cake

when I got back from my smoke break at my internship just now, there was a piece of chocolate cake on the table with a single burning candle, and three plastic spoons. The conversation went like this:

Me: Aww, you guys! You didn't have to do that!
Sam: Happy birthday!
Adam: Happy birthday...
Sam: Happy birth...
Adam: Yeah, we're not going to sing.
Me: That's okay, save your dignity. Um, do you want some of this?
Sam: I thought you'd never ask!

So now it's just a candle and some crumbs. ("Things do go fast around here.") But it's the first time anyone outside of my family has done that for me. And now I see why these traditions continue — it feels really, really nice.

today's strange pairings

- for my 20th my sister gave me the same bubble bear I had at 2 ^^^
- they're playing old Transformers cartoons at Tea Lounge, overdubbed with Edith Piaf
- parents were ticked off that I was 5 minutes late to pick up Zev, but both of my bosses were half an hour late at my internship, and the other two interns had reportedly taken the day off to drop acid and watch fireworks
- for the first time in my life, my sister is getting more action than me
- phone broke just as my laptop turned out not to be broken — the jangling sound inside was quarters and dimes
- my "romance without finance" situation somehow got inverted
- realized that I now drink more coffee than Joe does (and it's literally his name!)
- attending a New Yorker v. High Times softball game next week
- single-handedly negotiated a free party, complete with drinks, for 300 people for my internship's site launch — but won't be able to drink there
- first man I've ever been on time for is 8
- own a turntable and no records — except this one:

taking stock

I've been asked to reassure the world, via this blog, that I'm still alive, so here it is. I'm here. I'm not doing very much with myself. I have this great internship that doesn't pay. An 8-year-old boy has dropped unexpectedly into my life, 4 days a week through July, and shaken it considerably. I haven't written anything, of any kind, aside from press pitches, in more than two weeks. My boyfriend (that word!) is in Italy and I'm waiting for him. Only another dozen days, but still — I would never have guessed that I'd end up here at this point in my life, daydreaming about a beige room in New York instead of the shores of Germany or the beaches of Brazil. My best friends are all in the city, except Anna, who's working on a lavender farm. We've settled into a comfortable, almost-satisfactory routine of seeing each other a few nights a week.

I'm turning 20 on Friday. (I'm going to the races with Joe to celebrate.) I do feel a little older, in small ways. Drinking doesn't seem unconditionally fun any more. In some corner of my mind, I've turned my back on the art world, I think, the fashion-and-connections-and-money-and-power game I was trying to play last summer. I was an impostor, even if no one realized it, and I always will be — the very idea of infinite hip-ness, while intoxicating, isn't enough any more. Things I said and thought even a year ago feel pretentious now. On the other hand, I've never felt less accomplished, less knowledgeable. I've decided to go to grad school.

Ironically, my life right now couldn't be more high school. I'm doing my parents' laundry lately, since the housekeeper quit. I smoke cigarettes on the fire escape in the middle of the night and shoplift nail polish (yes, I actually did that, twice now this summer — I don't even know when I started wearing nail polish).

I don't know if it's summer, or aging, or S and his friends, or being unemployed, or my dad's being unemployed, or having friends who aren't unemployed, but lately I've been asking myself bigger questions, thinking on the scale of my life instead of the next-few-years scale I was using before. For better or for worse, I've begun to look at college as more than just a stimulating exercise, and have resolved to buckle down and pull in the grades I need to apply to grad school. I think it'll be worth it. But in even bigger terms, I've started questioning the ways I'd be happy living. Am I okay with never having left New York? Would I want to have kids? When? Would I be married? If I were, what kind of man would he have to be? Until recently — last year, maybe — I'd assumed that I never wanted to be married. It just seemed obvious. If the point is that you want to be with one person and no one else, and they feel the same way, then isn't creating a contract to that effect a contradiction of the terms it's supposed to be indexing? In other words, if you felt that way, wouldn't a contract, with its consequences and technicalities, be the last thing you wanted to make that person adhere to? But lately (especially since meeting Zev, the kid I'm taking to camp in the mornings) I've been thinking about the responsibility inherent in bringing kids into the world, the force of chaos you unleash into your life, the unpredictability you basically sign up for. I've also been thinking about aging, and being alone, and watching my friends (namely Emi) graduate and leave and change — I mean, I plan to graduate and leave myself, and I hope to change. And I'm realizing now that you can't ask more of people than that they be there when they're there, and enjoy a moment with you. Also, so much is handed to you when you're a healthy young woman in New York! I'm only now perceiving how transient and unreliable those kinds of perks are.

