Sometimes words just don't sum up the entirety of your emotions. Most times actually. Three days ago you walked out of my life and into eternity, or heaven or whatever that glimmer of hope is called. More than ever I look up into the sky and fantasize about where you are and what you're doing and how bad Nan is beating you with her wooden spoon. Since I was never so good with words as you and prayers are too often neglected, you should just know that I miss you so much. And while I know now, truly, that you will never read this, I promise to remember what I wrote, so I can tell you someday. Take comfort in the fact, cousin, that others will read and remember and through us all your life, and love and fiery spirit will never die. I love you so very much.
You're favorite color is purple. You hate ladybugs, but not so much as you hate spiders. Whenever one dared to come within 10 feet of you, you would scream bloody murder and try to bash the bug with whatever was closest to you- wine bottle, flip flop, Phil's hat. You loved to dance. I've spent more time with you in the clubs of Manhattan and Boston than anyone else- and I'm pretty sure you've tried to fight at least three people in each. You hate sushi. You won't even try it anymore, even though I've promised not to feed you raw fish. You played the flute like an angel when we were kids- all Ashley and I could ever do was screech on our violins and clarinets. We were a great band.
You rode horses and played tennis. We would visit One-Eye with Nan and feed him carrots. We picked blackberries in Southold and climbed that big pine tree to get away from Stinkweed. It never worked.
You put that silly crown in your hair whenever we go dancing. We nicknamed you Princess Sparkle. You love high heels but rarely wear them out, because you've fallen down more staircases than you've climbed. Your solution is to put me in the highest heels we can find, so you can still play dress up. We never exercised even though we always had grand ideas of being skinny. You drink more coffee than anyone I've ever met - except maybe Ashley or Rachel. Coffee flavored coffee. We'd look into my fancy stand mirror and each tell the other how pretty she is. Duh.
Your hair is never brushed- Don't even think you own a comb. You've got that golden mermaid hair that always seems like you just left the beach- or a hurricane. You bought anything covered in sequins. You're toes were always painted a bright shade. Everything we did, we did in cousin colors. We rode the roller coasters of six flags together for the first time last summer when you finally got me on one. You told me I was a big brave dog. You read more books than even me. We share the same deep seated hatred for the kindle and all other electronic devices threatening to extinguish our book stores. Except of course your Iphone 4 which went everywhere with you.
We've eaten too many cupcakes. Drank too many shots. Lo and behold we're hung over again- laughing on my couch at Phil and Rob playing the wii- drinking coffee black and eating bagels. Ignoring the phone calls from our parents who will yell at us for drinking too much again and ask us when are we coming home?
We slid down every slide in Splish Splash with Aunt Marg- and the torpedo. We swim in the ocean at Montauk together- try to trick Ashley into the surf where we lie about the temperature of the water. We both know it's freezing. We caught crabs off the docks in Greenport before you were an animal rights activist and decided fishing was "Small Aquatic Animal Torture". Sharkpartied- seperate but equal. You hoped for world peace, but started fights in every bar we went to. You loved to eat Greek food and we found ourselves in every Greek diner at 4am in NYC. You spent all your money on cigarettes which were never far from your favorite white leather bag. My fire escape is your smoke break room. No sis, I don't know where your lighter is.
We both suck at Mini golf- but we give it a shot every time we pass a course. You loved summer and dragged Ashley and I to the beach at least once a week. All your jewelry has small sea creatures and pearls on it. We went snowboarding once- after the second try we snowboarded into a fence and decided maybe we need some lessons. You laugh really hard sometimes and sound like Lisa Simpson- which makes all of us laugh. You make the best Schuma of anyone in the Antorino family. You are tone deaf but somehow made it into the all county chorus. I bet they never heard you sing kareoke.We vacationed at that old house in Montauk with the tiny TV and the huge back yard. You played cards like a fiend and I could never beat you. You love fascinators with large rhinestones and obnoxious feathers. We wore toe socks in your oldhouse and slid across the long hallway floor into your kitchen, Tom Cruise style. All your gloves had removable thumbs so you could text. We ate Pinkberry in K-Town by my old job assuming it was better for us than Hagen-Daz. It wasn't.
Nan bought us negligees in our colors for sleepovers in the thicket. We were pretty sure we were movie stars. We baked a lot- it never tasted good, especially the apple pie we fed to poor Pop. We rode our bikes down to the light house and climbed the 100 steps. We stood on Dead Mans Cliff dreaming of the sea. We opened lemonade stands for 25c a cup. We tried to sell potatoes to Stanley- even though we got them from his field. We chased chickens and drank tea with too much sugar and honey. We played on your tire swing and ran from your evil pet goat- Sparkles. We were amazing at Bomber Man, square controller. Aunt Marg helped us put on shows for Nans old biddy friends. You always had the best CD's. We listened to the Police on repeat for years. You always made us laugh.
You were such a good person. You were always always there for me. You smile a lot. I miss that most of all.
You were our Pepper, our sunshine, the light that led us through stormy nights, the funny wit that made us smile, the beautiful girl that told us to chase our dreams. Keep that seat on your left open for me, and the one on the right free for Ashley- I know someday, we'll all be together again. I love you so very much. Don't forget about me. Keep me in your heart and I'll keep you in mine. Someday we'll be three little girls sharing our secrets with each other again.
