of cooking the chicken all the way through without burning the pecans/walnuts (I was very scared). Just make sure the chicken is pounded out thin enough before you start, and also don't worry if the nuts get dark brown--just stay away from black. Then you've got a charred lump of coal that nobody's going to want to eat.

Zombieland

We're members of the generation who were told as children, "You can do whatever you want if you just try." "Follow your heart" and "Embrace life to the fullest" are common gag-inducing mantras nowadays. But how many people actually do what they love? We're plagued by insecurities, overbearing parents, and a failing economy. Even if people proudly join the stupid Facebook group "I picked a major I like, and one day I will probably be living in a box," they usually end up in law school. But if someone was going to, say, make a movie about remembering what it feels like to have that nothing-to-lose mentality, where would they start?

With zombies, obviously.

My favorite part is that this is a zombie movie that isn't about zombies. The zombies are a vehicle--they give the four characters a reason to:
1. Forget every restriction of society (like the unwritten rule that it's not OK to go around looting and smashing random cars' windows, for example)
2. Go on a cool journey cross-country (luckily with an unlimited supply of gas)
3. Learn to get along with each other (it's not like there's a single other human being on the planet)
4. Meet celebrities (and get away with murder)
5. Lose inhibitions and hook up, but not distastefully. (see #3)

Each character starts out determined not to trust anyone. Because of this, nobody has names, and they are referred to only by their destinations. Columbus, played by Jesse Eisenberg, just wants to see if his family has survived the zombie virus. His debilitating insecurities make him lovable, and the unlikely pairing with Tallahassee (Woody Harrelson), makes for some excellently awkward conversation.

The two sisters' (played by Abigail Breslin and Emma Stone of Superbad) unwavering determination to get to Pacific Playland is cute. They have nothing left to work towards or live for, so they come up with a goal--they will survive and they WILL have fun, despite the fact that the world as they know it is destroyed. In keeping with the trust noone policy, they con Columbus and Tallahassee twice. Of course, after all is said and done, they all end up one big happy family. Fighting zombies is the ultimate trust exercise. And who wouldn't choose being friends over the alternative (see #3)?

Something I really like about this movie is the sense of place. I don't feel like enough movies and books really put setting to good use. Not only does the movie explore every aspect of the various destinations the characters end up at, but the destinations are well-chosen in the first place--lots of vivid colors, full of things good for smashing, just all-around imagination candy. I mean, why stick to hunting zombies in downtown Atlanta (that's where part of the opening sequence was filmed!) when you can hunt them in quirky gift shops in New Mexico, or gas station bathrooms, or Bill Murray's house, or an amusement park? Just think of all the great possibilities for zombies in amusement parks. I won't ruin it for you, but just think.

Woody Harrelson was also great in this, and provided the film with lots of nicely packaged take-away phrases, like "Nut up or shut up," and "That'll do, pig." They may have tried a little too hard to get "Nut up or shut up" to stick, seeing as Harrelson's character uses it twice in the movie AND I see the phrase is in a big banner stretching across the photo on imdb.com. Still, his character is not cliche at all. He's obsessed with Twinkies and his ardent quest for just a taste of the golden snack cake develops his character nicely. (When they visit Bill Murray's mansion, the Twinkie clip from Ghostbusters is conveniently shown in Murray's personal home theater--a little contrived, but I still appreciate the effort to connect everything.)

Definitely too much unnecessary gore, especially in the opening sequence, because this movie isn't really about zombies at all. It's a comedy! And like a lot of comedies, there are some moments that are just absolutely over the top. Still, I think, overall, the movie strikes a good balance of an organically unfolding plot and outrageously absurd events so that the audience is willing to accept and laugh at the ridiculous things and still get something a little deeper out of it.

My Dream Man

Ever since my decision to list myself as "single" on Facebook, I've been targeted by online dating services. Every time I log in, the side bar says stuff like "Lonely?" or "Want a man? Browse pictures now."

I think they realize their tactics have'nt been working on me. I'm a tough one. So they changed up the strategy. Today, it said "Meet Single Dads." Finally! Just what I've been waiting for.

Jealous of Strippers

Current Soundtrack: Be On You by Flo Rida.

Ever since we went to "Babes" on Bourbon Street that song has kind of been stuck in my head. I feel like it's probably because it is a great song to strip to. It has a great beat, but it's not fast, so you can be all slow and smooth, like Dr. Dre on the Dr. Pepper commercial. At least one girl, but I'm pretty sure multiple girls, stripped to it over the span of time we were in the club. (As an aside, we found out later that the girls can't pick their songs, only the genre of music they want to dance to. I wonder what would happen if they picked oom-pah or death metal.) And of course whenever I listen to "Be On You" I'm overcome by the power of songs to stir up memories. In this case, memories of half naked girls getting fully naked to music (well almost fully naked--there's a law in Louisiana that there must be underwear).

