Today is no ordinary day, it's a monster help day where 3000+ employees around the globe donate time to those who need it most. Helping people is part of our company DNA--and volunteering as a collective whole solidifies our contribution to the greater good, and to ourselves.
Yesterday the events team held a pep rally to cheer and encourage full participation in today's events. Here in NY, employees will be deployed to half a dozen key volunteer events with the bulk of employees icing 25,000+ cupcakes in Grand Central Terminal's Vanderbilt Hall to raise money for the American Cancer Society. I'll be joining a smaller team at the Ronald McDonald House, for an afternoon of spring cleaning and gift giving.
I haven't given much thought to where I am going today, and outside the odd commercial about Ronald McDonald, have not the slightest idea of the level of support they provide to the families and children that are guests*. It's a bittersweet confession, not knowing much about the organization I am planning to donate my time to, I wasn't always so complacent (if that's even the right word) about how I spent my volunteering time. In fact, I used to be fairly active on the volunteering circuit, regularly maintaining my accounts with Idealist and Volunteer Match and dedicating time to a few organizations like: Heartshare, DIFFA, Writegirl and Make-a-Wish.
In a lot of ways I'd like to think that Monster Help Day is really a Monster Mental Health Day--the act of giving back seemingly brings out the best in everyone. Some of the most amazing and creative people volunteer, do you?
*Also known as House Guests refer to the families who come to a certain city (in this instance NYC) for one of their loved ones (usually a child under the age of 22) to undergo treatment for cancer.
4/7/11
dreamscapes
What is it about being sick (in this case with a sinus infection/cold/cough) that makes you dream so vividly, almost frighteningly so. In a span of 6 hours I went from whimsical and positively light reverie to trolling the depths of despair and darkness.
late night
I am in a deep sleep and the lulled scent of fresh flowers, of life, wakes me. I am in a building cut in half, like a diorama where anyone passing on the outside can see in even though the surrounding streets are empty. There is a cool breeze the type that is awaken by a mid-summer day and curls around your skin like silk beckoning you to begin the day. There…here it is twilight in this room where I’ve been sleeping. No larger than a broom closet, and a male voice asks why I am sleeping in such small quarters, but I do not feel the size of the room, only peace. Untangling tan legs from crumpled white sheets I walk towards the window. A large plate glass that reminds me of the loft scene in Ghost; nearby I hear the mewing of a cat and can vaguely see the shadow of one on the fire escape. I reach around the window, the wall to pick the kitten up, his fur is soft and blue gray and he is comforted by my touch. Just beyond the window there is an empty lot and I can see 2 figures: a man and his daughter. The child is wearing a pink dress, her dark hair cut in a pageboy; she laughs and waves to me, I smile and wave back. I blink, the scenery changes. Now there is a meadow with a small lake bordered by dark gray cobblestones slick with moisture, the grass is yellow green and surrounded by wheat flax rising on the hills. It reminds me of the rolling leas and mountains on the drive to Lake Tahoe with Mon Frite. To the left there is a playground shaded by a large oak tree that appears to be growing adjacent to my building, almost as if the building and tree are one. There is a barn, actually no a monkey bar set with a yellow thatched roof, the oak branches sway side to side and I feel content, blissful even. And when I wake it is 2AM.
# # #
early morning
We are in a courtroom. I am dressed in a simple black dress, fingering a strand of pearls at my neck. My mother is there, except she is older, her hair is white, as if she were here with me in 2011. She is also dressed in black. In my dream, there is a young boy maybe 6 or 7 and he is drawing in a sketchpad. We appear to be waiting. A non-descript man appears, his presence ominous almost fearful. He pulls me aside with mom lingering nearby one eye on me, one eye on the boy. His words are unclear but his tone undeniably forceful; when he is done he calls to the boy who looks up and follows him without question. I seem to be trapped where I stand, now in the middle of the courthouse lobby. The walls are stone cold, the marble floor dull and gray, there is but one chandelier lit. The bulbs reminiscent of movie marquees from the 70s, only these one circular, the glass frosted. I look toward the staircase, the boy grows smaller and smaller in the distance. A woman resembling my mother walks over to me, holds me close and whispers with a soft Irish brogue, “It is for the best my love.” I feel my heart break, and my body starts to shiver uncontrollably. And that’s when I wake up at 11AM feeling ill and disoriented, hungry yet nauseous, mind unclear and foggy.