Sunday, October 2, 2011
Thursday, June 9, 2011
Hot Town, Summer in the City
It was snowing. For 115 days straight. You couldn't go outside because your apartment door was barricaded by a mountain of ice (Thank you NYC street cleaners) or if you could scale the conglomerate of snowy madness, your eyelashes immediately froze together, blinding you until you could stumble into the closest bar/retail shop/ ace hardware so you could reclaim your vision/dignity.
And much to others chagrin, you bitched about it on Facebook for 115 days.
New York is the kind of city that likes things done in a hurry- our food, our clothes, our telephone calls and even our seasons...We sort of skip Spring every year in a mad dash to get to the 4 months of elusive magic we refer to as summer. So the ice has melted, the rain has ceased and summer is miraculously, finally here. Lo and behold, you are still bitching. You people are very hard to please.
Mind you, friends who actually know me, lovingly refer to me as the Polar Bear. My body temp normally runs a bit warmer than yours, I rock tank tops in December like they're parkas, and if I don't have an umbrella at the beach for shade I immediately pass out from heat stroke in approximately 20 minutes. It's a great time for everyone... I make lots of friends at the beach.
So, you can generally assume I feel your summer pain. Yes, the city is hot. I do agree. But 99% of our indoor dwellings have AC and if you don't, go sit inside the nearest Old Navy...they have so much AC they keep their doors open in 92* weather. It's so good for the environment and everyone walking past their doors gets that "Holy Crap That's a Cold Store" wind blast. It's not that I don't get what you're saying- it's just that you were complaining about the reverse 5 months ago, and frankly, though I love most (okay some) of you, I'm sort of kind of sick of the bitching. So coming from the Polar Bear, who just loves summer I've developed some general ways to beat the heat in NYC, short of moving to North Carolina... where incidentally, it's hotter.
1. Naked Freezer Trick
This one is awesome. Ok, if you don't have an AC first off let me congratulate you for surviving to your mid-twenties... Quite a feat in Manhattan during July. No seriously, you should legally be dead. Your organs are cooking from the inside out....but I digress. You've just gotten home from work, your covered in the general filth of NYC...some depressing mixture of sweat, dirt and that indian dude on the subway who sneezed right on your arm. So gross right now. Think cool thoughts because this one needs to be done quickly. Turn your shower on to cold. Not luke warm, fucking Antarctica in February, no hot-water-needed cold. Discard all clothing...and leave it on the bathroom floor- there's no time for formalities, and your girlfriend will probably pick it up later anyways. Jump under the shower only long enough to wet your hair completely, and if you survive the shock from you body temperature plummeting from 102 to 68 in 3.9 seconds, run into the kitchen soaking wet and open your freezer, then stick your head inside. This is double summer fun! Not only will your hair turn into icicles but all the water you just sloshed through your kitchen will freeze in the AC making an indoor Ice Rink. Fuck Bryant Park! Your girlfriend will be so excited when she gets home! ...Ice Rink and naked people in the kitchen? She'll probably want to have sex! So try Number 2 next :)
2. Summer Ice Sexcapades
It's Saturday and your AC is broken- again. You're trying to decide whether to go the Union Square greenmarket for fresh air or HBO on Demand that episode of Game of Thrones you missed.... It's so fucking hot you're delirious, you've created a sweat puddle on your sheets (seriously, the only thing worse than a wet spot) and your partners breathing is so shallow in the horrific morning heat you need to check her pulse....didn't you read somewhere online about how your organs could cook from the inside out? Well, now that you're feeling all sexy, there's only one good way to spend this morning...Icy Summer Sexcapades. Oh yeah, it's business time. Go to the kitchen and get a tray of ice. Bring said tray back into the bedroom. Unload tray on top of said possibly dead girlfriend. She'll be so shocked by the cold ice, she'll confuse her shock with horniness and rip off your clothes. Ta da! Then you can spend the morning having sweaty, grimy porno sex. I mean your sheets are already wet...might as well get as much out of them as possible before they have to be washed, right? Please note: If you don't have any ice, a bag of frozen peas will do... but I can't be held responsible for the scattering of said peas beneath the bed or stuck in your butt- or how you will explain that schmear of green to the people doing their laundry next to you tonight.
3. Slip and Slide Water balloon Twister.
This is a fantastic game. I recommend you play outside, but if you have no rooftop access, you can play in a large bathroom, or a friends really shitty apartment. You've already got an ice rink in your kitchen, so don't volunteer for everything right away. You're going to need one Twister game, one pack of water balloons, Dixie Cups, like 15 or so gallons of water and about 3 bottles of grey goose (or Gerogi..you know whatever's on hand) Fill the waterballoons with frigid water and an ice cube. Pour vodka into dixie cups and place on every colored dot of the twister game. Line up your friends. Four people get to play, one person spins and one person is the sniper. Please note: All your dude friends will think they will make the best sniper, because they had a dream about serving on Seal Team 6 when they were 5, so just go ahead and designate whoever you think will suck the most. Spin the spinner. Whenever someone goes to put a hand or foot on a color, two things need to happen simultaneously. They need to do the shot of the color they land on and the sniper needs to rapid-fire ice balloons at them. This will eventually (and by eventually, I mean like turn 3) lead to a mixture of water and vodka and sweat and possibly blood all over the twister game, which is where the slip and slide comes in. Whoa! Don't get too tangled! The person who doesn't fall off the roof, loose any teeth or end up in the hospital for liver damage is the winner!
