Forgive the Pedantry

A few days ago when I was talking to one of my friends who is studying abroad in China, he mentioned how he finally understands what I mean when I say that it's very easy to feel alone in the city. I told him about a quote that has stuck with me since tenth grade, from the story that inspired the (horrible) movie AI. The story is called Super Toys Last All Summer Long, by Brian Aldiss. The quote reads: "She remained alone. An overcrowded world is the ideal place in which to be lonely."

That quote has been etched in my memory since then. For its aesthetic value to begin with, really. It's a very well-balanced sentence. If you cut it down the middle, say, through "ideal," it seems to weight the same on each side. And it just seems like such a paradox. The world is overcrowded, so one ought to be able to find plenty of people to be friends with, or to be in love with. And yet, the sheer amount of life is so crushingly overwhelming sometimes that it just increases any feelings of loneliness one might feel.

Early sociologists who studied the effects of the city on humanity in general came to the conclusion that city life is unnatural. They felt that the constant stimulation, the barrage of people, noise, sights, smells forces people to retreat inside themselves. But by cutting themselves off from the intense stimuli coming at them from all directions, they are also cutting themselves off from other human beings. The danger in this is that it can soon lead to antisocial behavior and anomie, causing the eventual breakdown of society.

I never really bought into that theory of how City Life affects people. I don't think that the city is naturally a corrupting force, any more than I believe life in the mountains or the country side is naturally cleansing. Since humans first came to be, they have been forming groups, families, tribes. I think there's something to be said for the fact that as soon as humans discovered agriculture, they started settling down in large (relatively large) groups. Humans in general have always needed and indeed sought out the company of humans. So it follows that if anything at all could be considered "natural," it would be life in the city.

And yet, whether city life is natural or unnatural, it can be very easy to be lonely here. I think it has a little more to do with ennui than anomie, however. The loneliness is not of the antisocial sort. It leans more towards the self-pitying and even the self-indulgent. After all, when one reflects on how many people there actually are in the city, one tends to start questioning his or her own self-worth.

I've been listening to a lot of Satie lately. Erik Satie was a French composer from the early 20th century, a contemporary of Debussy and Ravel. He's very well known for his use of repetition and stark, almost perplexing simplicity. Whenever I start to feel lonely or sorry for myself I put either his Gymnopedies or his Gnossienes on. Played on solo piano with no accompaniment, the melodies are haunting but hummable. At first it seems like there's almost nothing to them, but as they progress one comes to the realization that their hollowness, their other-worldly quality is the truly spectacular aspect of the pieces. In the thread-bareness of the melody lies something more comforting than a down blanket. In their loneliness lies complete perfection.

"Who's that?"

"Oh, that's just my friend, Jesus."

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1iUU6jTqB6k&eurl=http://www.eonline.com/uberblog/the_soup/index.2.html

Don't ask questions. Just go to the website. And I'm sorry it's not a link. Blogger is being a dumb bitch and none of the links I embed show up, and I'm too lazy to figure out what's wrong.

But seriously, do it. It'll make your day a million gazillion times better.

Poetry Moment of the Day

From the poem "Poem Read at Joan Mitchell's" by Frank O'Hara

If Kenneth were writing this he would point out how art has changed
women and women have changed art and men, but men haven't
changed women much

That section is short. And the whole poem is glorious (one of my favorites) but I can't find it online and it's far to long to type out for you guys. But look it up. It's basically a congratulatory poem to two of O'Hara's friends who have decided to get married, and it's just so full of hope and anticipation and happiness. I alternate between feeling really safe and warm inside and being overwhelmingly jealous whenever I read this. But I just love that section, because it is kind of true in a way. And I do like to think that no one can really change me, or should ever be allowed to do so. It also plays to my, and I think most women's desire to be someone's muse. Even if you're creating art yourself, wouldn't it be wonderful to inspire someone to create some artistic masterpiece?

