Open Letter to a Boston Cabbie

Dear Sir,
First of all, allow me to apologize. If you are reading this, I am sorry that I was unable to give you your cab fare. You might remember me, you picked me up outside my dorm at 6:30 am on Friday, November 6th. Upon hopping in, you agreed to take me to South Station, a walk that I could have made, but was unwilling due to the cold and early morning circumstance.
I’d like to make it clear that it was never my intent to stiff you. In fact, I tried exceedingly hard to make sure that didn't happen. Allow me to explain my situation. I woke at 6am and gathered my things for my weekend trip home to Doylestown, PA, a land that you may not have heard of. I was scheduled to take the 7am bus to New York City from Boston’s South Station, and upon my arrival to New York, I’d figure out the logistics of the second leg of the trip home. But that part is of no relevance to you, sir.
After leaving my room and heading downstairs, I followed my pre-decided plan to go to the ATM in the lobby of my building. And what do you know? Broken. But not to worry, the majority of cabs accept credit cards. Alright.
So I hop in, give you directions and immediately note the credit card machine on the plastic median divider, perfect. I entertain the $4.60 ride and you pull up directly outside the entrance to the bus terminal. It is 6:42, everything’s coming up roses, sir.
I preface my payment with “Hey, I’m really sorry, but…” and explain my plastic predicament. You groan, take a sip of your XL Dunkin Donuts coffee, your second one of the day, you explain to me, and you say,
“Yech, that thing, it hasn’t worked all morning. Do you see my cab number on the screen? Broken.”
Okay. Well, okay. I still have enough time, as I’m actually running three minutes ahead of schedule (a rarity for the traveler in me), and I inquire about the nearest ATM. Inside the terminal, up two escalators and down the corridor you say. Fine, I’d be much obliged. You brought me $4.60 closer to my destination. So in, up, and up I go.
Citizen’s Bank ATM. Well that’s ok, I bet they’ll give me a surcharge, I don’t have time to worry about it.
Swipe. No dice. What do you mean my card can’t be processed? I try again, again I go unprocessed. And again. Again.
I walk away, ask a security guard, who tells me the closest one is next door at the train station. A walk I know is 8 minutes, from prior experience. It is 6:50. Again, no dice.
I go back to the Citizen’s Bank ATM, someone else got it to work! I wait and try again, and still, my card cannot be processed.
It is then that I had to make the unfortunate decision that I could not pay you today sir. I scour my wallet for some kind of compensational currency; one dollar, a Barnes&Noble gift card, a gift certificate from Wet Seal. None of these things seem appropriate. It is 6:53.
I make my way to my gate and think about you, two escalator rides down, and out the double doors, sitting in your MetroCab with a broken credit card machine, sipping your second XL Dunkin Donuts coffee of the morning, curious about whether your passenger will actually return and pay you.
You are incredulous, you’ll be pleasantly surprised if she does. She’s clearly a student, she looks pretty decent. She definitely has it, but kids, they were trained early to cut corners. And everyone’s shackling down because of this recession bullshit, that you just don’t know how the cab industry is going to keep it together.
I understand, Mr. Cabbie with white hair, long face, and Red Sox cap, that I took on some bad travel karma, when I made the decision to stiff you this morning. That’s something I can’t take back. But I can try, either by giving $6 extra dollars to the next cab I get in, or by a method I haven’t yet come up with.
I just felt an immediate need to apologize to you, and I had to get this off my chest. I wish you the best of luck sir, and I hope that one day you find 4 dollars and 60 cents on the ground, and you are compensated for our short ride together. I’m sorry, white-haired, long-faced cabbie. I hope I didn’t ruin your day.

With all the best intentions, and immediate regrets,
Micaeli C. Rourke

PS. Phuck the Yankees. For your sake, go Sox.

White Winter Hymnal

I was following the pack
All swallowed in their coats
With scarves of red tied 'round their throats
To keep their little heads
From fallin' in the snow
And I turned 'round and there you go
And, Michael, you would fall
And turn the white snow red as strawberries
In the summertime...

It has been an excellent weekend.

Thanks for lookin' out. =)

wait, really?

http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/entertainment/8282356.stm

It's 5:30 am.

And I can't stop reading. And writing. And thinking. And crying. (but only because I'm inspired, and my creative juices are flowing, so it's excusable.)

I was watching a tv show tonight about three lifelong friends that were kidnapped. They were all starters on their high school's varsity soccer team, and were due to graduate in one month. They were locked in a cell, without food or water, and were told, by their captor that they would be released in one week's time, except only two of them would survive. The third would be killed. 

Now, after about 3 or 4 days in a frigid, dank cell, one of the three became aggressive, always looking for a way out, and becoming hostile at the other two. One fell ill, and became weak, often sleeping in a damp corner of the cell. The third was moderate, often helping their ill friend, encouraging her to get better, while persuading the aggressive friend to relax, because her anger and hostility was only conceding to their captor's intent. The intent, of course, was to pit them against each other, using sensory deprivation, in hopes to tap into the slumbering evil that rests within all humans, notably among 18 year old girls. 