4. City Swims Entrepreneur
This one is good for all you teachers who need to make a little more cash over the summer. Go to Walmart...maybe you should bring a gun with you, just in case. And buy one of those kid plastic pools. Bring the pool back to your apartment and place it on the sidewalk outside. Steal your neighbors hose to fill it up and add some ice cubes, then set up a payment booth....it might help if you have some of those fake palm trees or a red shirt and a whistle. Charge people $5 to strip to their skivvies and sit in the pool! This is totally legal by the way. Please note: There's a 5 minute limit in the pool... and the great part is when the water gets brown and gritty from everyones sweat and grime you can just add some jell-o mix! I'm partial to Strawberry Kiwi by the way. Ta da! Now the pool is filled with tasty gritty sweat jell-o! Now it's a cocktail party! The chicks will be lining up down the block.
5. Rock Those Cut-Off Shorts from 1997
If you want to feel really good about yourself go to Disney World...seriously, ugliest people in the world- where do they come from?! Ugh, no wonder Europe hates us so much- we're awful looking as a nation. Well, the same general principle applies to NYC in the summertime. For some ungodly reason, chicks deem it complete proper to wear belly shirts when they're 300 pounds just because it's hot out. So now I get to sit next to the sweaty bulge, leaking out of her tank top in many directions, covered in a sticky glaze on the subway. It's so appealing. Or the gentleman in short shorts...like really very short, I think-that-may-be-your-ballsac-sir shorts. I like to throw out my fashion code during the summer, under the general principle that no matter what I wear, or how I ignore my hair, there will always be at least one ogre on the subway with hobbit feet, to make me appear better looking. In fact, I suggest sitting close to these people to enhance your better qualities. Next to a hobbit, you go from a 6 to a 9 instantaneously! All the better if they've got a butt that's eating their shorts, or a large boob sweat stain, or toenails that need a hedge clipper to go through them. I find that bright colors enhance this process so I tend to lean towards my clothes from the early 90's for this one... Cut-off shirts with the denim fringe, and maybe some neon tights with polka dots, side shoulder t shirt with rock emblem and a gigantic side ponytail held up with a scrunchie. Ultimate summer look.
And that my friends is how you survive a Summer in the City. Although I am open to your suggestions and comments, I will not be held responsible for any injury attained in the process of my guidelines. If you can't celebrate summer safely, you should move to the midwest with all the boring people. So go have some sexy, icy, slutty summer fun :)
And seriously, stop bitching about the heat. No really, it's annoying. Seriously? Seriously.
And much to others chagrin, you bitched about it on Facebook for 115 days.
New York is the kind of city that likes things done in a hurry- our food, our clothes, our telephone calls and even our seasons...We sort of skip Spring every year in a mad dash to get to the 4 months of elusive magic we refer to as summer. So the ice has melted, the rain has ceased and summer is miraculously, finally here. Lo and behold, you are still bitching. You people are very hard to please.
Mind you, friends who actually know me, lovingly refer to me as the Polar Bear. My body temp normally runs a bit warmer than yours, I rock tank tops in December like they're parkas, and if I don't have an umbrella at the beach for shade I immediately pass out from heat stroke in approximately 20 minutes. It's a great time for everyone... I make lots of friends at the beach.
So, you can generally assume I feel your summer pain. Yes, the city is hot. I do agree. But 99% of our indoor dwellings have AC and if you don't, go sit inside the nearest Old Navy...they have so much AC they keep their doors open in 92* weather. It's so good for the environment and everyone walking past their doors gets that "Holy Crap That's a Cold Store" wind blast. It's not that I don't get what you're saying- it's just that you were complaining about the reverse 5 months ago, and frankly, though I love most (okay some) of you, I'm sort of kind of sick of the bitching. So coming from the Polar Bear, who just loves summer I've developed some general ways to beat the heat in NYC, short of moving to North Carolina... where incidentally, it's hotter.