I also think my aversion to marriage as a teenager had to do with not wanting to end up like my parents — more specifically, like my mom, who hadn't seen my dad's angry side until they had children and hadn't really anticipated it. I had a minor epiphany a few weeks ago, when trying to determine why I couldn't be interested in this extremely handsome guy who, for some unimaginable reason, pursued me this year, in spite of my clear disinterest. He was in great shape and wasn't dumb, either. He even wanted to take me to the opera. There were other things — I was pretty emotionally involved for most of the year, and I have reason now to question his character — but at the end of the day, I just couldn't do it for some reason. I kept circling around the thing like a tetherball on a goddamn rope. I tried to make it purely physical, but even then, I couldn't go through with it. And frankly, I think I offended him a little by the implication. Anyway, I ran into him on the street the other day while walking to S's place from the L and actually fell over when it occurred to me that the reason I was so nauseated by the whole thing was because he was so thoroughly midwestern, in his behavior and opinions and his concept of masculinity and just everything. Reasonably or not, I've come to associate that culture, which I know primarily through my dad, with a deep strain of anti-intellectualism, with oversimplification, and with vast wells of irrational, uncontrollable anger. I know it's not fair. I know it's nearly as bad as racism, in the end. I know it's not rational. And I'm overcoming it, along with my hostility towards the concept of marriage. But the sources of those things have never been clearer to me.

To put it neatly, these things — my impending birthday, dating someone who worries (if needlessly) about losing his hair, finally seeing my biases for what they are, being "unemployed" at twenty rather than "not working this summer" at fifteen, watching my parents reassess their retirement plans — have had the combined effect of making me question how long I'll live, what kinds of plans I'll need to make, what kinds of relationships I'll want to maintain with other people, what I could live with and where (how much space do I need? what neighborhood would I live in?). I can't tell if my choice to go to grad school is an act of procrastinating those decisions, or constitutes a decision in itself. To be honest, I don't know if this new mentality is really the effect of the things I mentioned, or if I'm only thinking this way because I've been humbled so much in the last year, and because I don't believe, any more, that I could be a writer, at least not without a lot more luck than I'm willing to bet on.

But this is it. I'm 20. I have an unpaid internship and no job. I dress like it's 1996 and I can't stop myself. I'm living with my parents again. I've lived in the same city my whole life. (I'm on the brink of strangling my dad as I write this). On the other hand, I'm closer to my sister than any other siblings I've met, and always will be, and she's coming to my school next year. I'm convinced that I have the most brilliant and beautiful friends in the world. I have a lot of energy. I have a good mind. I'm at the most amazing school I could hope for, and I've fallen in love with my subjects, impractical as that may be. I have a painfully strong resume for certain kinds of work. I don't even have trouble connecting to people — S says I have a big heart. And I'm seeing a guy who I'm crazy about. I'm not in love with him and I don't think he's in love with me, either, but I think we're both sort of treading water still, holding back — but when we're really ourselves with each other, however long that takes, we'll be able to see what we have. I'm waiting.

So I've thought about this stuff, and dreamed about it, and talked about it, and now I've written about it, and I'm still not 20 yet and I'm still the most ridiculous person in the world. I think I need to resolve, for the next year, not to worry so much about my fleeting time and just enjoy youth while I have it, in a way I wasn't able to in high school. Maybe this will be the year not to overanalyze. Maybe this will be the year I finally act my age.

And also, you know, quit smoking, and learn Italian and German and French, and get straight As, and get tattooed, and learn to drive, and get a scuba license and go to beauty school and win a Fulbright. All that stuff.

EDIT: Just got asked to model for C-Spot by a girl I've never spoken to outside of class. I'm not bothered by the request — I'm thinking it might be fun, actually — but bothered by the fact that she knew I wouldn't be bothered. Is it that obvious?

christ!

I'll update this soon, I promise. Drowning in work. PMSing terribly. S is leaving in a week.

I've discovered that I really like writers — real writers, great writers, not just writing students. Not that they can't be the same thing, but they often aren't. I was getting a bit disillusioned with that world before. Emailing this amazing journalist Charles Siebert for my internship this week, and he's so articulate and old-fashioned — begins emails "Dear ___" and signs tabbed to the right — and it's absolutely lovely.

More later, have to work.

found

my armchair! while thrift shopping with Matt this morning after having diner burgers and vowing to quit smoking (some things never change). Pretty sure he thought I was nuts. It's perfect, though, light and soft and comfy, and it rolls and spins and has extra pillows. Cost $35. My poor parents are less than happy about it. Oh, well...

bad:
still jobless
oversmoked today (forgot how Matt and Clark bring that out in me)
didn't get to see S tonight
headache
haven't stopped making lists
Renata left for the weekend
miss Anna and Emi and Ruben more than I can say
my dad is losing it
drinking space discovered

good:
look less paranoid for asking everyone to keep it down
reconciled with juan after a tiny spat
job prospect
forgot how amazing it is to see old friends and feel just like always
(lunch date set at Joe Jr.'s)
can totally stay up as late as I want watching movies and reading and generally enjoying the privileges of having my own room, which are many
Decisive Battles of the Ancient World and the man who introduced me to them
everyone's coming back!
seem to have set up something really great
get to interview Charles Siebert
(internship is wonderful)
my mom seems to have reconciled herself to my sexuality somehow
planning a weekend detox/destress.

another thought about blogging and writing

Observing my friend's insecurity after I left his reading without saying goodbye (in a rush to get to my sister's birthday dinner). I'd never read his work before, and it's a lot darker than his conversation usually is, so I can understand his feeling that my impression of him might have changed. What he didn't know was that I'd found it brilliant, too good to undermine with the chipper kind of "That was really really good!" that my co-intern provided. I think I managed to communicate my respect, but it got me thinking about the difference between what we write and who we are. I still haven't told S that I have a blog, and I don't really want to. But I talk to him about the same things I write about, and don't worry about the consequences for his opinion of me. Is it just that writing is permanent? But then why would attending someone's reading have the same embarrassing effect? Or is it that what you write is somehow you in a way that what you say sometimes isn't?