late night
 |
| The beauty of a wheat field. (c) http://planetoddity.com/ |
I am in a deep sleep and the lulled scent of fresh flowers, of life, wakes me. I am in a building cut in half, like a diorama where anyone passing on the outside can see in even though the surrounding streets are empty. There is a cool breeze the type that is awaken by a mid-summer day and curls around your skin like silk beckoning you to begin the day. There…here it is twilight in this room where I’ve been sleeping. No larger than a broom closet, and a male voice asks why I am sleeping in such small quarters, but I do not feel the size of the room, only peace. Untangling tan legs from crumpled white sheets I walk towards the window. A large plate glass that reminds me of the loft scene in Ghost; nearby I hear the mewing of a cat and can vaguely see the shadow of one on the fire escape. I reach around the window, the wall to pick the kitten up, his fur is soft and blue gray and he is comforted by my touch. Just beyond the window there is an empty lot and I can see 2 figures: a man and his daughter. The child is wearing a pink dress, her dark hair cut in a pageboy; she laughs and waves to me, I smile and wave back. I blink, the scenery changes. Now there is a meadow with a small lake bordered by dark gray cobblestones slick with moisture, the grass is yellow green and surrounded by wheat flax rising on the hills. It reminds me of the rolling leas and mountains on the drive to Lake Tahoe with Mon Frite. To the left there is a playground shaded by a large oak tree that appears to be growing adjacent to my building, almost as if the building and tree are one. There is a barn, actually no a monkey bar set with a yellow thatched roof, the oak branches sway side to side and I feel content, blissful even. And when I wake it is 2AM.
# # #
 |
| Wooden Cabin Ominous Dark Storm Clouds © http://farm4.static.flickr.com |
early morning
We are in a courtroom. I am dressed in a simple black dress, fingering a strand of pearls at my neck. My mother is there, except she is older, her hair is white, as if she were here with me in 2011. She is also dressed in black. In my dream, there is a young boy maybe 6 or 7 and he is drawing in a sketchpad. We appear to be waiting. A non-descript man appears, his presence ominous almost fearful. He pulls me aside with mom lingering nearby one eye on me, one eye on the boy. His words are unclear but his tone undeniably forceful; when he is done he calls to the boy who looks up and follows him without question. I seem to be trapped where I stand, now in the middle of the courthouse lobby. The walls are stone cold, the marble floor dull and gray, there is but one chandelier lit. The bulbs reminiscent of movie marquees from the 70s, only these one circular, the glass frosted. I look toward the staircase, the boy grows smaller and smaller in the distance. A woman resembling my mother walks over to me, holds me close and whispers with a soft Irish brogue, “It is for the best my love.” I feel my heart break, and my body starts to shiver uncontrollably. And that’s when I wake up at 11AM feeling ill and disoriented, hungry yet nauseous, mind unclear and foggy.
unrequited undertow
swimming the action of propelling oneself in water by natural means using arms and legs, can also be used abstractly as both a negative representation of a sensation, where one is floating or reeling and a positive one where one proves to not go under and surmounts difficulties in their path. a lot of meaning for one word isn't it?
swimming, i've been in and around water since I was a child. the ocean and its surroundings a part of almost every childhood memory. in each memory there is sun, sea, sand. the sun's appearance dictating a Saturday beach outing where we would pile into the dusty green Datsun and drive east toward Rockaway. On longer weekends we headed west toward the Jersey shore. And during the weeks of summer vacation, my mom and I would travel by subway to Coney Island or by bus to where the end of Oriental Boulevard meets the sea.
It was the draw not only of the sun on the sea but the sun and the sand, and depending on what shoreline we found ourselves, each experience of the sand beneath my feet, defined by its texture, shape and size was like time traveling. From the bay shores of Coney Island to beginnings of the ocean near Riis. The eastern shores of Long Island where the granules near Montauk Point are slightly larger and mixed with ground seashells to the north shores of Orient Point dotted with shiny smooth stones that glimmer like black and silver diamonds on the horizon, to the white shores of the lido in Sicily where the best swimming holes to be found are nowhere near sand.
swimming, if one were to ask me I would undoubtedly claim to have been swimming since the very first moment my feet touched sand all those years ago. And that would be a half-truth.