1. Naked Freezer Trick
This one is awesome. Ok, if you don't have an AC first off let me congratulate you for surviving to your mid-twenties... Quite a feat in Manhattan during July. No seriously, you should legally be dead. Your organs are cooking from the inside out....but I digress. You've just gotten home from work, your covered in the general filth of NYC...some depressing mixture of sweat, dirt and that indian dude on the subway who sneezed right on your arm. So gross right now. Think cool thoughts because this one needs to be done quickly. Turn your shower on to cold. Not luke warm, fucking Antarctica in February, no hot-water-needed cold. Discard all clothing...and leave it on the bathroom floor- there's no time for formalities, and your girlfriend will probably pick it up later anyways. Jump under the shower only long enough to wet your hair completely, and if you survive the shock from you body temperature plummeting from 102 to 68 in 3.9 seconds, run into the kitchen soaking wet and open your freezer, then stick your head inside. This is double summer fun! Not only will your hair turn into icicles but all the water you just sloshed through your kitchen will freeze in the AC making an indoor Ice Rink. Fuck Bryant Park! Your girlfriend will be so excited when she gets home! ...Ice Rink and naked people in the kitchen? She'll probably want to have sex! So try Number 2 next :)
2. Summer Ice Sexcapades
It's Saturday and your AC is broken- again. You're trying to decide whether to go the Union Square greenmarket for fresh air or HBO on Demand that episode of Game of Thrones you missed.... It's so fucking hot you're delirious, you've created a sweat puddle on your sheets (seriously, the only thing worse than a wet spot) and your partners breathing is so shallow in the horrific morning heat you need to check her pulse....didn't you read somewhere online about how your organs could cook from the inside out? Well, now that you're feeling all sexy, there's only one good way to spend this morning...Icy Summer Sexcapades. Oh yeah, it's business time. Go to the kitchen and get a tray of ice. Bring said tray back into the bedroom. Unload tray on top of said possibly dead girlfriend. She'll be so shocked by the cold ice, she'll confuse her shock with horniness and rip off your clothes. Ta da! Then you can spend the morning having sweaty, grimy porno sex. I mean your sheets are already wet...might as well get as much out of them as possible before they have to be washed, right? Please note: If you don't have any ice, a bag of frozen peas will do... but I can't be held responsible for the scattering of said peas beneath the bed or stuck in your butt- or how you will explain that schmear of green to the people doing their laundry next to you tonight.
3. Slip and Slide Water balloon Twister.
This is a fantastic game. I recommend you play outside, but if you have no rooftop access, you can play in a large bathroom, or a friends really shitty apartment. You've already got an ice rink in your kitchen, so don't volunteer for everything right away. You're going to need one Twister game, one pack of water balloons, Dixie Cups, like 15 or so gallons of water and about 3 bottles of grey goose (or Gerogi..you know whatever's on hand) Fill the waterballoons with frigid water and an ice cube. Pour vodka into dixie cups and place on every colored dot of the twister game. Line up your friends. Four people get to play, one person spins and one person is the sniper. Please note: All your dude friends will think they will make the best sniper, because they had a dream about serving on Seal Team 6 when they were 5, so just go ahead and designate whoever you think will suck the most. Spin the spinner. Whenever someone goes to put a hand or foot on a color, two things need to happen simultaneously. They need to do the shot of the color they land on and the sniper needs to rapid-fire ice balloons at them. This will eventually (and by eventually, I mean like turn 3) lead to a mixture of water and vodka and sweat and possibly blood all over the twister game, which is where the slip and slide comes in. Whoa! Don't get too tangled! The person who doesn't fall off the roof, loose any teeth or end up in the hospital for liver damage is the winner!
4. City Swims Entrepreneur
This one is good for all you teachers who need to make a little more cash over the summer. Go to Walmart...maybe you should bring a gun with you, just in case. And buy one of those kid plastic pools. Bring the pool back to your apartment and place it on the sidewalk outside. Steal your neighbors hose to fill it up and add some ice cubes, then set up a payment booth....it might help if you have some of those fake palm trees or a red shirt and a whistle. Charge people $5 to strip to their skivvies and sit in the pool! This is totally legal by the way. Please note: There's a 5 minute limit in the pool... and the great part is when the water gets brown and gritty from everyones sweat and grime you can just add some jell-o mix! I'm partial to Strawberry Kiwi by the way. Ta da! Now the pool is filled with tasty gritty sweat jell-o! Now it's a cocktail party! The chicks will be lining up down the block.
5. Rock Those Cut-Off Shorts from 1997
If you want to feel really good about yourself go to Disney World...seriously, ugliest people in the world- where do they come from?! Ugh, no wonder Europe hates us so much- we're awful looking as a nation. Well, the same general principle applies to NYC in the summertime. For some ungodly reason, chicks deem it complete proper to wear belly shirts when they're 300 pounds just because it's hot out. So now I get to sit next to the sweaty bulge, leaking out of her tank top in many directions, covered in a sticky glaze on the subway. It's so appealing. Or the gentleman in short shorts...like really very short, I think-that-may-be-your-ballsac-sir shorts. I like to throw out my fashion code during the summer, under the general principle that no matter what I wear, or how I ignore my hair, there will always be at least one ogre on the subway with hobbit feet, to make me appear better looking. In fact, I suggest sitting close to these people to enhance your better qualities. Next to a hobbit, you go from a 6 to a 9 instantaneously! All the better if they've got a butt that's eating their shorts, or a large boob sweat stain, or toenails that need a hedge clipper to go through them. I find that bright colors enhance this process so I tend to lean towards my clothes from the early 90's for this one... Cut-off shirts with the denim fringe, and maybe some neon tights with polka dots, side shoulder t shirt with rock emblem and a gigantic side ponytail held up with a scrunchie. Ultimate summer look.
And that my friends is how you survive a Summer in the City. Although I am open to your suggestions and comments, I will not be held responsible for any injury attained in the process of my guidelines. If you can't celebrate summer safely, you should move to the midwest with all the boring people. So go have some sexy, icy, slutty summer fun :)
And seriously, stop bitching about the heat. No really, it's annoying. Seriously? Seriously.