Talking about the use of the words "deep" and "profound" the other day; isn't the implication of complimenting that trait, either in an action or in a person, that most of the time we aren't speaking from a "deep place"? That it's just surface jabber? Maybe the difference between representing ourselves in speech and in conversation is that writing is expected to be deep; you have as much time as you need. And if you can't summon some depth for your permanent work, it might mean that you don't have any at all.

This is another place where blogging occupies an odd niche in the dialogue between writing and talking. It's technically permanent, or at least rereadable, but somehow you're not written off for occasionally writing uninteresting or un-deep blogposts. You're just having an off day. It's writing with the added dimension of time.

Just a thought. At work, having a blast. More later.

never

until now considered the possibility of my blog outliving me. I could die accidentally and this page would still be here. In retrospect, I might not be using this thing properly.

gamble

I really, really lucked out with this guy. How long do you think before I fuck it up? Taking bets...

struggling with time again (what else?)

Family is still here. I can't take any more of this. Tonight I wound up stuck at the end of the table with my grandma who has reached an unparalleled illogicality and solipsism in her old age, and insists on lecturing us on her neighbor's physical ailments, family histories, garden plants, et cetera (not that a blog is the appropriate place to complain of the solipsism of others!) and my fifteen-year-old cousin who sees me as a living Whore of Babylon and insists on taking a moralizing tone with me about the most trivial things, like drinking coffee at night and going out to see friends when my family's visiting. (Managed to get drunk in under an hour and sound like an idiot on the phone with S. He's the most comforting person in the world, and I want to ask for his assurance, but I always feel like I sound self-centered and whiny and dumb when I complain to him. Being aware of that possibility is normally enough to inhibit me, but tonight, it was too much to handle alone — I let loose. Still regretting it.) I had been counting on my abuelita to make things fun, like she always does, but she had been stuck in an elevator for half an hour earlier on and was oddly quiet throughout dinner (although she claimed that it didn't bother her, I could tell she was a little traumatized, and topped off her flute accordingly). In short: unbearable tedium. My sister and I periodically cast each other cynical glances across the table. Working all day tomorrow, and can't get out of the house at night since everyone's leaving in the morning — I don't know how I'm going to make it. And I didn't buy cigarettes all weekend! I must be made of iron.

Incredibly weird seeing my sister graduate. I feel like I did the same thing just a week ago! And I've managed to get myself in some sort of scandalous sexual/romantic situation in practically every place I have ties to, so that I can never let my guard down any more. The whole thing was an awkward mix of navigating social quandaries and trying to deal with the passage of time, with having called a place home for ten years and then being unable, suddenly, to return to it. Everything's the same, but I'm not part of it. You can see the shadows of age creeping up on my former teachers' faces. Rachel and I smoked menthols on our old bench in the park and talked about judicial philosophy (which she's majoring in) and I tried to pretend we were fifteen again, discovering boys but pretending to have known all along, wearing our clothes just right, affecting disregard for the petty rules and demands imposed on us at the time — rules whose effects on us we wouldn't notice until they were lifted for good. Some part of me wants to lie back in the grass and whine, I don't want to be twenty! I don't want to have to deal with the wider world, to choose a career, to have kids, to pay cell phone bills and rent and utilities and dental insurance — I want to go back — I want to go back to being fifteen and certain that I'm in love with my high school boyfriend and sure that the future holds only magical possibility and that no one will ever really leave my life and that the comfort of my mom's tea and my big grey sofa and my brown bike and my storybooks will never fade. I don't want to watch my old friends' lives cement themselves, watch people fade out of my world, watch them change, watch my own future narrow and affix. I don't want to be twenty.

But I'm nearly twenty, and I'm not who I was when I walked down that aisle. I've learned more than I can put into words. I have a dignity and self-assuredness I could only dream of back then. Not all the time, and only in certain capacities — but it's there, and it's not an affectation. It changes you to go out into the world, work hard, and survive. It's one thing to fancy yourself an academic; it's another thing to read the books, write the papers, and hear from someone who's made a name with their minds that you have what it takes, that in some small way you've made them think of something differently. It changes you to realize that what you took to be all-consuming, unending love can itself change and fade and end. To wonder if it was there at all. And then to regain the belief that you'll find it. It changes you to be able to approach men of any age without being intimidated. It changes you to take a trip by yourself. It changes you to have definitive experiences you've never told anyone about. It changes you to watch a professor grade papers, write tests, write music, snore. It changes you to reject things. It changes you to get to know strangers. It changes you to have someone come out to you. It changes you to fall in love with an opera. It changes you to see your parents change. It changes you to lose track of your past. It changes you to meet people you can relate to. It changes you to witness genius. It changes you to feed yourself. It changes you to learn that you can change your own body.