At a young age, my Mom and Dad dutifully taught me how to swim in a seaside kind of way. They introduced the ebb and flow of the sea gradually, first building sandcastles and moats, then splashing in caches of water near the surf, slowly leading me closer and closer to the frothy water's edge. With each visit to the beach we ventured a little further, and one day I learned to float, the next time the doggy paddle. I can still see their young faces full of pride, laughing. As I got older they flanked me on either side holding my hands, as we jumped over the crashing waves, eventually finding a spot where we cleared the sea floor enough to sail with the breaking waves body surfing along the surface. In this homegrown adventure I learned to swim.
And then one day years later on the beaches of Cancun, I unlearned how to swim.
It was a gorgeous day, my friend and I were staying at the Krystal Palace and after a day of touring the ruins made our way to the hotel's private beach just steps away from the infinity pool. The sea was translucent and turquoise, the sky above us clear with rolling puffy clouds way, way off in the distance. The water refreshing and cool in the Mexican heat, there was no incentive to leave the water and so I lingered. Nearby a few other beachgoers were looking out onto the horizon, it seems they had spotted something unfamiliar. Upon looking over I saw it too, a cloud far off in the distance with what seemed to be a tornado like spout touching the ocean.
[/caption]
These funnel, or water spouts, as they are traditionally called, can induce storm like conditions and its advisable to not be in the water when first sighted as they can move swiftly. Completely unaware, I continued to tread water and swim, watching the water spout casually from my location, and was quite taken by surprise when the undertow shifted. Caught in a tumbling wave like a rag doll, I lost all sense of gravity, and emerged disoriented and shaken with sand burns on my skin, a torn bathing suit and a heap of sand in my hair. I left that beach seemingly unscathed only to find myself weary of any undertow or swirling current. Since that day I rarely venture beyond my comfort zone, preferring my feet to touch the sea floor regardless of what beach I may be on from the frothy surf waters at Ditch Plains to the mild green seas of Antigua, Barbuda, Aruba and Puerto Rico. This unrequited fear of the undertow has put a damper on any ocean side endeavors.
I finally decided enough was enough, a fear of the ocean is just not feasible for someone who loves the beach. There are so many things l want to do that involve the sea, like surfing and kayaking and even in my wildest fantasies I dream of selling off all my worldly possessions and buying my own private island. I can't do any of that if I'm too afraid to swim! And so I've enrolled myself in a crash splash course at the Y, a swimming boot camp if you will that meets (1) hour a day, 4 days a week for a month straight. The instructors test you on your ability and place you in a group of students with similar swimming strengths. Then they teach you the basics starting with the swimmer's form, or streamline position, and begin introducing you to each individual stroke, i.e., backstroke, freestyle, butterfly, et cetera.
Classes started last week, and I'm happy to say that I survived basic training. It takes some getting used to wearing a swim cap and goggles but it certainly makes for quicker, less invasive swimming. I would say the breath has been the hardest adjustment and a complete 180 after a dedicated yoga practice (in through the nose, out through the mouth); it's no surprise really that I resorted to holding my nose all these years. I can already feel the benefit in swimming as a form of exercise, and as one friend mentioned it's the one sport where you use your entire body. My upper body feels more awake and open, and even though my muscles are sore from under usage, I've never felt healthier. I've also noticed a change in my diet where I crave protein-rich foods more than sugar/salt/starch. And last but not least is the added benefit of sleep. After a full day at work, I swim vigorously for an hour, shower than relax in the sauna for a few minutes before heading home for a long uninterrupted slumber. A full night's sleep is anyone's dream.
swimming, i've been in and around water since I was a child. the ocean and its surroundings a part of almost every childhood memory. in each memory there is sun, sea, sand. the sun's appearance dictating a Saturday beach outing where we would pile into the dusty green Datsun and drive east toward Rockaway. On longer weekends we headed west toward the Jersey shore. And during the weeks of summer vacation, my mom and I would travel by subway to Coney Island or by bus to where the end of Oriental Boulevard meets the sea.
 |
| Rocky shoreline of Orient Point, LI |
It was the draw not only of the sun on the sea but the sun and the sand, and depending on what shoreline we found ourselves, each experience of the sand beneath my feet, defined by its texture, shape and size was like time traveling. From the bay shores of Coney Island to beginnings of the ocean near Riis. The eastern shores of Long Island where the granules near Montauk Point are slightly larger and mixed with ground seashells to the north shores of Orient Point dotted with shiny smooth stones that glimmer like black and silver diamonds on the horizon, to the white shores of the lido in Sicily where the best swimming holes to be found are nowhere near sand.
swimming, if one were to ask me I would undoubtedly claim to have been swimming since the very first moment my feet touched sand all those years ago. And that would be a half-truth.