But let me just say why Ali and I decided we needed to witness this. We were curious! And we're girls, so it's not sketchy. Plus, there's our perspective. We're technically at the prime stripping age. Over 21, but not too far over. Just graduated college, no job yet, and we got bills to pay, son. Champagne (real name Jennifer) said she can make $15,000 a month.

And they kind of look like they're having fun up there. Champagne said not so much. She actually said she hates her job. I guess that's to be expected, but to me it looks totally courageous and fun. Those girls have got to be fearless to bare it all. They certainly don't all have perfect bodies, but the men we saw had more than enough love and money to go around and they didn't seem to discriminate. And, of course, if some clients have too much uncontrollable love, the strippers are well protected by the establishment.

Ali and I, on the other hand, judged them based on ability. Champagne, for instance, could climb the pole practically to the ceiling and then slide down upside-down, spread-eagled, in 5-inch platform heels that she confirmed are heavy. Even if some of these girls don't have the perfect rack or are packing a few extra pounds in the gut, something must be said for their flexibility and upper body strength.

If I had an excuse to stay fit, learn how to really handle a pair of heels, and build confidence enough to be naked in front of strangers, all while being paid $15,000 a month, I think that might be the opposite of exploitation--I think that might be pretty empowering. Not a lifetime career choice, obviously, but still cool.

Addicted to Feeling Sad?

Death happens. Sometimes, people can't get over it. And sometimes, it seems, loved ones get so annoyed they wonder if the bereaved ought to simply join the one they're bereaved over. This post appeared in Dear Prudence August 17, 2009:

"Dear Prudie,

My mother's grief makes me uncomfortable. She lost her mother more than a year ago and still cries copiously and frequently (in public and in private) when she thinks about it. She brings the death up in unrelated conversations with strangers (including cashiers!), acquaintances, and friends."

Prudie replied that she thought the mother might be suffering from a newly recognized "distinct syndrome" and referenced a Washington Post article. In the article, Rob Stein describes what psychology and psychiatry professors are finding: that there is a specific system in the brain that is used in certain people who suffer from seemingly unending grief. Thus, it may be a physiological syndrome rather than a stubborn unwillingness to let go of the person who died. They're calling it complex grief (does that make people who can move on simple grievers?).

In the article, professors talk about why the use of this particular part of the brain is significant:

Mary-Frances O'Connor from the University of California at Los Angeles says: "'This is the part of the brain involved in knowing that you want something. When people who are not adjusting well are having these sorts of thoughts about the person, they are experiencing this reward pathway being activated. They really are craving in a way that perhaps is not allowing them or helping them adapt to the new reality.'"

"The same brain system is involved in other powerful cravings, such those that afflict drug addicts and alcoholics," says Stein.

Bingo. So the complex grievers are addicted to something. To happy memories, according to the article. But the grievers weren't addicted to their loved ones before they died--only after they were taken away. Is it possible that these people are somehow predisposed physiologically to wanting what they can't have? Does the process of craving without the reward of satisfaction feel good to them, good enough to become trapped in a neverending cycle of sadness?

There are a lot of online forums, like yahoo or ehealth, for people who feel this way.

"Sadness is the only thing that makes me feel alive," says a frequenter of one forum. "Sadness is the best drug I can get my hands on."

"There's something alluring about it, seductive," says another. "Maybe its the self pitying that is so attractive--it mocks self love."

Someone else writes on a yahoo forum that he is addicted to depression because of the art he produces while under its spell: "I've tried to write when I'm happy--honestly, I can't write when I'm happy," he says (Virginia Woolf was bipolar and wrote during almost hysteric bursts of productivity).

Rob Stein posits that the recent physiological findings on complex grief may explain why depression medication has not worked for these grievers--a different brain system (one involving serotonin) is in use for depression patients. But he didn't consider that there could be such a thing as complex depression. In which case, depression medication wouldn't work for depression addicts or complex grievers. Because in a strange way, they don't want to get better.

Wee Bairns

There were at least 7 babies on my flight back from Phoenix yesterday. I was in the window seat, with one right next to me. There were also 2 in the 2 rows in front of me. I was sure it was going to be a miserable 4 hours. I've never been one to ooh and ah over other people's offspring. When I waited on tables with infants I felt obligated to make a nice comment to help the tip along, but it was always awkward because I couldn't care less. Give me a puppy over a baby any day.

But these babies cornered me! They were relentlessly cute. I was ashamed of myself. When I noticed the little girl next to me staring at my earrings I pulled my hair back for her to see them better. When she liked my shiny bookmark I handed it to her and she promptly slobbered all over it. When the little boy in front of me popped up over the seat and screamed to surprise me, I was genuinely amused and engaged in gross small talk with his mother--and enjoyed it.

I hate it when women my age say their biological clock is ticking and that's why they obsess over babies. Maybe because I don't want to believe I'm becoming victim to it, too. But no, it's not true. I'm only in a mothering mood because I'm mother to a new baby kitten. Emberzetta, named for my great great great great aunt, is sitting right here next to my laptop now. And SHE sleeps through the night. She even helped me trap a cockroach last night. Try and get a baby to do that.