I'm sure it will change me to be able to pay my own rent, too, and I'm looking forward to it. I can't take this any more! I hate the way it makes me regard myself. I'm tired of living in ways I didn't choose or earn.

This must all sound incredibly angsty. I'm off to exhale my cares. More later.

I think

what I'm really afraid of — what the last two posts were about — is the way summer makes me feel stupid. I'm just so, so afraid of becoming a misologue.

I think that's why philosophy feels so right to me. It's the only place where nothing counts but your mind, where you feel simultaneously incredibly ignorant and incredibly smart. Or at least closer than you've ever been to dispelling your own ignorance. It's the most honest thing I know. I hate being away from it.

Fortunately, when I can't be around top-tier academics nonstop, I have Wikipedia to direct me to interesting new philosophical topics, and Amazon and the Strand to find the books and articles where the meatier discussion of those topics is. I've started buying old Philosophical Quarterlys. Probably the most exciting thing I've ever done.

Afraid I'm also going to get back into
buying cigarettes
gambling
that vicious paranoid -> less confident -> less likeable -> more paranoid relationship cycle

Going downstairs to meet Juan now! More later.

analogy

Spending six days with my family is exactly like when I was working at Soap Opera Digest and they took the buttons off of the tv in my cubicle. Maybe less well-edited.

Summer goals:
stop being mistaken for an esquinera
learn to blow smoke rings
quit smoking
acquire an armchair
read at a rate of 3 books / 2 weeks at least
more opera, more latin music, check out tom waits
keep the weight off
learn to drink absinthe
say nothing I don't mean
get a spec column
whiten my teeth
improve my spanish
make progress with the novel
learn to live more economically and less materialistically
not alienate people inadvertently
own less stuff
make fewer lists

I wish I knew

of a career I had a chance at that might actually make me happy
if I'll ever have any talent as a writer, or if I've given up on myself too soon
if this thing I'm in is the real thing
and even if it is, if it has legs
if I'll ever be in love the way I want to be
if I'll be able to stay around people who make me feel like I know who I am (I am so so lucky to have an occasional sense of this, and I attribute it all to those beautiful people)
how to tell my sister how much more she'll see and feel and how excited she'll be
how to make her realize how beautiful and effusively brilliant she is
how to get rid of all the scars on my knees and feet
how to feel truly elegant
how to prevent myself from becoming like the parents at these horrible private school inbred entitled dinner events I've been going to lately — I commented to my mom that they all seem like bugs who lost a leg at some point and are walking and talking in circles — how to stay sharp
how to recapture the sense of beauty and excitement and intelligence I had freshman year
how not to come across like Veronica Lodge
how to regain Professor Lilla's respect
hot to turn my academic life around
how to play chess
how to play any instrument really well — even a comb — just good sound
how to make something comparable to the works I love so much
how to look at my own work objectively
how to think about myself less (I'm sure it would make me happier)
how to be a decent date
how to be a good friend
how to appreciate what my parents have done for me
how not to be incredibly weird in everyday situations
how to wear a t-shirt
how to seem the way I feel
how I feel
how to fall asleep

Arrived:
grandma (paternal)
abuelita (maternal)
uncle oscar
cousins alex and marco, 13 and 14.

That makes nine of us in my parent's apartment.

Already:
I crashed another graduation event (dressed like some kind of femme-fatale-slash-hooker, lipstick and all), left unnerved
my grandma had her customary evening scotch(es)
...and conducted an impromptu interview of Renata's prom date
I mistakingly interpreted my cousin's innocent thirst as desire for alcohol
had to sneak out to have a smoke and call S (two months now — and he called me "sweetie" on the phone tonight)
tricked Sam into a double entendre involving my sister, despite his innocent intentions
made use of the drinkyspace
had a super bonding conversation with my mom while waiting for everyone to arrive
seem to be alienating my friends
got in trouble for staying up too late
learned more Spanish
feel shocked by the passage of time.

Incredibly sleepy. More later.

look look look!

I made a site!
I feel so grown-up

how I'd like to go

Veronica Mittnacht, a "writer's writer" of unquestionable influence, and a woman who defied genre from early childhood and throughout her career, passed away tragically this morning when she stumbled off a rooftop during one of her famous salon parties in the Village and died instantaneously. A local fixture, she gained fame with her first novel, which she began as an undergraduate, and was a persistent presence in downtown New York circles, known for her iconic fur collars, towering heels, and briarwood pipe. She was sixty-five years old. She is survived by her sister, her close-knit circle of friends, her students, and her lover of the last decade, a prominent Italian tenor, who said of her, "She was always a lover and always a woman. There is little else that I can communicate."

Reminiscences about the deceased vary. "She had balls the size of fuckin' coconuts," her former boyfriend told a reporter. "And she was pure style. At times it was hard to handle. You know. She's a deeply weird person. But it was never dull." Artist Juan Olivares made no comment, but is rumored to be creating an installation at the place of her death, a full-scale sculpture made of the unravelled threads of her last outfit, cigarette butts, diamonds, and broken Bailey's bottles, which would dangle from the rooftop to the streets below. Fellow novelist Joe Cassara revealed that he's devoted a chapter to her character in his new novel, The Life, Death, and Rebirth of Celia Cruz, Parakeet. "If she were here, she'd already be looking for the next great conversation," Joe said. "All of this ceremony is so un-her." He smoked his Camel pensively. "She'd like the outfits, though. A lot of black."