The next day, the alpha female takes the moderate aside while the weakest is sleeping. She convinces her that the only way any of them will ever survive this ordeal is if they chose the weakest to die. She is the closest to death, and has not displayed any will to try and solve their problem. Now, the moderate immediately refuses, and becomes sick just over the thought of it. These girls had grown up together, they were lifetime companions. Yet, the alpha reminds the moderate to think of her mother, undoubtedly frantic at this point, who is all alone, save for her daughter. If they don't make it out of the isolated cell, her mother will surely think her daughter is dead, and upon realizing she is completely alone in the world, she will spiral into insanity and utter madness.

After hours of coaxing, and mental anguish, the moderate consents. She realizes that there is a small chance any of them will survive, so she might as well do what she can to save her own life. The alpha immediately declares to the ever-eavesdropping walls of the cell "Alright, we've made our choice." All this happens while the weakest lays unresponsive, and proven unconscious in the corner. 

Immediately, two hammers are dropped through a slot in the cell door. The moderate and alpha realize that their captor's intent is for the girls to kill their friend themselves, and they are both aghast, one more so than the other. 

The alpha takes a hammer, and attempts to persuade the moderate again, although she is still rather appalled at the idea. The moderate realizes what a dangerous position she is in. In a cell where survival is the only goal, anything goes. Alpha could just as easily bludgen her into oblivion, and be the sole survivor. She has no idea what to do. The two girls are standing face to face. The moderate is wringing her hands. The alpha is standing, inauspiciously with the hammer. 

Then, the alpha's face goes tense. Her head bobs forward briskly. She crumples to the floor. The weakling is standing behind her with the remaining hammer, now bloody from the pulp of her best friend's skull. She is silently heaving with sobs, obviously appalled with what she had just done. The moderate stares in utter disbelief at her friend who had, up until that moment, been laying semi-catatonic in the corner. "I had to. She had chosen me. She was going to kill me."

The two girls were released from the cell exactly one week after their abduction. They were driven to their high school football stadium, and released in broad daylight. The captor put a cell phone in a hand of the moderate, smiled, and drove away. His ultimate plan had been achieved.

NOW how fucked up is that? Not the type of thing I expected to see on a detective show (Criminal Minds) on A&E at 1am. 

Untitled

When i met you, i stopped writing. i also stopped waking up to a face full of post it notes saying things like its bad luck to see the woman before the driving test, or my house smells like apple cider and bluebottles have eyes, or i've got static in my arms. i stopped feeling sorry and i stopped falling down the stairs. i noticed the stars at night could have a story and you could have taken the ocean and put it in your eyes. i also stopped writing. when i met you, i stopped trying to be a nice person and just was. when i met you, i discovered post it notes and then i couldn't use them. i realised my house was not just a picture of a house and that your silence is so loud and my loud is so quiet. when i met you, i stopped writing and i cut star shapes into my blanket because i couldn't reach the sky, even with a ladder. when i met you, i traced the map of your bones and filled my hands with yours because i stopped writing. i also stopped walking backwards because i noticed that i could miss the view, and the view was mostly beautiful, and the view was mostly you. i also noticed that some people are like trees and the forest on your face and the paths in your mind are endless, but i have them memorized. the way you are thinking the same thing as me, but ask me what i'm thinking anyway, i noticed. i noticed that your silence means something. when i met you, i stopped writing and i listened. once i started writing again, i became a seedpod with no purpose but to write to you, are arrivals and i am departures and how it was windy that day and our eyes might have met and we might have smiled. i wrote to you that words are never enough and i sighed and i stopped writing. i made a tower of cards and the wind knocked them over and i walked home in the rain because i think i fell in love with that again. when i met you, i saw your eyes and i stopped writing. when i met you, i learned to read the creases in my hand and i stopped writing. when i met you, i did not float in the tub, i did not run to catch the last plane leaving. when i met you, i stopped writing. then i went to your house and i wrote and i wrote and i wrote. when i met you, i stopped writing and then i couldn't stop writing. when i met you, i couldn't stop writing and then i stopped writing. when i met you, words weren't enough anymore and i stopped writing. then i wrote and i wrote and i wrote.

Freedom

So I got in my first car accident this week. I'm totally fine, and Delilah only has a broken turn-signal light on her front left side, but I guess it counts as an accident. Ironically, I wrote the following prose two days before my accident. Life's funny like that, right?

Freedom

I am lumbering forward, onto worn asphalt that is a rural quilt of patches and scrapes. Steam is rising from the ancient road, recovering from an early-summer deluge that preceded my ride by a few hours. I am passing through familiar, bucolic countryside that has since prepared for its nightly slumber. I show no regard to my inky still surroundings, and I disrupt the black night with the two beams of light emanating from the front of my ride. With the windows down, loud and fast music wafts into the night. I know I'm instigating an awakening--albeit a brief one, yet I show no regret, or cause for concern. I am preoccupied with my own dissatisfaction. With a cigarette in my left hand, and my fell phone in my right, I manage to fumble the wheel in the right general direction, using my knees, and the car's intuition to do the rest. No, this is not safe. But that's never been my biggest priority. At this moment, I am deep in thought.

Some people have their designated nook or cranny in the world, where they can go and allow their mind to diffuse, or mull over something. My place just happens to be on wheels. It acts as a place for travel, for recreation, for 'business meetings', and as an occasional cure for boredom.

At this point in time, it is helping me to solve my most recent self-inflicted problem, loneliness. For some reason, I've been stricken by a dampening mood, and no desire to see anyone. Paradoxically, I am sad because of my solidarity. You could call this self-induced discontentment. I would prefer to call it PMS.