I mean, I'm not saying I want to be someone's Zelda Fitzgerald. I like stability and well, not being an alcoholic a little too much for that. But it would be lovely to inspire a poem or a painting. I hope this doesn't come off as terribly narcissistic, because that's not how I mean it. And I also don't mean it as wanting to inspire someone else to great heights instead of achieving those great heights myself. But there is something romantic about being the Mona Lisa, no?

Ambivalence

So....maybe I won't throw caution to the winds.

Cause frankly, I don't want to throw caution to the winds. I want someone to throw caution to the winds for me.

Mreh. Fuck my life.

Love on the F train

So I think I fell just a little bit in love on the subway today. On the way back from work today, I got on the train at 57th street immediately plunked down in the first seat I could find (I was wearing heels for the first since last winter, and they hurt like a bitch and cut my ankles), which happened to be next to this guy writing furiously in a notebook. He was ridiculously cute, just my type: Indian, with some serious stubble and glasses wearing a plaid button-down and gray jeans. He was solid without being stocky, which is always pleasant to see in a city where most of the men look like anorexic 14 year old girls. I decided to let myself be a creeper and try to read what he was writing. It was completely illegible except for a sentence in capitals saying FIND A WAY TO REPHRASE WITHOUT SO MUCH REPETITION and my first thought was OHMYGOD he's a WRITER which naturally made him about a million times sexier. But anyways I took out the book of new and selected poems by David Kirby that I just got out of the library (and that I absolutely adore) and started reading and all of a sudden he looked over and asked "What are you reading?" And of course, I got ridiculously flustered and just showed him the cover and said "uhhhh David Kirby." And he was like "Ok," and I just prayed to whatever higher power may or may not exist that he would keep talking to me. But to my disappointment he just turned back to his notebook and went on writing. But it was Love. Love, I tell you!

Anyways, every once in a while when I'm reading poetry I find a line or stanza that I just love so much and just seems so prophetic I have to share it. Today it was this stanza from the poem The House on Boulevard Street by David Kirby:

I was also reading the great Marina Tsvetaeva
who wrote there was no approach to art,
that it was instead a kind of seizing,
and I thought, why shouldn't life imitate books?
Why shouldn't I reach out
and take what had already taken me?

And when I read that I thought, you know he's so, so right. Why, for once in my life can things not work out like they do in novels? I mean I realize that novels are escapist and idealized and well, fictional, but they must have some basis in fact to have been thought of at all, no?

So I kind of figured that I should throw my pride and caution to the wind for a little bit and see what happens. I need to stop being so afraid of being hurt. Because I've been hurt many, many times before but I'm still here and kickin and somehow still pretty optimistic a lot of the time. So I'm taking a chance. Let's hope it works.

On Sex Diaries, Hot Messes, and Tasti D-lite

"12:37 a.m.: Get a text from work crush!! "Are you out tonight." Hmph. What is it with guys under the age of 25 and their vague booty-call text messages? If you're really interested, call me a day in advance when I’m not trashed in a pencil skirt and French-cuff shirt." (http://nymag.com/daily/intel/2008/09/the_overserved_ivy_banker_chic.html)

Um... has a truer statement ever been written?  It's just another reason why I wait eagerly and impatiently between each episode (or whatever you call them) of Daily Intel's Sex Diaries.  They make me realize that I am definitely not alone in feeling as frustrated with my love life (or current lack thereof) as I do.  And they're damn funny.  After each one I want to go write one myself, until I remember oh hey, if I'm going to write something for a column called Sex Diaries, I should probably, oh I don't know, be having sex.