Filipina Prime Minister Anna Pamela Lim Calinawan flew in for the funeral, accompanied by a host of security escorts, and allegedly placed a braid of hair on the tombstone and several bue jelly beans, whispering, "This is beautiful." When approached for comment, Ruben Gutierrez, New York architect and close friend of the deceased, said simply, "Veronica loved us." Emi Rose Noguchi, the prolific writer best known for her inimitable, bittersweet short stories, covered the burial site in tiny hand-crafted paper flowers. Sister Renata Mittnacht appeared at the service unannounced in one of Veronica's old dresses and is believed to have inherited, or perhaps appropriated, her wardrobe. Photojournalist Joseph Shemuel was the last to speak to her, as she leaned against the railing, and is the author of the iconic photograph reproduced in the New York Times this morning. By his report, her last words were, "God, I love being young!"

alive

Woke up in the middle of the night with an idea for a story, which I'm sketching out now. Restarted the novel. First day of the internship was great — the people I'm working with are funny and charming, and the work is both important and interesting. I sat in front of a laptop all day and never visited a non-work site other than my gmail. I can't remember the last time I was able to say that. Still working on getting a job, but my string-pulling seems to be working. S is coming back tonight, and I'm jittery-excited to see him. Anna's sister's wedding sounded beautiful, and she's on her way home. Saw Ruben and Juan yesterday. Emi's understandably busy but always on my mind. My sister's graduation is creeping up on us. And my mom is paying me to do the work the housekeeper used to do before she quit, which is enough to keep me out of the red, although I'm hardly turning a profit. Also found a few possible buyers for my bike.

I think I get frustrated when I can't see a possibility of progressing, when the future looks blank. And when I don't get to decide how I spend my time. Left to my own devices, I absolutely love sitting around and reading, seeing my friends, doing little errands, listening to music, working quiet jobs. I don't need much space or much stuff or much money. The real luxuries are people and time.

I'm having one of those deeply reassuring kinds of days. Is this maturity? I've finally internalized the idea that the future is exactly what I make it. And we have so much time. The summer is young!

simple

things in my life right now:
job hunt
novel bones
internship (starting tomorrow)
unpacking
everyone I've ever dated, apparently
family arriving soon for R's graduation; general stress
tobacco
this GUY

things that should be in my life:
a source of income
my friends (UGH I NEED THEM)
less stuff
exercise
more mom, less dad
novel flesh
French
an escape

looking forward to:
having my own place — from here on — I can't take another summer of this
starting this internship
not having to come up with excuses to spend the night or just to escape for a smoke
speaking french
breaking in my new boots
romance
a future with these incredible friends

ahhhh

Not Lacroix! Lacroix is fantasy, extravagance, indulgence, the crown jewels of an exquisite imagination — in my daily life I depend on Lacroix to exist, as I depend on my friends and relatives, as I count on knowing that my childhood home is still there, that somewhere in the world Ruben is thinking about food and Joe is smoking and Juan is sipping a whiskey sour, that Little Nemo is still tumbling through the pages of my oversized anthology.





"Something happened to you when you started working in the fashion industry," Renata observed. And she was right. I think I learned more than I wanted to, actually. I can't turn off the critical eye, and I can't help but follow people with my eyes, no matter what I'm supposed to be doing — on dates, for example, and at bars. Anna noticed at Hungarian a while back that I was eyeing everyone's shoes while I talked and was prepared to estimate the brands, sizes, and prices at a moment's notice. It hasn't made me snooty or anything — I still shop the dollar rack at Monk more than anywhere else — but I impulsively scroll through pretty much every new runway show during Fashion Week, no matter what my workload is, and I'm a little addicted to The Cut, in spite of myself. And I do, I think, judge people, even though I try my hardest not to. My experience with people who work in the fashion industry full-time is that they're just the same; they see the art of it, the fireworks, not the pettiness that's often imposed on it. Still, it's not an industry that I'd want to get into, and it scares me how much I resemble them. Like my habit of overanalyzing, constant fashion-awareness has its perks and its downsides, but in the end, it's not a choice. I can't turn it off any more. And I'm not even good at it.

On the other hand, blaming it on my summer jobs is a bit of a cop-out; I've always had a propensity for image, for the dramatic, and for dressing eclectically, and decadent extravagance is just in my nature. Once, when I was wearing all black, stalking in gold stilettos, red and pale-green stone chains draped around my neck, happily smoking my pipe outside the library, Alex Moll joked that "You look like fucking Oscar Wilde," which I was more than fine with. (S: "That's funny! It's the hair." Less fine...) The point is, I can't "be pardoned and retain th'offense"; I'm not ready to reject the personality traits that my little obsession is derived from, so I should probably stop complaining. It'll only be problematic if I develop tastes I can't afford, which I haven't. For now, it's just a sublime daydream, which I hope doesn't end —

I am

really really happy with this guy. He's got this unstoppable personality. And he's loyal as hell. When he looks at me, I don't feel like he's projecting some fantasy onto me; I feel like he gets it. I'm almost never embarrassed; I really do think that the better he knows me, the more he'll like me. He makes me feel more sexy and witty than I've ever felt. There's something epic about it. I can actually make him laugh! And his taste is impeccable.