I go through the mental motions of restless, nostalgic, self-doubting, and plain gloomy. I feel the best solution would be to drive, with no destination. I have an immediate desire to get lost. Maybe the land of the unfamiliar will cure me of my current funk. Or maybe it will scare me out of my adolescent ho-hummings, and make me thankful to get back to familiar terrirory; counting my blessings as I safely close my front door behind me at the end of my adventure. At this point, either outcome is possible. I'm not planning the now that's unfurling itself before my four wheels. Rather, I'm just auto-piloting through silent territories of countryside, pioneering a trail to my own mind's content. 

Stories, Shotgun

So I have this new summer project. It's more of an intellectual challenge,  but I'm stubborn enough to try it. I've decided this summer I'm keeping a list, "the compendium", of all things that happen to me this summer that make for a good story. I will, every so often, look at the memories from the list, and reflect upon one like a narrative. These things are stories of funny/bizarre things that happen to me, shitty things, and great days. I'm calling it Stories from Summer (a working title). It will be something to look forward to in the future. I have a few of the stories written, theyre fun. This project was inspired by a book I'm reading called 'I Was Told There'd Be Cake' by Sloane Crosley. It's kind of a girl-version of Tucker Max (much less vulgar), and is reminiscent of the writer's voice and setting of a young Carrie Bradshaw. DEFINITELY read this book if you come across it, its hilarious. 

Also, I'm considering starting another smaller project that documents all the people who have/will ride shotgun in my car this summer. It would be aptly called "Shotgun Summer 09" and I'm thinking of having a log or some kind of documenting of who rides as my co-pilot. I just think at the end of the summer it would be cool to see how  many people I've chilled with in my car, and the variety of people as well. It would also be neat to see who do I actually drive around the most? Who's the most random person, things like that. I thought it would be cool to have a disposable cam over on that side of the car, for entertainment purposes,  but I'll probably nix that idea. Flahsbulbs at night in cars don't make for flattering photos. 

wonderings on the wind down.

"OH instincts are misleading

You shouldn't think what you're feeling

They don't tell you what you know you should want. " -death cab.

Maybe there is a second first time for everything. 

I've been adapting to summer mode for a little over a week now. It's much better than I anticipated. I'm surprisingly charmed with being back in Doylestown, and it seems I'd forgotten a few of my favorite things while away at college; these things include playing/making music (I wiped a thick layer of dust off of my violin upon returning home), driving (delilah is happy to have me back), the gazebo, blasting shitty pop punk music and driving through the countryside, and alone time. I feel like there's a serious loss of alone time at school, but I'm back to only child mode, and I can do pretty well by myself for extended periods of time. It's refreshing. I never realized how much I missed these things. 

     So, what the hell am I doing with my time? This week, I slept until at least 1pm every day. sweeeeet. i've been catching up with some friends, and cruising around with them. Also, I've been cleaning and rearranging the room, unpacking the life I brought home in assorted duffle bags from 80 Boylston, Boston, Ma. Aside from that I've been having some fun, smoking too much, and job searching. Today was my first day at Gerenser's Ice Cream in New Hope. After the first day I can tell it's gonna be a long summer. But a fun summer. It's a cool job, without much responsibility, and all the free ice cream I can manage to eat. It is what it is. And it's a job. Thank goodness. 

        Yesterday was my first day upon returning home to escape suburbia. I took an impromtu trip up to NYC to visit the darling Christopher Hutton (working stiff extrordinaire), and I also got to spend time with Amelia & Michaela (and some guest star friends), who managed to meet me in beautiful May-smitten Manhattan. As soon as I reached street level after exiting Penn Station, I saw three homeless people and countless cigarette smokers. I kind of miss the rough edges of city living. Alas, I'm adapting to slower paces for the time being. I'm predicting in a month's time I'll be in full-on summer mode. This means bronze hippie-ness, curly hair, and more of an interest in...interests, doing stuff I want to do because I like it, not because I'm required to. ex: Reading Voltaire, painting my room, writing a lot.

I hope when you read this you think about your summer self. It's always different than the normal, structured self of the school year. This is the off season. What freedoms do you adapt to? What activities have you started again, that maybe you forgot about?

PS. This happened to me yesterday. It made my day. 

http://www.iwon25bucks.com/

(This big prize patrol interviews you on the street and gives you 25 bucks, just for being you. Cool, thanks!!)

Earth. And Babies. (Earthbabies?)

Life is good. 

It would be better if I didn't have such a procrastination issue.

It's 3:07 am. (Hence the procrastination issue.)

Today is a special day because....

-It is Earth Day.

-It is my brother's 1st birthday (aside from his actual day of birth, I mean.)

-My grandparents have been married for 52 years.

-Lily Borghi comes home from the castle today.

-Lowe's Theater is screening Disney's Earth all day.

In the horizon...

-My first Red Sox game on Sunday night.

-I turn 19 in exactly 2 weeks. 

-I officially survive my first year of college in 2 weeks+1 day.

Things to think about....

-I NEED A JOB. 

-Should I take summer classes this summer at home or next summer at school?

-Should I continue with my self-imposed tradition of getting a piercing on my birthday?

-Or should I just go big and get a tattoo?