So, in other news, I adored my outfit today.  It was a white with yellow striped shirt tucked into the super tight pencil skirt that makes me feel like Joan Holloway from Mad Men with my long multi-colored pearls.  It was great, until I got to work and looked in the mirror and thought OH SHIT YOU CAN SEE EVERY DETAIL OF MY BRA.  White with black polka dots, black lace edging, even the seams.  Usually that doesn't bother me.  I've been known to wear see-through shirts without a camisole underneath on more than a few occasions.  But never, ever, EVER to work.  Then somehow in the time between sitting at my intern-cubbyhole on the computer and running down to DROM on Ave A to pick up James Galway's sheet music (Flight of the Bumblebee.  Come on, I realize it's for an encore, but can we be less original?) the seam at the back of my skirt split.  Like, it wasn't anything indecent really.  It was the seam right on top of the zipper where the fabric meets.  And the skirt is lined, so there was no ass/underwear peak-age.  But still.  Combined with my obvious black and white polka dotted bra, I was such a hot mess.

Later on, when I was on the way back from tasti d-lite (yes, I sometimes do go out with the express purpose of going to tasti d-lite.  Especially now that Maddy got me a gift certificate, even if it is for the tasti up by union square, which is like, 20 blocks away.  I just think of myself as a intrepid explorer, fighting my way through hordes of tourists like Lewis and Clark fought their way through grizzly bears and mountain lions.  Except my reward is not the sight of the Pacific but a cup full of green-tea flavored, chemical laden pseudo-dairy product.) a man stopped me on the road:

Man: Miss!  Miss!

Me (stopping, because I had just given another man directions to Joe's Pub and I figured he needed directions too): Yes?

Man:  You are very beautiful.

Me:  Ummmmm....thanks.

Man:  What's your name?

Me:  Uhhh...not giving it to you.

Man:  Ohhhhh you're scared of black men, aren't you.

To which I proceeded to walk away.

Like, come on.  

Upon which I ruminate on birthdays, Sarah Palin, and Italians

So it's incredible how fast my weeks go now that I have no free time to speak of.  I wake up, go to the gym, go to class, go to work, come back, do homework (which I have had almost none of so far), sometimes do yoga, then fall into bed dead tired.  And the weirdest thing is, I'm actually enjoying this.  I like having a busy schedule.  I like to feel productive, and staying busy is one way to distract myself from the lack other things (romance?  money to go shopping? ) in my life.  But anyways, I like my internship a lot.  My classes are easy if not terribly interesting, my music TA is the coolest person on the planet (he plays accordian!  Has a fro!  Is 6'5'' and probably weighs 120 pounds!), and my soc theory professor is an Elderly British Gentleman who taught at Oxford and who is thoroughly puzzled as to how anyone could take Sarah Palin seriously.

But Jesus fucking Christ, the more I learn about Sarah Palin the more I fear for the future of this nation.  She doesn't believe in abortion, even in cases of rape or incest.  She doesn't believe in global warming.  She thinks that attacking Russia would be a good idea if they don't stop fucking with Georgia.  She likes guns and shooting endangered species.  And she likes the Jesus a little too much for comfort.  Basically, she embodies everything I think is wrong with the American people. 

In other news, my birthday came and went.  I wasn't really into my birthday this year, as shown by my conversation with Sonia monday night:

Sonia: Tomorrow's your birthday! What are you going to do???

Me: Ummm....go to yoga?

So needless to say, I wasn't really feeling it.  I actually think I might have outgrown birthdays a bit.  But I did get lots of nice birthday wishes and calls and tasti d-lite gift certificates, for which I thank everyone.  I think I'll try to celebrate this weekend or the next, whenever Sonia can find a halfway convincing fake id.

The Festival of San Generro started today.  So far I have avoided it like bubonic plague infested bodies rotting in the canals of Venice.  I was all excited last year to be living next to Little Italy just for the San Generro festival.  Now I just fucking hate it.  It's loud.  There are drunk people everywhere.  It smells like sausage and peppers all the fucking time, which just makes me hungry, until after a while it starts to turn my stomach.  It's basically like the Week of Hell.  And in a way, it just enhances stereotypes of Italians as these gluttinous mafiosa types.  Not all Italian Americans are the Sopranos.  

That's one of my biggest pet peeves, which I was totes planning on elaborating on tonight.  But I'm just too tired.  So I'll save that rant for another time.