Okay, I know, enough — I know nobody likes to hear about happy people. I don't either, really. But I had to say something.

Too much to do! Job hunting, unpacking, working on the novel (I've started it again), making donations and clearing out my closet, preparing for my sister's birthday and graduation, calming my dad's temper, and trying to make time to see my friends, whom I fear are beginning to resent me. Lazy lovers' brunches at Odessa in the mornings, and the inevitable walk-of-shame thrift shopping that I (increasingly) can't afford. My new internship starts Tuesday! I need to have a job by then! In all seriousness, PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE let me know if you know of anything.

More later on; have to get started on my day. Yes, I procrastinated past 3 — it's summer! And I'm losing my resolve.

some things / olderly

got my period 2 days early (wasn't making it up about how badly I was pmsing a few posts back!)
landed a great internship, although it doesn't pay
still looking for a paid job.

(By the way, the title? My mom's understanding of the world "elderly," until recently.)

Made the mistake of reading S's stuff. It's really fucking good. How can he want to be with me? When I'm with him he makes me feel amazing, but when I'm not, I start asking questions and end up with doubts. I feel like we're both lingering somehow, not ready to dive in head-first yet, but not willing to forsake what we've found. You just can't plan for these things.

Anyway, for whatever reason — maybe because of the age difference between us, or maybe because he seems to worry about it, so I feel that I ought to, too — lately I can't stop thinking about aging. I'm starting to grasp that it'll happen to me, and it's forcing me to rethink the way I calculate and approach my own life.

Sorry for the vagueness; I'll try to explain. When we pass someone on the street who's malformed, or disabled, or just irrepressibly ugly, most of us feel an immediate sense of distance, in spite of ourselves. Right? It's not that we see them as less-than-human, necessarily; it's more that we recognize immediately that the rules that govern their lives are inalterably different from ours, that the world won't treat them the same way or with the same kindness. And that distance is insurmountable and unchanging and harsh, and it forces us to acknowledge the premises upon which we predicate our daily lives, the horrifying assumptions we're accustomed to making. It's easier to look away.

(Parenthetically: yes, anyone could get in an accident and lose their looks, their life, their memory — but my personal theory is that we all subconsciously assess how much it hurts us to acknowledge that risk, and how comparatively slim the odds are, and choose to ignore the possibility entirely for the sake of minimizing the damage. However, this redoubles the shock when truly horrible things eventually happen to us. It's the price we pay. In cultures where death is significantly more likely, people have an eerie way of living with the idea of death in their midst. You see this in Mexico and also in particularly plague-ridden eras in American and English history — celebrations of halloween are both cheery and morbid; corpses are kept about and exhibited for weeks; death isn't stifled in the same way — because those societies aren't predicated on the suppression of the inevitable quite as much.)

The thing is, we — I should say I, since that's what I mean — live as though my youth were a quality as unlikely to forsake me as my intelligence or my appearance or my family. And while none of those things are dependable, youth is by definition temporary, and when it leaves me, the rules of the game will change. Men my age will seek younger women (like myself! Christ!) and what was once a brave ideological stance against the institution of marriage will begin to seem like a delusional rationalization.

I wouldn't say it so forcefully if my own stilted experience hadn't already offered evidence to that effect. It honestly scares me how much I've been offered, in the course of my brief life, that I've done nothing to deserve, and which wouldn't have been available to me if I weren't a young and noticeably female New Yorker. I mean, shit — I've gotten jobs just by going to the right parties. My boss once tried to take me with him to Tokyo for two months. I doubt S would have noticed me if I hadn't had the legs to rock my torn tights and sweater-dresses. And I'm not exactly a Queen Bee type; I'm awkward in even the easiest social situations, tend to have helmet-hair, and can't walk in a straight line. As soon as the youth wears off, the parties will fizzle, the dates will drop off, and the free ride will end abruptly.

The worst part is that men really don't have it as bad. With the right attitude, they can be sexy into their sixties or even later. To be fair, this is sometimes true of women — look at Diane von Furstenberg, for instance! — but for most of us, the clock is ticking. Especially since, literally, the clock is ticking. My greatest fear is waking up with the manic desire for children (as I've been warned that I will) and no one to have them with. The whole time limit thing seems to necessitate compromise, and I don't want to be that kind of woman. But what other kind is there? Even the end of Sex and the City — pardon my use of it, please; it's my trite little Comedie Humaine for discussing love — has a dark tinge; Carrie's spent her whole life fighting for some kind of dignity, making the argument that finding love shouldn't require sacrificing the things that make you who you are. And it works. Eventually. Fortunately. But even though she finally has her career, her apartment, and her man, there's something stale about it. You're unsettled as you leave the theater. And then you realize: that's it for her; that's where the story ends. She'll never have kids.