Alas, there are more important things to think about. Like passing all of my classes. And pondering how to end world hunger. And how to make people happy when they just want to be sad all the time. 

I will leave you with these....

I cannot believe this was one year ago today. 

Infants & Sunsets. 

Two of the most beautiful things on earth.

SOMETIMES WE FORGET.

(This is a rant with activist undertones. Prepare accordingly.)

Dark room, blinds drawn.

Privleged youth forced to confront face-to -face the excesses that we take for granted.

I sit amongst my peers in a class about international news. For whatever reason, we are watching a documentary about Zambia. 

Granted, American teenagers aren't heavily exposed to the lifestyles of third-world Africans, but I continue to remain shocked at what I learned.

       On the screen before me, I see kids my age working laboriously; carrying enormous bales of second-hand clothing on their backs, with hopes of selling them at open-air markets around the countryside. One man shares his dream to build a tin roof on his family's house with the prophets he gains. The ram-shackle compound, that he is planning on renovating houses himself, and seven other family members.  The video later informs viewers that the roof this boy is working to fund will cost approximately $100. In order for the young laborer to earn this sum, he will have to sell second-hand clothes every month for an entire year, without spending a cent for himself.

      I continue to watch this film, but now chose to observe the reactions of my classmates. The majority remain rather unfazed. Some watch with intrigue and mild interest, others find this as an opportunity to catch up on some recreational shut eye. One girl in front of me has chosen to completely disregard the content of the film, instead spending her time on a relaxing game of Solitaire on her iPhone. 

     Despite my best interest, I feel my amateur political-activist fervor spark up, thus providing me with the motivation to write this rant. (Bare with me?)

Sometimes we forget how lucky we are.

As privileged youth enrolled in higher educational institutions, the most we will probably ever be exposed to an impoverished lifestyle (like that of 3rd world Africa, or otherwise), may be the eye opening documentaries we are exposed to one class, or another. 

         These images will upset us. We may feel guilty. People comfortable within the loving arms of mother America may scoff these off, or resent forced exposure to lifestyles such as these. & thus, they may react negatively. 

Why?? Because what we don't know won't hurt us? Because ignorance is bliss? We dislike having to be exposed to such lifestyles of misfortune and misery because they will make us feel guilty? God forbid we toss some empathy their way.

Upon the start of this documentary, my mind is packed to maximum capacity with mental to-do lists, obligations, and virtual post-its, full of reminders that I hold to heavy importance. My biggest problem, at this moment, is that I am currently without a cell phone, and have been for a few days. I am stressed out thinking of how I'll have to replace all the numbers in my contact list, and I continue the mental debate I've been having about whether or not I should just screw my plan all together, and upgrade to a Blackberry. Granted, it would be a little pricy (with all said and done, it would cost me $179 after a rebate). But, I try rationalizing it to myself by saying that I have wanted one for a while, and lots of my friends have this phone. (Bandwagon tendency? I digress...) I also concluded that if I lobbied hard enough to my family, I could probably persuade them to chip in for a portion of the cost.

          This was the immediate problem that was occupying my mind when I sat down to watch the documentary. And to be perfectly honest, I initially resented the distraction of what seemed like a superfluous film.

Sometimes we forget how lucky we are.

While I continue to call our good fortune 'luck', I personally prefer to look at them a series of blessings. I take a moment of self-reflection after remembering this. I think of materialism & how I've fallen guilty to indulgence. My biggest problem at the moment is whether or not I can dish our $179 on a cell phone when my universal contemporaries are halfway around the world laboring for what would be roughly two years to acquire close to that sum of money. These people had never seen cell phones, and remained amused by picking through new bundles of clothing imported from the first world. Clothes that  could have sat in my closet making a habit of their misuse, until I found time (in my busy, youthful existence), to toss them in a trash bag on the front step. For charitable purposes, only. 

        I kind of took this experience as a wake up call. So thanks God. For putting things into perspective for me, and helping me to acknowledge the blessings that I have received. I'm taking images from this film & tucking them in the back of my mind, for whenever I may be feeling self-indulgent., 

    

Happiness is a state of mind.

Humans have the amazing and innate ability to make their own happiness--regardless of physical location. I can achieve it without the aid of a new Blackberry. I can distinguish it without looking through a new pair of RayBans. & I can take it with me without carrying it in the $100 tote bag I've had my eye on for Summer. 

      With that being said, I'm not implying that I, or anyone reading this, should play the role of a sacrificing martyr, to compensate for those my age who do without. I'm just promoting awareness. 

Open your eyes!

Expose yourself to those who do without. Yes, it will hurt & you might feel guilt. But don't wallow in pity or remorse. Rather, acknowledge your blessings & use them to the best of your abilities. & maybe, if it upsets you that much, do something about it.

   

    

(I have more than 3.75 frequent readers. Elise Comber and Amelia Viner are loyal readers. They are also very pretty and smart. Thanks for reading =) )

A Double-Shot of Zen

I recently got this advice from a friend/acquaintance. It's been helping me out the past few days. Figured I'd share with my 3.75 loyal readers. This includes Mark McCune, Jake Sorgen, and Mary Pat Rourke (hi mom...) Enjoy....

Wisdom of the 14th Dalai Lama,

Be kind whenever possible. It is always possible.

Open your arms to change, but don't let go of your values.

Sleep is the best meditation.