Greetings from New Mexico

Finally. Internet. I'm such a specimen of the people I think are just sad. Who check their email every 5 seconds and whine when they can't. Actually no, I'm not. I'd much rather be out hiking looking for scorpions and cactus plants and grizzly bears. OK, Ali, my road trip companion and friend of 17 years, told me grizzly bears don't really hang out in Albuquerque. But in my vision of "the West," they do. I'm just getting the North-South part a little off.

Anyway, some people didn't think this trip was a good idea financially. True, I don't have a job yet in Atlanta. But some things I've done so far that have made it all worth it:
1. Drank hand grenades while walking down Bourbon Street in New Orleans, then met and chatted with a stripper in one of the classier strip clubs (according to the concierge at our hotel)
2. Met an animatronic LBJ in Austin
3. Hand fed giraffes in Abilene

Tomorrow we're going to try and visit some American Indian (Native American?) pueblos. All political correctness aside, I LOVE Indians and I have a feeling this is going to be the highlight of my journey.

As if it couldn't get any better, I just found out from my sister/roommate: two kittens will await me when I get home!

Pale is the new tan

Twice in one day I was complimented on my pallid complexion by total strangers. While I was walking down Forsyth Street from the Five Points station yesterday, a man addressed me. "Hello," he said, obstructing my path to the crosswalk as he sauntered in my direction. I wasn't sure what he wanted with me, so I probably looked confused. "You, with the alabaster skin," he said with a smile. He was still talking about the beauty of my pasty face as I crossed the street. I wasn't weirded out--I love creepy hilarious things. I laughed out loud for the next three blocks.

Later, on the same street, a man passing by looked at me and said, "Hey, snowflake." A girl who overheard him looked at me bizarrely and asked, "Did he just call you snowflake?" I said, "Yes." He turned around to make sure I didn't take it the wrong way. "It's a good thing!" he said and waved. Now that gives some validity to the earlier man's comment, I think.

Some people will capitalize on anything...

Even though this picture is creepy, it definitely makes me laugh. They've done their job. I'm probably just being cynical, but how is it that someone has found a way to make money off of laughter without actually having to have comedic talent? These illustrious disembodied heads which emanate concentric circles of giant HA's charge $199 to train you to become a "Certified Laughter Yoga Leader."

"Laughter Yoga combines unconditional laughter with yogic breathing (Pranayama). Anyone can laugh for no reason, without relying on humor, jokes or comedy. Laughter is simulated as a body exercise in a group but with eye contact and childlike playfulness, it soon turns into real and contagious laughter. The concept of Laughter Yoga is based on a scientific fact that the body cannot differentiate between fake and real laughter.One gets the same physiological and psychological benefits."

Actually I kind of like the idea of it. I *might* be writing a story about this for the magazine I'm interning at...but that is yet to be determined. I just like playing devil's advocate on here, it's fun. So is pasting random ass pictures.

"Breaching decorum"

Kanye West ripped the microphone out of Taylor Swift's hand at the VMAs to praise Beyonce's video. Serena Williams cussed out a lineswoman at the U.S. Open. Joe Wilson yelled "You lie" during Obama's speech to Congress. I feel like something's gotten into the water. I kind of like it though.

Kanye spoke his mind and defended his girl Beyonce even at the cost of appearing, well, like a rude fool. That's at least courageous. Serena Williams was just practicing serenity now and not letting her anger bottle up. I would've been mad about such a jackass call, too. Ann Killion for Sports Illustrated noncommittally tried to make some sort of plug for women's equality like because Serena's a WOMAN and got all scary and used profanity, it's okay, or breaks new ground for women? Why does it always have to be about feminism? That's not why I liked it. And Joe Wilson, well. Republican antics are always entertaining. And only helpful when they're like this.

Even worse than all these breaches in decorum which CNN reporters like to roll their eyes at (I roll my eyes at YOU, CNN, for looking down your nose at popular culture but inwardly relishing it and ruining the journalism industry with it at the same time), there's yet another murder on a college campus. A grad student was found dead inside the wall of the Yale lab she worked at. On her wedding day. How inappropriate. How Poe.

But seriously, it's really sad. What the hell? I never used to follow the news...

A room of my own

Never has a microwave chicken alfredo dinner tasted so good. For four long days, I was without a microwave in my new apartment, and it was uncertain when, or even IF, I would be able to bask my food in those glorious, less-than-60-second-cooktime rays of radiation again. Buying frozen food over beautiful fresh vegetables and meats is just the sort of thing I would gripe at my Dad for when I lived with my parents. Of course, that easy fix is exactly what I crave now that I'm on my own and have big people things to worry about. Like buying toilet paper and paper towels, which run out in like, a day. All this, along with wondering if Internet at home is going to become a luxury of the past (thanks a lot, Comcast). Welcome to Atlanta!