Sunday, May 29, 2011
Every Good Boy Does Fine
Apologies for not having written in so long- it's been a crazy few months. Expect blogs to follow on Miami and Disney World, two of my favorite places in America- but that's another story for another time. :) On to the next one.
Last summer I took up the harp. Let me first paint some inspiring images of my 5 foot flat sister and I carrying a 5 foot harp down the streets of Spanish Harlem. Two little white girls in 6 inch stilettos, hair tossed furiously in the wind on either side of a magnificent 32 string wooden harp, as equally large and heavy as either of us, while the boys on the corner fought an internal battle to holler obscenities or laugh. Most times they laughed.
I have this relationship with music unique to any relationship I have with anyone or anything else in my life. And before I go into the details of my feelings on it, this blog is mainly to clarify, at the risk of sounding about 112 years old, that the music of our generation has largely gone to shit. Please, by all means, begin preparing your arguments.
Music is one of those intangible things that has this unbelievably profound effect on me. I've been told it's because I'm an artist and an aquarius and a female and my emotional involvement with so few things in my life is counterbalanced with my turbulent relationship with music. It's as if when the chords are right and the notes are hit soft but sharp something chemical unwinds in my body, breaks me up into millions of pieces, dissolves all feelings and ideas I had in the past 24 hours and remakes my thoughts about the perfection of the world and how I can capture it. The best songs will illuminate my most obscure ideas, make me the woman you'll fall in love with when we dance, eyes turning liquid amber, swaying my body into this perfect love affair with the rhythm until all those notes explode into the air where they'll evaporate with my sweat. In the right strings, and keys and melodies, my whole being is broken down and defenseless and the only thing left is my will power to stand transfixed by its perfection until the bridge eclipses the mood and I'm left speechless. And the description just isn't enough to explain how deep it gets into my soul, how entirely it stops and moves me, and easily dissolves this cold mentality to tears in it's complete perfection. Good music is the only media that has a totally devastating effect over me, and when the music is good every fiber in my being ceases to move for a few magical minutes to simply be a part of something of such near perfection. It's love/hate but so often it is love...which brings me back to the silly harp and my desire to play an active part in that relationship.
I've always liked learning new things. I have this incredible respect for my friends and peers who are A- Athletes or B- Musicians. While anyone who knows me and my shoe fetish would easily write off my ability to ever be an athlete, I settled to learn what might come easier to an artist- music. I relearned my second grade music theory, studied hard, and plucked notes with soft pad of my thumb while the comforting heavy weight of the wooden harp rested gently against my shoulder, humming and twanging in my sunlit apartment. I wasn't very good...but I wasn't a musical loss either. And while the lessons became more frequent and I more able, the general expense eventually became too luxurious and I was sadly forced to give it up. But not before my teacher told me that while I had years of practice to go through, and I might never be a true harpist, I had the ears and fingers of a musician and that alone was worth more than the lessons. So while I unhappily returned my lovely harp to Spanish Harlem, I took away to the small comfort that I had the ability to recognize beauty in music, relate to it and maybe someday create that beauty on my own. Almost as good a feeling of finding middle C with your eyes closed.
Which in full circle brings me to where we are today. What the fuck? I think that about sums it up.
I do agree that there are a few bands out there creating music for the scale and beauty of music alone, for the internal pleasure it brings out in the human race and the few young hopeful musicians they themselves inspire. Can someone please explain to me what the hell everyone else is doing?
While I recognize that different genres evoke different ideas of musical sensitivity and greatness I cannot seriously look at someone who considers themselves an artist that neither wrote, nor sung the song they are paid to sing for 2 million dollars. And I am not attacking (although I probably should) people like Britney Spears or whats her name, Ketchup, Kesha? Because largely I don't think these people consider themselves musical artists. They're performers, paid to lip sync over terrible digital tracks so when I'm drunk in the club I can shake my ass to a fun beat. I doubt they have interviews with radio stations about the intellectual musical audience they want to reach and what kind of message the power of the lyrics they didn't write has over the general population. They're ratings go up, their talent goes down, their concerts are sold out and while we look on with a "Well that's weird, they sort of suck" expression, I doubt their fans go for the incredibly inspiring musical composition.
I'm talking more about people on stations like Z100 who do all of the aforementioned and actually take themselves seriously, wondering why no one else does. I'm sorry Rhianna. A- Every song you didn't write sounds the same. B- Your voice isn't that great and C- You're the only one in the world that considers you a serious musical artist. Same for T Pain- stop whining you idiot, you're a millionaire, and loose a little auto-tune, no one can freaking understand a word you're saying. Plus, you're just not a very good rapper. I'd like to add Kanye West to this group as a person- because generally when he speaks I loose brian cells, but I hate to admit his music is sort of catchy...Still not a real artist in my mind, though.
Is it just me? Is anyone else sort of sad about what popular music has become? I grew up listening to the Beatles, and Aerosmith and the Rolling Stones. Some of the greatest bands of the century, who wrote their own music and did about 2,000 tabs of acid to get there! That's musical dedication! Once upon a time there was music for the sake of music. Of well writing chords, played in tune with perfectly sung lyrics to create these 2 minute masterpieces our grandchildren will still be singing. Aerosmith alone, while you may not love them as a band, has been creating music for their fans for over forty years. How many bands can you list that both you and your dad saw in concert when you were both 20 something? And the Beatles just may be the greatest band that ever lived...before auto-tune, and digital reproduction and ITunes. Will our kids look back on our generation with raised eyebrows, wondering what went wrong? Because when I listen to the radio, that's sort of how I feel.