At a young age, my Mom and Dad dutifully taught me how to swim in a seaside kind of way. They introduced the ebb and flow of the sea gradually, first building sandcastles and moats, then splashing in caches of water near the surf, slowly leading me closer and closer to the frothy water's edge. With each visit to the beach we ventured a little further, and one day I learned to float, the next time the doggy paddle. I can still see their young faces full of pride, laughing. As I got older they flanked me on either side holding my hands, as we jumped over the crashing waves, eventually finding a spot where we cleared the sea floor enough to sail with the breaking waves body surfing along the surface. In this homegrown adventure I learned to swim.
And then one day years later on the beaches of Cancun, I unlearned how to swim.
 |
| Example of water spout (c)http://myturksandcaicosblog.com |
[/caption]
These funnel, or water spouts, as they are traditionally called, can induce storm like conditions and its advisable to not be in the water when first sighted as they can move swiftly. Completely unaware, I continued to tread water and swim, watching the water spout casually from my location, and was quite taken by surprise when the undertow shifted. Caught in a tumbling wave like a rag doll, I lost all sense of gravity, and emerged disoriented and shaken with sand burns on my skin, a torn bathing suit and a heap of sand in my hair. I left that beach seemingly unscathed only to find myself weary of any undertow or swirling current. Since that day I rarely venture beyond my comfort zone, preferring my feet to touch the sea floor regardless of what beach I may be on from the frothy surf waters at Ditch Plains to the mild green seas of Antigua, Barbuda, Aruba and Puerto Rico. This unrequited fear of the undertow has put a damper on any ocean side endeavors.
I finally decided enough was enough, a fear of the ocean is just not feasible for someone who loves the beach. There are so many things l want to do that involve the sea, like surfing and kayaking and even in my wildest fantasies I dream of selling off all my worldly possessions and buying my own private island. I can't do any of that if I'm too afraid to swim! And so I've enrolled myself in a crash splash course at the Y, a swimming boot camp if you will that meets (1) hour a day, 4 days a week for a month straight. The instructors test you on your ability and place you in a group of students with similar swimming strengths. Then they teach you the basics starting with the swimmer's form, or streamline position, and begin introducing you to each individual stroke, i.e., backstroke, freestyle, butterfly, et cetera.
Classes started last week, and I'm happy to say that I survived basic training. It takes some getting used to wearing a swim cap and goggles but it certainly makes for quicker, less invasive swimming. I would say the breath has been the hardest adjustment and a complete 180 after a dedicated yoga practice (in through the nose, out through the mouth); it's no surprise really that I resorted to holding my nose all these years. I can already feel the benefit in swimming as a form of exercise, and as one friend mentioned it's the one sport where you use your entire body. My upper body feels more awake and open, and even though my muscles are sore from under usage, I've never felt healthier. I've also noticed a change in my diet where I crave protein-rich foods more than sugar/salt/starch. And last but not least is the added benefit of sleep. After a full day at work, I swim vigorously for an hour, shower than relax in the sauna for a few minutes before heading home for a long uninterrupted slumber. A full night's sleep is anyone's dream.
3/23/11
Speed Dial on Time
Taking a cue from Li Jia, the protagonist of Kitchen Chinese, one of the latest books I've read I am seizing the moment to write. Free of guilt and disappointment for a week's worth of posts scribbled in notebooks, ideas jotted on post-its, fleeting sparks of something and then nothing swirling in my brain, allowing the words to flow on the page like writing feng shui.
I've been out of sorts lately, I don't know if it's the wishy-washy change of weather; the solemnity of the news from Japan to Libya; the fast-pace change and evolution at work or maybe it's an undercurrent of what this year is: the final 284 days of my 30s.
What I've come to know is that once you graduate from college and hit the ground running with work and life, time moves so much faster than you can ever possibly imagine. It's not as if someone can warn you about this speed dial on time, it just happens, and the reality of it is intangible, how it affects you, the choices you make. In fact, not until you live through it may you determine, and discover that it is a marvelous time for self-realization and reflection.
I've been out of sorts lately, I don't know if it's the wishy-washy change of weather; the solemnity of the news from Japan to Libya; the fast-pace change and evolution at work or maybe it's an undercurrent of what this year is: the final 284 days of my 30s.