Still, I think a lot could be packed into the "career" part. I know I'm a little biased here. But really: okay, so I won't be cute after a while, and things will get a lot harder. I have until then to prepare, right? And I'll probably have a while, because I think I have pretty good genes. (It's really fucking fun to be latina sometimes.) Well, I plan to become an incredibly badass writer and thinker during that time. And I hope to live intellectually, decisively, constantly reevaluating my life, so that I'll have nothing to regret. I have the tools for that already, and by then, I'll be practically unstoppable. If I end up alone anyway, at least I'll know that I tried. And if I have something on the bookshelf that I can actually be proud of — inconceivable, I know, but still — it might be worth it.

The important thing, I think, is to stay smart, stay decisive, stay lively. As long as I have my mind and my sense of fun, things won't be dull. "Humbug, cockshit — you're old when you let yourself be old," Gish Jen told me last winter, winking through her tiny blue glasses. And you know what? She looked fucking good.

in the drinkyspace

with my four:
Me: "I'm a little afraid to lie in your lap because I don't know where it's been."
Juan: "I don't know where your face has been, bitch!"

insight into the purpose of twitter:

it's the ultimate procrastination tool! and serves as a pleasant excuse for just about anybody who's supposed to be doing something else. Whenever I have a paper to write or something pressing to do, I find myself formulating these pithy little jokes and insights that the world desperately needs to hear. Like this one.

stupid

I feel so fucking stupid right now. Can't focus to finish this damn thing.

Ruben and Juan came over to visit me, knowing I'd locked myself in the house to finish this paper, and convinced me to walk to the Strand for a few minutes and buy light Virginia Slims — "I'm quitting after this" — and take a breather. When they arrived (with discount ice cream!) they were so light and summery and free-feeling that I couldn't resist. We skipped back arm in arm like the bridge scene in Jules et Jim, oblivious to the future and the past, just delighting in each others' company and the pavement and the warm city night.

Feeling weird about my guy lately. It's disturbing to me that I see so much of his life and he sees so little of mine, you know? I have empirical evidence that he lives intellectually, that he really is what he seems to be. What does he know of me? He hasn't met most of my best friends, has never seen my apartment or my bookshelves or my writing, or heard me sing (not that I'd want him to, but still). He's barely heard me talk about the things that thrill me. He graciously assumes the best of me, but in his position, at this point I'd wonder if it was all an illusion, if there was more to me or not. And there is! But now I feel such an urge to prove it that I'm making an ass of myself. I wish I could show him who I am when I'm skipping down the street in four-inch heels and cutoffs, when I'm chugging coffee and ranting about Hume and humming little arias in the library lounges. Who I was mere hours ago in my best friends' arms. The point of living so decisively, of pushing myself so hard, of never letting myself miss opportunities — of my whole personal philosophy — is that as a result of having made myself exactly who I want to be, I can go through life with a deep sense of dignity. With pride. And now, in trying to demonstrate what I should never have let myself doubt, I'm losing what I'm trying to prove that I have! — if that makes any sense.

To put it another way: it's always a bad sign when I find myself being apologetic. I try not to be the kind of person who's concerned about whether I'm what others want me to be, but I think I still come across that way. UGH. Don't know how to say what I mean. I'm smarter than this! If I've learned anything by now, it's that the solution to feeling stupid on a given day is to snap out of it and just be the razor-sharp person I know I can be, not to lament it and waste my time in self-pity. But I'm PMSing (in case you couldn't tell) and I'm too tired to do anything else.

(In my head: STOP IT, V. That's no excuse. This whole post is incredibly angsty. You're not twelve. Snap out of it.)

It's just that he likes me for the right reasons, I think, in spite of all the insecurities I've just confessed — for my confidence, my hedonism, my sense of beauty, my maturity — maybe even my intelligence — the same reasons I like my self. That fact alone makes it all so much more important to me. (Rousseau: Sophie "only gives Emile more reason to be himself." Something transcendently beautiful about that.) Normally, it works out well: it feels amazing to be into someone who genuinely, profoundly likes you back, and for reasons that are true about you. All of those normally-wonderful qualities just make everything suck more, though, when I lose my sense of those things, in the moments when I truly don't like myself. Because I trust his taste and I can't imagine that finds anything likeable about me. I guess that's what you risk when you really like someone. If I were smarter, I wouldn't let it happen to me.

He's awfully nice, though.

Alex just called to ask a question about changing tenses within quotes. "What stage are you at in your paper?" I asked, incredulous. "I've got a lot left to do," he said evasively. But I'm assuming he has more than the paltry four pages I've managed to produce, even with twice that much in notes. UGH. It's due TOMORROW! I'm fucked.

I hate my period.

Men. I know they have their own set of gender-specific problems to deal with, but honestly — they'll never know what this feels like. It's just inutterable.

if I had a livejournal

Mood:

also

also: I'm FUCKED for this Emile paper
—and I want my Plato grade! Even though I pretty much know what it is. It's the anticipation, you know?

what I'm trying to say is I'm wearing a denim shirt-dress and am procrastinating leaving the house in it

things I hesitate to admit to liking

(but actually LOVE):

roald dahl's nonfiction
early early boyish Joan Baez (so good!)
Gossip Girl
(other) fag hags
Doc Martens
snakes
Collette
the unspeakably seedy salvation army by my parents' place
wallet chains
Isabel Marant
floral denim
the new counters on the L train
The Container Store
cigars
Strawberry
lip piercings
Jeff Goldblum
uncircumcised... cigars
glass vegetables
the OTB
Lady Gaga

—actually this is kind of the tip of the iceberg. Um.