I look at my friends who have tangible musical talent, sitting with their guitars or bass, on the bench of the piano. And all I can wonder is how the hell are these people with so much talent not famous while California King Bed plays for 7 millionth time in the background and I fight the desire to break every window in the room. I have hope for our generation musically speaking. I know there are bands moving forward, creating great music, making mental memories for normal people like me, even if they're not the most famous or the highest paid, or played on Z100- which in today's musical world is sort of a compliment.
And I will continue to hear my friends acapella with awe, the group of chorus kids from the middle school in a perfect harmony, the gentle pluck of the guitar strings that bring me to my knees, the soft thrum of the piano keys... And even if they're somehow not famous, I will know inside that our generation isn't lost in a sad digital music flurry- but that what is best from our generation just needs to be searched for a bit harder. That it is out there. That I'm not the only one who feels this way about the perfection of music, and more importantly that I'm not alone in my endless search for it.
Last summer I took up the harp. Let me first paint some inspiring images of my 5 foot flat sister and I carrying a 5 foot harp down the streets of Spanish Harlem. Two little white girls in 6 inch stilettos, hair tossed furiously in the wind on either side of a magnificent 32 string wooden harp, as equally large and heavy as either of us, while the boys on the corner fought an internal battle to holler obscenities or laugh. Most times they laughed.
I have this relationship with music unique to any relationship I have with anyone or anything else in my life. And before I go into the details of my feelings on it, this blog is mainly to clarify, at the risk of sounding about 112 years old, that the music of our generation has largely gone to shit. Please, by all means, begin preparing your arguments.
Music is one of those intangible things that has this unbelievably profound effect on me. I've been told it's because I'm an artist and an aquarius and a female and my emotional involvement with so few things in my life is counterbalanced with my turbulent relationship with music. It's as if when the chords are right and the notes are hit soft but sharp something chemical unwinds in my body, breaks me up into millions of pieces, dissolves all feelings and ideas I had in the past 24 hours and remakes my thoughts about the perfection of the world and how I can capture it. The best songs will illuminate my most obscure ideas, make me the woman you'll fall in love with when we dance, eyes turning liquid amber, swaying my body into this perfect love affair with the rhythm until all those notes explode into the air where they'll evaporate with my sweat. In the right strings, and keys and melodies, my whole being is broken down and defenseless and the only thing left is my will power to stand transfixed by its perfection until the bridge eclipses the mood and I'm left speechless. And the description just isn't enough to explain how deep it gets into my soul, how entirely it stops and moves me, and easily dissolves this cold mentality to tears in it's complete perfection. Good music is the only media that has a totally devastating effect over me, and when the music is good every fiber in my being ceases to move for a few magical minutes to simply be a part of something of such near perfection. It's love/hate but so often it is love...which brings me back to the silly harp and my desire to play an active part in that relationship.
I've always liked learning new things. I have this incredible respect for my friends and peers who are A- Athletes or B- Musicians. While anyone who knows me and my shoe fetish would easily write off my ability to ever be an athlete, I settled to learn what might come easier to an artist- music. I relearned my second grade music theory, studied hard, and plucked notes with soft pad of my thumb while the comforting heavy weight of the wooden harp rested gently against my shoulder, humming and twanging in my sunlit apartment. I wasn't very good...but I wasn't a musical loss either. And while the lessons became more frequent and I more able, the general expense eventually became too luxurious and I was sadly forced to give it up. But not before my teacher told me that while I had years of practice to go through, and I might never be a true harpist, I had the ears and fingers of a musician and that alone was worth more than the lessons. So while I unhappily returned my lovely harp to Spanish Harlem, I took away to the small comfort that I had the ability to recognize beauty in music, relate to it and maybe someday create that beauty on my own. Almost as good a feeling of finding middle C with your eyes closed.
Which in full circle brings me to where we are today. What the fuck? I think that about sums it up.
I do agree that there are a few bands out there creating music for the scale and beauty of music alone, for the internal pleasure it brings out in the human race and the few young hopeful musicians they themselves inspire. Can someone please explain to me what the hell everyone else is doing?
While I recognize that different genres evoke different ideas of musical sensitivity and greatness I cannot seriously look at someone who considers themselves an artist that neither wrote, nor sung the song they are paid to sing for 2 million dollars. And I am not attacking (although I probably should) people like Britney Spears or whats her name, Ketchup, Kesha? Because largely I don't think these people consider themselves musical artists. They're performers, paid to lip sync over terrible digital tracks so when I'm drunk in the club I can shake my ass to a fun beat. I doubt they have interviews with radio stations about the intellectual musical audience they want to reach and what kind of message the power of the lyrics they didn't write has over the general population. They're ratings go up, their talent goes down, their concerts are sold out and while we look on with a "Well that's weird, they sort of suck" expression, I doubt their fans go for the incredibly inspiring musical composition.