What I've come to know is that once you graduate from college and hit the ground running with work and life, time moves so much faster than you can ever possibly imagine. It's not as if someone can warn you about this speed dial on time, it just happens, and the reality of it is intangible, how it affects you, the choices you make. In fact, not until you live through it may you determine, and discover that it is a marvelous time for self-realization and reflection.
2/24/11
green meets yellow on ice
Kiwi Lemon Sorbet
4 fresh kiwis, peeled and cut into small pieces
1/2 c. sugar
juice of 3 medium lemons
2 T. light corn syrup
2 c. ice cold water
4 fresh kiwis, peeled and cut into small pieces
1/2 c. sugar
juice of 3 medium lemons
2 T. light corn syrup
2 c. ice cold water
- Combine kiwi, sugar and lemon juice in a mixing bowl.
- Cover and refrigerate for one hour.
- When ready to freeze, mash the kiwi to desired consistency; add corn syrup and water and stir until blended.
- Transfer the mixture to your ice cream maker and freeze following manufacturer instructions.
2/23/11
My favorite scoop
In my last post, I mentioned how I had plans to get back to my life and to all the things I love most, like making homemade ice cream.
A few years ago one of my dear friends, "Mon Frite," introduced me to the wonderful world of homemade ice cream, a hobby she shares with her Dad. Almost every time she heads home to visit, she makes his favorite Maple ice cream. When she shared the simplicity of the process it seemed almost kismet that I should combine my love for ice cream with my love for baking. To help get me started, Mon Frite recommended I purchase an ice cream maker and suggested a recipe book or two to use as a reference.
Ice Cream is literally a frozen, sweetened cream (made from a combination of cream and milk with sweeteners and flavoring). Once you master the sweet cream base, everything else is easy, and the most fun part begins: experimentation, mixing and matching ingredients, and truly exploring the craft of ice cream magic.
****
The following recipe and ingredients were inspired by using Ben & Jerry's Sweet Cream Base.
Honey Vanilla Chamomile Ice Cream
2 c. 1/2 and 1/2
5-6 Honey Vanilla Chamomile tea bags (I used Celestial Seasoning)
2 T of honey
1 c. sweetened and condensed milk, cold
A few years ago one of my dear friends, "Mon Frite," introduced me to the wonderful world of homemade ice cream, a hobby she shares with her Dad. Almost every time she heads home to visit, she makes his favorite Maple ice cream. When she shared the simplicity of the process it seemed almost kismet that I should combine my love for ice cream with my love for baking. To help get me started, Mon Frite recommended I purchase an ice cream maker and suggested a recipe book or two to use as a reference.
Ice Cream is literally a frozen, sweetened cream (made from a combination of cream and milk with sweeteners and flavoring). Once you master the sweet cream base, everything else is easy, and the most fun part begins: experimentation, mixing and matching ingredients, and truly exploring the craft of ice cream magic.
****
The following recipe and ingredients were inspired by using Ben & Jerry's Sweet Cream Base.
Honey Vanilla Chamomile Ice Cream
2 c. 1/2 and 1/2
5-6 Honey Vanilla Chamomile tea bags (I used Celestial Seasoning)
2 T of honey
1 c. sweetened and condensed milk, cold
- Open can of sweetened and condensed milk and transfer to measuring cup. Set aside to chill in refrigerator.
- Pour half-and-half into double boiler and heat; whisk in honey and bring to simmer.
- Remove from heat and add tea bags; allow tea to steep for at least one hour.
- After hour is complete, remove tea bags and add in sweetened condensed milk to tea mixture. Whisk until blended.
- Transfer the mixture to your ice cream maker and freeze following manufacturer instructions.
2/14/11
catalyst
I crashed on Friday night, and slept through most of Saturday, still recovering from my bout with the upper ninth contagion. Saturday, cup of coffee in hand, I barely left the couch save the time it took to accept my first (and 20-minute early) order from Fresh Direct. The next 12 hours were spent cleaning out and condensing email accounts, stripping the Internet of excess personal information. It's no easy task, sifting through years worth of intentional and sometimes randomly created online accounts, though its definitely worth the effort. You should try it yourself and see.
Asleep by 3, up by 10, I was on the fast track to being on time when I made the mistake of checking my Blackberry. The weekend tends to last a bit longer if I refrain from checking my work email until later in the day; sometimes I'm not always successful. 90 minutes later, a quart of Honey Vanilla Chamomile ice cream (I'll post my recipe later but here's one to whet the appetite) in a thermal carry bag and I'm on my way.