Spend some time alone every day.

W can never obtain peace in the outer world until we make peace with ourselves. 

Remember that not getting what you want is sometimes a wonderful stroke of luck.

We can live without religion and meditation, but we cannot survive without human affection.

Happiness is not something ready made. It comes from your own actions.

If you can, help others; if you cannot do that, at least do not harm them.

The ultimate authority must always rest with the individual's own reason and critical analysis.

 

The Esplanade/Charles River, Boston, Mass. March 2009. 

New York Times and decaf coffee.

He was, and continues to be one of the most unwavering people I've ever met. 

His routine was like that of Old Faithful.

Day after day, waking up at 5 am, to rye toast and chilly hardwood floors, spending his days driving school buses around bucolic countryside. He would then return, about 12 hours later, trudging slowly up the front walk, maybe with a few minor, but necessary groceries in hand. 

Then, dinner with wife of 53 years (and still counting...) Upon consumption, he would praise, 'Well, nice dinner momma', clear the table, load the dishwasher, and easily make his way to his notorious perch in the living room. 

     Sigh, leisure time. With feet elevated and reading glasses balanced at the tip of his nose, his face would be perpetually shrouded with the day's New York Times, decaf coffee within arm's reach, and ambient classical music wafting around the room. 

This is my grandpa. 

Patient, hardworking, not desirous of much, except to provide for him and his. His modest, reserved demeanor would never feel the need to gloat about how he wonce worked in a spacious office on the top of a NY skyscraper, or how he was once a big-shot at Bell-Atlantic Telephone Co. No, you'd be more likely to get that out of his beautiful, occasional spit-fire of a bride. (A woman who would bear his four children, watch the birth of their 8 grandchildren, and wash his underwear for the greater half of a century.) 

His hair had since gone salt&pepper, his mid-section increased, as did his cholesterol. His pace slowed from a stride of power and determination, to an ever-faithful, sometimes unsteady trudge. 

This is an excerpt of a short story I'm writing. It's still a rough draft, just a little something I wrote on the train this weekend. Hope you enjoyed. 

lets blog about vaginas. ready? go.

Last night I experienced a renaissance in the form of a play I saw. After much persuasion, curiosity and a persistent feeling of hesitant intrigue, I saw a production of The Vagina Monologues, that is currently being put on by my school. It is a collection of vignettes and narratives, written by Eve Ensler. Now, I had known about the play for a while, even seeing a clip of it in my theater class last semester, but I had never really liked the idea of it. Yes, all women have vaginas. I have a vagina. What else is there to say about it? Why make these exhibitionist proclamations about it? Just keep on living your life. 

But, why not try something new, right? I have to admit, I was still a little wary of the concept when I saw the merchandise for the show including t-shirts that said 'Vaginas are for lovers', and lollipops in the shape of vaginas. Now I've never considered myself conservative-minded, but I was a little shocked, (if not borderline appalled). But, the show had received good feedback, and I knew it wouldn't be in poor taste. So, I sat back and strapped myself in for the ride. 

What I saw for the next two hours was a collaborative, creative piece that entertained, perplexed, educated, shocked, and impressed me. I understood the purpose of the play was not for exhibition, but celebration. Eve Ensler intended for women not only to embrace their sexuality, but their confidence and sense of self. What better way to do that then by talking about it, and performing it. 

I watched my female peers in front of me, perform monologues about every aspect of their vagina imaginable--from the obvious standpoint of pleasure, to sexual awareness about rape and abuse, to informative pieces about the history of vaginas and their role in society, and about empowering yourself through your love for your vagina. There was so much being thrown at me that, upon conclusion of the show, I didn't think I'd need to say vagina for quite a while. But I realized that that was one of the purposes of the show--to make the word less taboo. It definitely succeeded. It revealed to me that it can be socially acceptable for women to talk about stuff like this. Hell, men talk about their genitalia all the time. They're practically best friends with it. So, why the double standard?

Now I must admit there were parts of the show that left me a little uneasy. One of the first monologues tackled a word that I will never, ever be friends with. Everyone has at least one word that they can't stand, and will never use. Mine is cunt. Eh, I cringe just typing it. Let me tell you, I cringed even more watching it be explained and spelled out in a high-energy, passionate monologue, performed by a friend of mine. While I admired the approach, it is just something I will never get over. 

On the other hand, my favorite monologue was one entitled 'My Short Skirt', in which a woman justifies her decision to wear a short skirt, and to explain how it is no one else's property, or business. It was one of those moments that makes you want to snap and say 'Damn. Girl knows what's up.' This monologue kind of helped to identify my favorite aspects of the play--those of empowerment and awareness. Call me a feminist (you'd only be half correct), but I was definitely very pleased with the play's ability to shock audiences about the injustices of women, and how sometimes people don't give a shit. Not only did the play inform/educate, but it gave the very clear, definitive message that these injustices are not okay, and should not be accepted. Rather than being ashamed for being raped, women should love their vaginas, and embody a sense of self-worth. That's basically the strongest message I took from the production. 

So, as you can see, I survived. And I am no longer a Vagina Monologue virgin. I'd also like to point out that I saw the play with two friends- one straight boy and one straight girl. And upon gazing at my fellow audience members, I saw women, men, gays, straights, lefts, rights, mothers, and even a few dads, who happened to be perpetually blushing as they watched the 'apples of their eyes' fake orgasms on stage. =0

On spring break...