Anyway. Things that will never be on that list:
unpacking
advertising
the fucking renovation in washington square

anna pamela fucking calinawan!

Situation: I'm at Ruben's summer apartment on 123rd and broadwa with him and AP and I've just given him a haircut. He's shaving off his beard to match the haircut and experimenting with different styles. Anna and I are eating chinese food and Ruben is helping himself to our free egg rolls. Loosely reconstructed:

Ruben: "Okay, okay, what about this one?"
Me: "Oh... no, Rube... it's way too creepy. Definitely not."
Ruben: "Really? [to Anna] What do you think?"
Anna: "Me? Um... I think that's a style people frequently wear on their vaginas."
Me: "Ahhhh!" [choke on my chinese food laughing]
Ruben: "Maybe I'll just shave it into a giant triangle."
Me: "Ahhhaha! Ewww, Ruby, I don't want to think of your mouth as a giant vag!"
Anna: "Especially while you're eating that egg roll."

Later, having a smoke "for our digestion" on the stoop:

Me: "Look at those scaffolds up there. They're kind of pretty."
Anna: "Yeah! And they're weird. They don't seem to serve any purpose."
Me: "Yeah, what are they even doing there? They're totally empty. The last time I saw framework like that was on the set of this avant-garde opera."
Anna: "Ha! That's what I was thinking! It looks like a bunch of people are going to start swinging on it and singing and shit."
Me: "Like Jailhouse Rock or something."
Anna: "Or... Upper West Side Story."

Anna: [after I've been laughing for a few minutes straight] I'm glad you appreciate me, V.V.

And the last bit, which she covered: >> !!

aaahhhh

HOUSE! can't stand it — can't believe it — it was gutsy of them — it was brilliant — it can't last; he's signed for another season; nevertheless — anyone else feel that the medicine was slighted a little, though?

also, that two seconds of fantasized foreplay between you-know-who and Her was the sexiest thing I've ever seen.

moving

is so, so weird. I forgot I had to do it until this morning. Threw out 20 opera playbills. Bag and bags of donations. In my bucket purse, a dozen irreplaceable books — Eric's, Mark Lilla's, Adriano's ("Veronica — it has been a pleasure knowing you — better than drugs"), the hollow book Juan gave me for my birthday last summer, and the catalogue from his show — brittle old copies of Emile and Faust and Montaigne — Bela's self-published poetry — delicate, much-sought volumes of Machado de Assis. Love letters, photographs, a diamond ring. An empty tin of chocolates from Joey. Dog-eared, annotated textbooks; notebooks full of photos and receipts and stickers and comments; ticket stubs, magazines, empty packages, free rubbers. Jewelry out the wazoo. Castinettes and a tambourine. Dishes and bone combs and a lifetime supply of tea bags. Lots of things I thought I'd lost. And the amount of clothing I've acquired is just inutterable. And SHOES. Where did it all come from?

What gets me most is the scents. Leo's pipe tobacco. A billion bags of McCormick Té de Manzanilla, which transport me instantaneously back to freshman year in Wallach. Mayordomo chocolate powder that smells like Abuelita's kitchen. The perfume I've had since high school. Maria cookies. Juan's sweater. Stolen flowers.

I guess somewhere along the line I developed a History. That wasn't supposed to happen! Went to Harry's gallery show this morning; saw Sean this week; the Physics Major called me a week ago, out of the blue, to ask me out again. (Pleaded finals.) I can't even keep track of my past any more, let alone keep it at bay. I can't walk a block in the LES without seeing the site of some bad date or awkward hookup or sublime moment in my memory. This feeling, combined with finally acknowledging my little Captain Black habit earlier this week — I'm starting to feel old. Also found out that my 'boyfriend' (still a little uncomfy with the word) taught a friend of mine Lit Hum. (As for my paranoia yesterday: "You're fucking crazy, lady! Do you see what you do to me?") The past is omnipresent, and the future isn't so far away! I guess that's what I get for trying to stay in New York forever. No matter. Paris looms ahead.

(Really horrible headache right now. It would be so fucking ironic if I got sick.)

About thirty events to go to tonight, since it's the last night everyone's still here, and I'll probably skip them all to watch my guy DJ. I'd be more sentimental about it, but almost everyone I care about is staying in the city for the summer (with the exception of Joey, who just left and whom I already miss). I don't have a job lined up, and I don't have my grades back, and I haven't started my Emile paper. I didn't even pull an all-nighter for finals week. Nothing feels ended. A million things I've been meaning to blog about, but none of them feel pressing. (I'm sorry this wasn't worth reading! Not sure why it's been so parenthetical, either. Guess I didn't figure out what the point was until after I'd started writing. I'll get my brains back in the morning, I promise.) I'm sitting in my room in my underwear trying to think of where to start packing, and I just find myself unsure of what happens next. It's actually very relaxing.

I think I want to throw myself a birthday party.