It's a two fare zone to Carroll Gardens, and it's been awhile since I've taken the bus to the train to get there. It used to be part of my morning commute when I worked for a start-up back in the late 90s. Back then I managed marketing and events for an online production company. I would travel the F train above ground, below ground, across train bridges, the city's skyline just within view, all the way to Carroll Street, the Smith-9th Street station deemed unsafe for a woman walking alone. It used to be anyway. Back then I knew the F train route pretty well, I would leave my station on Court and 4th and head downtown into DUMBO to train with my boxing instructor Bobby Beckles. That was before JLO and Gold Street were prime real estate, before they were pipe dreams.
I find myself using a lot of words that conjure the past: back then, before, used to -- not sure why these phrases keep popping up in my conversations, it's a bit startling and has forced a pause for reflection. At the end of last year I realized that my work had taken over my life, and I sort of had an identity crisis. There are so many things I used to do, out of curiosity or just for the sheer joy of trying something new, and I've definitely been lackadaisical in partaking. But I've decided to change it up, this year comes with a new attitude and a fresh perspective. My challenge for 2011 is to get back in touch with who I am, rediscovering me.
Starting right now.
Asleep by 3, up by 10, I was on the fast track to being on time when I made the mistake of checking my Blackberry. The weekend tends to last a bit longer if I refrain from checking my work email until later in the day; sometimes I'm not always successful. 90 minutes later, a quart of Honey Vanilla Chamomile ice cream (I'll post my recipe later but here's one to whet the appetite) in a thermal carry bag and I'm on my way.
It's a two fare zone to Carroll Gardens, and it's been awhile since I've taken the bus to the train to get there. It used to be part of my morning commute when I worked for a start-up back in the late 90s. Back then I managed marketing and events for an online production company. I would travel the F train above ground, below ground, across train bridges, the city's skyline just within view, all the way to Carroll Street, the Smith-9th Street station deemed unsafe for a woman walking alone. It used to be anyway. Back then I knew the F train route pretty well, I would leave my station on Court and 4th and head downtown into DUMBO to train with my boxing instructor Bobby Beckles. That was before JLO and Gold Street were prime real estate, before they were pipe dreams.
I find myself using a lot of words that conjure the past: back then, before, used to -- not sure why these phrases keep popping up in my conversations, it's a bit startling and has forced a pause for reflection. At the end of last year I realized that my work had taken over my life, and I sort of had an identity crisis. There are so many things I used to do, out of curiosity or just for the sheer joy of trying something new, and I've definitely been lackadaisical in partaking. But I've decided to change it up, this year comes with a new attitude and a fresh perspective. My challenge for 2011 is to get back in touch with who I am, rediscovering me.
Starting right now.
loose change
I've always been a firm believer that things happen for a reason. This morning as I left the house, I impulsively grabbed a pile of quarters sitting on the kitchen counter. A short while later settled on a city bus, a fellow passenger was rounding up change for his fare. Coincidence? Fate? A message from the universe? Perhaps. I have no mysticism to share, just an observation: that one should be cognizant of how they choose to participate in this world. And when possible, they should participate wisely, for the greater good. It almost always prevails.
11/23/10
the secret of life...
Best friends, you can never have too many of them in your lifetime. And rest assured that you will have many. It's like that poem that has circled mailboxes and inboxes for decades, detailing the cycles of friendship and life, about how and why people shuffle in and out of it. As the words go: for a reason, a season or a lifetime.
Think reasons and seasons:
Childhood, high school, the good times of college, first love, first fight, work angst, vacation fun.
The span of a lifetime:
Lean on me when the world comes crashing down, rejoice with me when the sun is shining, console me from embarrassment, save me from myself.
Be here, sweet friend, be here.
In present society I find that it's just too easy to be friends. Friends, I use that term loosely. The progressive nature of technology offers countless ways to stay in touch through feeds, wall postings and status updates, allowing us to broaden our circle of acquaintances and blur the lines that separate them from our friends.
Acquaintances share a commonality, an interest but oftentimes the relationship is fleeting, temporary. Friends on the other hand are like family, members of which you have cultivated a relationship. You learn to grow with each other, in spite of one another's idiosyncrasies. You become each other's confidante, backboard, truth serum. You love one another unconditionally and without judgment. It is a natural evolution from stranger to friend, and occasionally acquaintances themselves evolve into one.