I'm talking more about people on stations like Z100 who do all of the aforementioned and actually take themselves seriously, wondering why no one else does. I'm sorry Rhianna. A- Every song you didn't write sounds the same. B- Your voice isn't that great and C- You're the only one in the world that considers you a serious musical artist. Same for T Pain- stop whining you idiot, you're a millionaire, and loose a little auto-tune, no one can freaking understand a word you're saying. Plus, you're just not a very good rapper. I'd like to add Kanye West to this group as a person- because generally when he speaks I loose brian cells, but I hate to admit his music is sort of catchy...Still not a real artist in my mind, though.
Is it just me? Is anyone else sort of sad about what popular music has become? I grew up listening to the Beatles, and Aerosmith and the Rolling Stones. Some of the greatest bands of the century, who wrote their own music and did about 2,000 tabs of acid to get there! That's musical dedication! Once upon a time there was music for the sake of music. Of well writing chords, played in tune with perfectly sung lyrics to create these 2 minute masterpieces our grandchildren will still be singing. Aerosmith alone, while you may not love them as a band, has been creating music for their fans for over forty years. How many bands can you list that both you and your dad saw in concert when you were both 20 something? And the Beatles just may be the greatest band that ever lived...before auto-tune, and digital reproduction and ITunes. Will our kids look back on our generation with raised eyebrows, wondering what went wrong? Because when I listen to the radio, that's sort of how I feel.
I look at my friends who have tangible musical talent, sitting with their guitars or bass, on the bench of the piano. And all I can wonder is how the hell are these people with so much talent not famous while California King Bed plays for 7 millionth time in the background and I fight the desire to break every window in the room. I have hope for our generation musically speaking. I know there are bands moving forward, creating great music, making mental memories for normal people like me, even if they're not the most famous or the highest paid, or played on Z100- which in today's musical world is sort of a compliment.
And I will continue to hear my friends acapella with awe, the group of chorus kids from the middle school in a perfect harmony, the gentle pluck of the guitar strings that bring me to my knees, the soft thrum of the piano keys... And even if they're somehow not famous, I will know inside that our generation isn't lost in a sad digital music flurry- but that what is best from our generation just needs to be searched for a bit harder. That it is out there. That I'm not the only one who feels this way about the perfection of music, and more importantly that I'm not alone in my endless search for it.
Friday, March 11, 2011
Oops, I didn't Know We Couldn't Talk About Sex
Parents, colleagues, relatives-of-any-sort, in laws and professors, please be forewarned; this blog is about sex. Read at your own risk.
As a slightly late (two years perhaps?) follow-up to my "Advice for Men", which was a bit harsh I admit, I have decided to finally write the blog so many of you have been expecting of me since the day this page went up. Don't act so surprised.
I've spent a lot of time outside of America...and for a country so ingrained in preaching nonsense about liberty (even though we don't allow gay people to get married...but that's for another blog), we have a particularly difficult time with sex and nudity. Londoners are naughty in a sexy office girl sort of way. South Americans, and the Spanish, bottle the smell of sex for cologne. Australians could hum and charm the panties right off you. And oh, Paris. Parisians have 40-foot billboards with gorgeous naked actresses draped across couches, shimmering in the lights, eye fucking the camera. Somehow, the ad is for perfume. Every American in a forty foot vicinity can be easily identified because they're the ones craning their necks skyward, eyes a goggle, mouths agape like drowning turkeys. The Parisians shake their heads, walk away and hate America just a tiny bit more. Ah, who doesn't love the French?
I never understood this- but if any of you know anything about me, and many of you do, you'll know sex, nudity and the idea of porn are slightly skewed in my view. I'm a designer of Intimate Apparel for Playboy. I'm relatively unfazed by naked women (or men) at this point. Half my day is spent airbrushing clothes off women, so I can redress them in my designs. My kitchen cabinets are decorated with the luscious half-naked models of Agent Provocateur (a lame attempt to get my boyfriend to do the dishes) and nearly every scrap of "girly" magazine reading material, poster or movie in our house belongs to me and not my boyfriend. It's mostly research in my head, but who doesn't like to look up from their bed and see a poster of Kate Moss in her knickers? She's beautiful and sultry and stirring in a photograph where she's not even looking into the camera- she inspires the sexiness in us all. And oh, sexiness, dear America, for therin lies the problem.
What's the deal America? Seriously? It's just sex and if many of you can remember the first time, hell the first few times you had sex, you'll recall it doesn't inspire sexiness in your thoughts as much as hysteria. Men might have a slightly more skewed perception of their first times...I assume of course they're 16-year-old selves are so thrilled with the idea of finally getting laid they mostly forget what the hell to do, not that they knew in the first place. Look guys, you've been jerking off in the shower since what, like the 3rd grade? Most girls at that age have only a slight idea of what an orgasm is, few have actually had one and even less believe it's going to happen right now. So thank you for putting the condom on backwards, and no that's my belly button, and holy crap my leg doesn't bend that way, not to mention this hurts like fucking hell and I will never understand how people consider this fun. Yes, ow, I love you too.