Our battered suitcases were piled on the sidewalk again; we had longer ways to go. 

But no matter, the road is life. Sometimes it seems like life on the road is nothing more than a jumble of airport terminals and postcards. Gas stations and cramped apartments. 

Sometimes, home feels less like the place you grew up and more like a scattered collection of familiar couches and good friends. Sometimes, we meet people along the way who make impacts on our lives we can never really calculate. 

-kerouac.

Obama-rama. For a limited time only?

One of my fondest memories of the past year was the wonderful night when Barack Obama was elected the 44th President of the United States. I happened to find myself in a hotbed of political fervor, commonly referred to as Boston, MA. Not only that, but I happened to be immersed in a 'communal artistic haven' within the hotbed of political fervor

. Some may call it Emerson College. 

So as you could guess, on the eve of our nation's most significant political renaissance of the 21st century, the majority of my peers were awaiting with anxiously liberal breath on the night of November 2nd. Be it snuggled up watching CNN in the comfort of a common room, or blogging on a Blackberry, the majority of college-aged semi-interested students gave a shit.

Yet, if I fast forwarded to tonight, February 24th, 2009, the common room crowd an

d Blackberry blog topics would be very different. Toda

y was not the date of an election, or an inauguration, but the current President's first address to Congress, his game plan of sorts, or agenda for the next 4 years. Essentially our President is discussing th

e same things he did during his campaign. Turning ideas into promises and realities. So why was is this once-heavily involved cross-section of society now apathetic towards the rock star political doppelganger? Why aren't college kids waiting with baited breath to hear the

 words of the current president that they worked so hard to elect?

I'm very hesitant to say this but maybe my long-kept secret theory may be true. Maybe the Obama-fad has finally passed; boiling down the political band-wagon

 fans from the socially aware youth of our current nation.

Where are all of the Obama t-shirt clad activists who were once so involved in the current state of our contemporary world? Perhaps I'm being too harsh and assuming that, just because students aren't gathered and celebrating means they are not t

uned in, or aware of the goings-on of their new administration. 

By writing this, I am not implying that I am higher intellect or interes

t than anyone else, I haven't even stated that I watched Obama's address. I am simply making an observation. 

SO, what do you think of this observation?

Is it accurate, is the Obama craze slowly dying down now that the job is done, and he's becoming less of a phenomenon and more of a diplomat? OR is the recent political inclination of the nation's youth still just as strong, just more sustained and normal? Or am I simply being a politically pretentious jerk? Your thoughts....

Ode to North Jersey

Written on 1/18/09.

There must have been an age when their neighborhood was found in the 'Prime Real Estate' section of The Post. & every time a moving truck would force itself up that embedded slope, the new home owners would exchange contented looks, breathe a satisfied sigh and smile, pleased with their new decision & eager to forge their new suburban homestead. 

To think, for such a reasonable price, they were only 20 minutes from the city. And if they bribed their super& went to the roof & craned their necks, they could see them...

Those persuasive, intoxicating lights that have that have attracted to many urban pilgrims with allure and the glamor of a new, reformed city life., 

The residents of this neighborhood had already tried their luck, and whether they had found it or not, they ended up across the river, in North Jersey, living vicariously through the events and moods of the city, parasitically feeding off of its resources, (and consequently the famous Brick Oven Pizza.)

Yet, from an outside perspective, these residents were far from city dweller

Their neighborhood now adhering to the reputation of a shanty-town, 

a crowded slum just far away enough from a metropolis.

The overpacked layout of houses and apartment complexes were packed like little red and white monopoly pieces stacked in the crook of a hill.

And at night if you stood at the right distance and silently observed for a bit of time, you would see the golden glow of comfort, emanating from every window, as the residents watched their favorite shows inside.

And if you watched particularly hard, you might even see the houses breathing; deep and consistently, as if they were all sleeping. 

& every house would soon begin to resemble a square block of a comfortable patch work quilt.

Every glowing window and breathing condo would  begin to melange together into an ambiguous microcosm of society.

...i need to start using punctuation. and complete sentences.

God's Head Cold

Maybe sometimes God gets sick.

Not really ill, just that nagging inconvenient sick. The kind of sick that makes your head feel like a big ballon, with your sinuses pushing on your brain.

Maybe God gets that. 

And of course when he foes, he feels miserable, drowsy, lethargic, blah blah blah..... BUT, being the workaholic that he is, he's gotta do his job. He has to answer prayers, solve problems, intervene with disasters, et cetera.  All of these divine tasks and he still realizes that he needs to decide the weather for the entire world.

No pressure. No big deal. 

Just deciding how the world will look and feel that day. So, he sits down and begins to map it out for the earth that day. 

& he says okay. It's summer in the southern hemisphere, we'll make it hot...What the heck, I'll throw some tropical storms over the rain forest, and give the outback more sun--make it nice and toasty. 

And then he gets to North America and does his thing. He's losing steam so he wants to get this over with. Some rain on the wildfires in Southern California, a cyclone in Kansas (for old time's sake), and sunshine in Philadelphia. It's always sunny there...

And then he gets to Boston.

And he sneezes.

The end.

PS. This made me grin when I checked my mailbox today, and saw that I had some pictures from the 'home front.' Maybe it will brighten your day. 