Maybe I am naive to be wistful, wishful, but I long for the days when friends were friends forever. Some may call that a myth, a childhood fancy. I believe it exists: this magic of friendship. Despite the madness and confusion of the world, I believe there are still humans out there who embrace the complexity of it; who thrive from the give and take, the nurturing; who harness, protect and defend each other from the threat of an asunder; who still practice the art of thoughtful communication. The warmth of a voice over the phone, hugs exchanged in greetings of hello/goodbye, the stories that made you laugh until you cried, memories shared through postcards, photographs (thank goodness for these), letters, phone calls, quality time, the absolute cerebral reality of being there in the moment. These timeless treasures, I feel as if they are happening less and less, were it not for my photographs I might start to believe they didn't happen at all.
The world is spinning so fast, everything has become blurry, disoriented. Even the events one relies on to connect fall flat. I recently celebrated a birthday, away from my city of origin, disconnected from a LAN/landline. I was looking forward to this day of celebration because of the phone calls and cards--concrete tokens from loved ones, family and friends. Imagine my utter disappointment when the phone (and postman) only rang twice. Every other birthday wish came noiselessly over the Internet, in email and posted to Facebook. The silence was deafening, filling my heart with a longing for another era. Era, the language of my grandparents. I'm still too young to be thinking in such terms and yet there seems no other word for it.
(quiet reflection)
These late night musings should be shared over malbec and merlot accompanied by philosophical conversations, memories, the occasional regret absolved with bittersweet chocolate and laughter.
They should not be part of a soliloquy.
~~~
"I found out what the secret to life is: friends. Best friends." - Ninny Threadgoode (Fried Green Tomatoes)
Think reasons and seasons:
Childhood, high school, the good times of college, first love, first fight, work angst, vacation fun.
The span of a lifetime:
Lean on me when the world comes crashing down, rejoice with me when the sun is shining, console me from embarrassment, save me from myself.
Be here, sweet friend, be here.
In present society I find that it's just too easy to be friends. Friends, I use that term loosely. The progressive nature of technology offers countless ways to stay in touch through feeds, wall postings and status updates, allowing us to broaden our circle of acquaintances and blur the lines that separate them from our friends.
Acquaintances share a commonality, an interest but oftentimes the relationship is fleeting, temporary. Friends on the other hand are like family, members of which you have cultivated a relationship. You learn to grow with each other, in spite of one another's idiosyncrasies. You become each other's confidante, backboard, truth serum. You love one another unconditionally and without judgment. It is a natural evolution from stranger to friend, and occasionally acquaintances themselves evolve into one.
Maybe I am naive to be wistful, wishful, but I long for the days when friends were friends forever. Some may call that a myth, a childhood fancy. I believe it exists: this magic of friendship. Despite the madness and confusion of the world, I believe there are still humans out there who embrace the complexity of it; who thrive from the give and take, the nurturing; who harness, protect and defend each other from the threat of an asunder; who still practice the art of thoughtful communication. The warmth of a voice over the phone, hugs exchanged in greetings of hello/goodbye, the stories that made you laugh until you cried, memories shared through postcards, photographs (thank goodness for these), letters, phone calls, quality time, the absolute cerebral reality of being there in the moment. These timeless treasures, I feel as if they are happening less and less, were it not for my photographs I might start to believe they didn't happen at all.
The world is spinning so fast, everything has become blurry, disoriented. Even the events one relies on to connect fall flat. I recently celebrated a birthday, away from my city of origin, disconnected from a LAN/landline. I was looking forward to this day of celebration because of the phone calls and cards--concrete tokens from loved ones, family and friends. Imagine my utter disappointment when the phone (and postman) only rang twice. Every other birthday wish came noiselessly over the Internet, in email and posted to Facebook. The silence was deafening, filling my heart with a longing for another era. Era, the language of my grandparents. I'm still too young to be thinking in such terms and yet there seems no other word for it.
(quiet reflection)
These late night musings should be shared over malbec and merlot accompanied by philosophical conversations, memories, the occasional regret absolved with bittersweet chocolate and laughter.
They should not be part of a soliloquy.
~~~
"I found out what the secret to life is: friends. Best friends." - Ninny Threadgoode (Fried Green Tomatoes)
11/25/08
Andrea Meets the Boy From Oz
I was on a blind date (set up by Sharyl, Ms. Doylestown herself) at The Oak Room. Before arriving, Craig met a couple Katrina & Kerry regulars at the establishment...who had recently bought an apartment at The Plaza. Katrina was very pleasant, genuinely charming, she garnered respect from everyone in the room and more or less knew the entire staff.