My little bro, Sean James Smith. 9 months old already. 

(2 teeth and counting....) =)

Pleasant Surprise of a Wednesday

I love people. 

Watching people

That's not meant to sound creepy, but really.

Observing those going about their everyday, the monotony.

Walking in their functional Monday through Friday shoes, that they put on this morning, still sleepily begrudging their alarm clocks.

I sit, immersed in the lunch break strolls, and mid-day commutes--minds wandering, heads bobbing to casual strides.

I usually sit amidst normalcy.

BUT, what's even better is sitting and observing people on a beautiful surprise of a day. 

A February indian summer, of sorts.

I watch as shrouded people suddenly hatch from the drab grays and beiges of their outer layers, looking around, slightly baffled, as they acclimate themselves to a pleasant gift from everyone's dear friend, global warming.

I watch as postures straighten up, and smiles slowly appear on faces.

I observe businessmen loosening their ties, and calling their suburban wives on minute Bluetooth headsets, just to discuss the weather, and see how their days are going.

And THUS, kindness is spread.

I watch au pairs push urban youth in streamline strollers, as kids squirm to let loose and run in the much, stomp in a new network of tiny streams, from melted snow, that have temporarily taken over the sidewalk.

I watch the natural phenomenon of people ice skating in shirt sleeves, gliding around the placid surface as if they're Canadian geese coming in for landing on a tepid pond. 

Yet, some are not always so graceful.

And of course, there are still the regular idiosyncrasies of a thriving metropolis.

The haggard bum in weathered leather, condemning me--pointing fingers as I sit and type on my laptop on a park bench.

And the compact group of urban youth, skipping school, smoking cigarettes on the corner and chiding the businesswoman who happens to be wearing a particularly tight skirt today.

Things still aren't perfect here, and I'm not suggesting that a pleasant climate change can create a utopian Wednesday in the city of Boston, Massachusetts.

I'd just like to note the happiness and temporary relief that people all around me are experiencing. As if the city is taking a common, collective sigh, loosening up their wooly, winter scarves, and absorbing the naturally-induced contentment, and spoonful of seratonin until spring shines through.

Expose.

Dear Blog,

I am so sorry that I have been neglecting you. But I'm back, and trying to squeeze in some posting whenever possible (which seems to be the wee hours of the morning lately). I must apologize dear web-log journal, which I created so lovingly. It seems with the start of the new semester I'm a little overwhelmed with schoolwork & new activities starting. It seems my old lazy habits are being tamed, and once again, the rigid comfort of structure is implementing itself into my everyday life. It's a nice feeling, and as much as I resent being stressed/overwhelmed, I learned last semester, that I thrive on structure. so....its good to be back. Let's see how long this motivation lasts.

I remember this time last year when I, and most of my peers, were in the midst of 'CollegeSearch08'. After talking to a few friends today, and reflecting (not so fondly), I am so glad I will never have to take the SAT again. I am also glad that I will never have to mail my entire life on paper to a bunch of strangers hoping they'll like me enough to say 'sure...come here if you want.' SO- I found a poem I wrote this time last year that just makes me so happy to be in a place that I love, knowing I won't have to go through the college gauntlet ever again. (High school seniors, you're almost there!! The payoff is so worth the hard work!)

12.3.2007.

I will tap dance on the desk of the Dean of Admissions. 

I will tap dance in Morse Code, 

tapping, 'Please accept me!! I hope you love me!!'

And with my arms outstretched, 

and my feet tapping in dots and dashes, 

I will smile, 

I WILL BEAM.

And any sensible person will say

'Who cares if she's not a minority student, 

and that she doesn't have a 4.3 GPA.

That one's a sparkler!'

And I'll jump off the desk and sing you the saddest song you've ever heard.

It might be in a different language,

but you'll still be sad.

...You might even cry.

I COULD MAKE YOU CRY!

(But you'll be grateful and find it cleansing.)

& You'll turn to your pretentious, prestigious colleagues,

seating in chairs of the finest mahogany.

And you'll say 'Well, she's not a varsity captain,

and her AP scores are mediocre at best

but this one--she's convincing.'

And maybe you'll wipe your tears away

and see less than star struck expressions.

...That's when I pull out my secret weapon.

I'll challenge every academic competitor of mine to a duel!

A duel of wit and banter.

And the bookworms will read and cram

and create pneumonic devices to master 'wit'

And the philosophers will muse,

'What is wit?

How does one duel with the intangibility of wit?'

But I'll just sit around and prepare for the duel 

that just might admit me to your school.

And I will annihilate the competition

with my exemplary vocabulary, impish humor, 

devilish way of thinking ironically. 

That's right!

I can trump them with words, interest, charisma. 

But will that do it?

Will that be enough?

Or will I have to master a test that takes five hours to complete?

Will I have to be some athletic prodegy?

Or travel to some far away land just to have experience with 'diversity'?

My eagerness only adds to my vulnerability in this situation.

And although trying to convince myself that the likelihood of success in this situation is something to be laughed at, I still can't help but shake the idea 

the dream

the utopian illusion from my day-dreaming and head-strong mind.

All We Can Do Is Keep Breathing.

53 days until Spring....