Craig & I joined Katrina & Kerry for dinner...The Oak Room Bar, newly renovated by restaurateur Joey Allaham and Chef Joel Antunes was an experience even for this native New Yorker, a wondrous way to kick off the week. My meal started with sea urchin on a bed of creamy polenta foam, followed by roast loin of lamb with artichoke hearts and ending with the most decadent of desserts: Rice Pudding w/Cointreau, Pumpkin Pots de Creme, Miniature Madelines, and a plate of pastries fit enough for a king.
Katrina, god bless her soul put me to shame with her social butterfly etiquette making new friends by the handful. Whilst she was away we had the pleasure of ogling Richard Gere at a neighboring table, and upon her return introduced us to Joey Allaham and his wife Lauren. A charming, and beautiful, couple. A short while later, after another social circle of conversation Katrina returns to tell us we're crashing the party next door at the Palm Court for the premiere of the new Hugh Jackman & Nicole Kidman movie Australia.
In NYC fashion, we pose as Katrina & Kerry's daughter and son-in-law and soon we're mingling with the celebrity studded crowd--filled with people who look familiar but are unrecognizable. As we a are wandering about I spot a dashingly handsome man in a 3-piece suit, its Hugh Jackman of course ...the date is thinking we should plot to get a picture, we conspire ...but it feels too invasive, he's there with his wife and family friends....
We pause to strike up a conversation with one of the secret service security guys (a moonlighting NYPD detective and I wonder if he knows Ray). We start chatting about celeb duty... and Eddie Boyle (born in Flatbush, now from Rockville Center), asks how we got in and I who cannot tell a lie come clean. Eddie laughs and asks if I've taken a photo with the man...I shake my head and he responds "If you're brazen enough to crash a party then what's stopping you from getting a photo?" Well he had a point and so with nothing to lose we make our move. We're hovering in the queue of fans milling around the movie star...and Eddie sweet Eddie leans toward Mr. Jackman, whispers in his ear and the next thing I know I'm being formally introduced to Mr. Jackman himself. The date takes a photo using my phone its kind of grainy but one of thing's for sure Hugh Jackman is charming, gracious, and yes, ultimately gorgeous.
Craig & I joined Katrina & Kerry for dinner...The Oak Room Bar, newly renovated by restaurateur Joey Allaham and Chef Joel Antunes was an experience even for this native New Yorker, a wondrous way to kick off the week. My meal started with sea urchin on a bed of creamy polenta foam, followed by roast loin of lamb with artichoke hearts and ending with the most decadent of desserts: Rice Pudding w/Cointreau, Pumpkin Pots de Creme, Miniature Madelines, and a plate of pastries fit enough for a king.
Katrina, god bless her soul put me to shame with her social butterfly etiquette making new friends by the handful. Whilst she was away we had the pleasure of ogling Richard Gere at a neighboring table, and upon her return introduced us to Joey Allaham and his wife Lauren. A charming, and beautiful, couple. A short while later, after another social circle of conversation Katrina returns to tell us we're crashing the party next door at the Palm Court for the premiere of the new Hugh Jackman & Nicole Kidman movie Australia.In NYC fashion, we pose as Katrina & Kerry's daughter and son-in-law and soon we're mingling with the celebrity studded crowd--filled with people who look familiar but are unrecognizable. As we a are wandering about I spot a dashingly handsome man in a 3-piece suit, its Hugh Jackman of course ...the date is thinking we should plot to get a picture, we conspire ...but it feels too invasive, he's there with his wife and family friends....
We pause to strike up a conversation with one of the secret service security guys (a moonlighting NYPD detective and I wonder if he knows Ray). We start chatting about celeb duty... and Eddie Boyle (born in Flatbush, now from Rockville Center), asks how we got in and I who cannot tell a lie come clean. Eddie laughs and asks if I've taken a photo with the man...I shake my head and he responds "If you're brazen enough to crash a party then what's stopping you from getting a photo?" Well he had a point and so with nothing to lose we make our move. We're hovering in the queue of fans milling around the movie star...and Eddie sweet Eddie leans toward Mr. Jackman, whispers in his ear and the next thing I know I'm being formally introduced to Mr. Jackman himself. The date takes a photo using my phone its kind of grainy but one of thing's for sure Hugh Jackman is charming, gracious, and yes, ultimately gorgeous.
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