Homework, Allen Ginsberg

If I were doing my Laundry I'd wash my dirty Iran

I'd throw in my United States, and pour on the Ivory Soap,
scrub up Africa, put all the birds and elephants back in
the jungle,
I'd wash the Amazon river and clean the oily Carib & Gulf of Mexico,
Rub that smog off the North Pole, wipe up all the pipelines in Alaska,
Rub a dub dub for Rocky Flats and Los Alamos, Flush that sparkly
Cesium out of Love Canal
Rinse down the Acid Rain over the Parthenon & Sphinx, Drain the Sludge
out of the Mediterranean basin & make it azure again,
Put some blueing back into the sky over the Rhine, bleach the little
Clouds so snow return white as snow,
Cleanse the Hudson Thames & Neckar, Drain the Suds out of Lake Erie
Then I'd throw big Asia in one giant Load & wash out the blood &
Agent Orange,
Dump the whole mess of Russia and China in the wringer, squeeze out
the tattletail Gray of U.S. Central American police state,
& put the planet in the drier & let it sit 20 minutes or an
Aeon till it came out clean

So it was a Kerouac week. If you've never read anything by Jack Kerouac, I'll happily translate that feeling for you. He's been one of my favorite writers for a while, and for whatever reason, the mood of my life (for last week, at least) has kind of taken on that of one of his books. & to personify what that's like, I've figured out a few characteristics that distinguish it. 

1. A lot of traveling, to places where I've never been before.

2. Meeting/traveling with new people.

3. Lack of sleep. presence of substances. enough said.

4. No definite itinerary, just the freedom to play things by ear.

5. Sheer spontaneity. 

(I need to update this more.)

oh, eight!

It's funny how New Year's Eve has changed in my mind.

The event itself has transformed through the years...

from thrilled min-parades with my cousins--banging pots and pans in the from yard, seeing our breath in front of us, almost as clearly as the sparklers in our hands. and the promise of a new  millenium...Then middle school happened, and there were basement dance parties wit sparkling cider, pixy stix, and hormonal raptures--excited to see what changes and social advancements would be made in the next year...Segue to high school, with the beginning of 'dress-up soirees', celebrating with friends and replacing sparkling cider with sparkling contraband, stolen from someone's parents, or something of the sort...But I'm beginning to realize that it's not the holiday that's changed me, just me. & my perspective. 

SO. this particular new year's eve, my perspective was one of cynicism. Upon reflection, I've realized that 2008 was a pretty jam packed year & that my life has changed significantly in a bunch of ways. I've been blessed with change, most of it good, and I feel like 09 may already be at a disadvantage. Or maybe I just don't like odd numbers... 

But regardless, I just figured I'd start at the very beginning (a very good place to start) and nostalgi-cise about what exactly went down this year, or transpired to make it so special...

The first picture of 2008. 

cue senioritis and teenage rebellion.

Oh yeah! Keep in mind, Mary Pat was pregnant 

& I was still an only child for the time being.

I tried skiing for the second first time. =)

This picture represents 'college search08'. This was about the time I decided against majoring in Musical Theater, and had no idea what I wanted to do with my life. Ironically, Chris and I would end up taking almost the same picture in October, when he came to visit me at Emerson.

Then this happened on March 6, 2008. And shocked everyone. It changed my life, just like Jake Revere did. Miss you darling.

St Patrick's day. mansion party. It made for a good story.

I spent so much time with this particular group of people. This picture is a result of too much stress, sleep deprivation, and an open costume room. 

Now entering the busiest 3 weeks of my life. 

42nd street!! April 10-12, 2008

& then THIS happened. a right of passage, of sorts...

The best moment of the year. without question

Sean James Smith, born April 22, 2008. 

My beautiful brother and I. 

He was born 3 days before my senior prom. 

oh, life. 

Senior Prom, April 25th.

ALSO, the day I found out I could go to Emerson, ending the college search!!

Choir trip to Chicago. May 1-4. One of the weirdest, dysfunctional weekends.

but still golden...

BUT i got to sing like THIS.

(oh yeah. i was in orchestra too. i dont have pictures of that.)

May 6th. My 18th birthday. 

My mom was still in the hospital. I got my tragus pierced. rad.

May 16th, Patriot Player's Talent Show, mem. Jake Revere.

This show kind of became my baby, & I was really proud of how it turned out.

Time for me to hand over the presidency. 

This montage makes me feel like Patriot Players was my whole life...

SENIORITIS. 

the only class I got an A in after skipping school and not doing ANYTHING.

NO MORE HIGH SCHOOL.

Graduation, June 18th.

oh yeah!! the torrential downpour that happened!!

(It makes for another good story.)

senior week.

Well I had friends. But now I have family. =)

A wonderful afternoon. 

Probably the best day of my summer. 

Penn's Landing with Kangda.

I got to spend time with 2 of my favorite people in the world.

& I had to start saying goodbye to things I wouldn't have in boston...

(insert picture of delilah, my beautiful 96 volvo)

Oh yeah!! I moved to the center of this beautiful city!

& I've met wonderful people, 

and been blessed with amazing friends.

I was a part of one of the best shows I've ever been in.

I watched history being made! & had one of the best nights since getting to school.

we'll skip to the holidays. this was rockefeller center, id never seen it before.

it ended the year with another first.

stay tuned for new years pictures, a quaint ending to a simply irreplaceable year. 

cheers to all. happy 09. =)