Laughing at the handful of first times makes me happily realize how naive and open we all were once upon a time. Eager to please, you probably scoured all the porn you could get your hands on, looking for advice or tips. (even if your parents didn't subscribe, so it was caught fleetingly between the flickering channels and white noise...before internet porn all those born after 1990) Because who of us really ever went to our parents to say, Gee Mom could you teach me how to give a killer blow job? Grade school didn't teach us how to balance our checkbooks either- life lessons that were easily overlooked... And if you went to a school that preached abstinence, like mine (which incidentally saw at least three girls drop out from pregnancy a year) you'd have to experience the joy of lying in bed your first time, praying to god he had a condom and he knew how the hell to put it on. Sexy, right?
I'm certainly not preaching to anyone, and not nearly suggesting you go out and screw all the guys/girls you can. I don't have enough experience in sex or life to tell anyone what to do, I'm simply saying that after a few years of practice, I can sincerely say sex is a hell of a lot more fun than it first was. And if we're basing the scale of fun on the rate of progression, it's bound to be the highlight of my life- and looking back, well there are worse things to highlight one's life. I've done a lot of independent study on the psyche of men, women and sex in general, and I have learned a few things of my own. One is that sex is exercise, it releases endorphins in the brain, (same as chocolate!) makes you feel better about yourself, and apparently, people who have sex 3 times a week burn around 7500 calories in a year- approximately the equivalent of jogging 75 miles- Haha, which would you rather do? The other thing I learned is that too frequently men and mostly women turn down their partners ideas in bed because they're scared, embarrassed or fearful of unknown territory. And while I haven't gone out of my way to seduce the men of Manhattan, I have tried to keep up an active, healthy and diverse sex life, which makes me knowledgeable enough to safely say, relax, and if it feels good, do it. Jokingly, I used to tell my boyfriend I will try absolutely anything once, or until I get it right. Now, after years of coming up with fun new ways to keep our sex life inventive and exhausting, I can say there must be some truth in jest.
So what's all the embarrassment about? Why should something that feels so good cause so much guilt? I have no answer here. But my books about sex, 365 different positions, advice on the perfect lingerie and how to give the best blow job he's ever had are proudly on display on our bedside tables. So what, we've got a stripper pole? It's a hell of a lot harder than it looks, and let me tell you something, more often than not, not very sexy. How appealing does a six inch bruise on your inner thigh while your clinging on upside down for dear life sound? Yeah, that's what I thought...explains black lights in strip clubs. I've got every postcard Agent Provocateur ever sent me up as decoration. There's a whole dresser of drawers devoted to my lingerie, my sex-only lingerie and if you went through my top bedroom drawers you'd find more plastic than lace, and lord knows, you'd certainly be more embarrassed than me. You know how some people keep a little black box full of naughty toys and handcuffs that they tell their sister to go find, should they die, and destroy it? Let's just say, Ashley would have to burn down our entire house.
So why would I tell you this? Perhaps perfect strangers, since the entire world wide web is at liberty to read my blog. To make one tiny dent in your conscience and the ideas you have about sex. If one more person in the world is just a little more open to trying something new, or one more person sheds those cumbersome feelings of shame over sex, it will have been worth the write. I design lingerie for Playboy for Christ sake...it's not too hard to guess what's in my top drawer.
So go get laid. Burn calories, shed inhibition, smile happily, drowsily, stupidly. Relax, it's just sex.
As a slightly late (two years perhaps?) follow-up to my "Advice for Men", which was a bit harsh I admit, I have decided to finally write the blog so many of you have been expecting of me since the day this page went up. Don't act so surprised.
I've spent a lot of time outside of America...and for a country so ingrained in preaching nonsense about liberty (even though we don't allow gay people to get married...but that's for another blog), we have a particularly difficult time with sex and nudity. Londoners are naughty in a sexy office girl sort of way. South Americans, and the Spanish, bottle the smell of sex for cologne. Australians could hum and charm the panties right off you. And oh, Paris. Parisians have 40-foot billboards with gorgeous naked actresses draped across couches, shimmering in the lights, eye fucking the camera. Somehow, the ad is for perfume. Every American in a forty foot vicinity can be easily identified because they're the ones craning their necks skyward, eyes a goggle, mouths agape like drowning turkeys. The Parisians shake their heads, walk away and hate America just a tiny bit more. Ah, who doesn't love the French?
I never understood this- but if any of you know anything about me, and many of you do, you'll know sex, nudity and the idea of porn are slightly skewed in my view. I'm a designer of Intimate Apparel for Playboy. I'm relatively unfazed by naked women (or men) at this point. Half my day is spent airbrushing clothes off women, so I can redress them in my designs. My kitchen cabinets are decorated with the luscious half-naked models of Agent Provocateur (a lame attempt to get my boyfriend to do the dishes) and nearly every scrap of "girly" magazine reading material, poster or movie in our house belongs to me and not my boyfriend. It's mostly research in my head, but who doesn't like to look up from their bed and see a poster of Kate Moss in her knickers? She's beautiful and sultry and stirring in a photograph where she's not even looking into the camera- she inspires the sexiness in us all. And oh, sexiness, dear America, for therin lies the problem.
What's the deal America? Seriously? It's just sex and if many of you can remember the first time, hell the first few times you had sex, you'll recall it doesn't inspire sexiness in your thoughts as much as hysteria. Men might have a slightly more skewed perception of their first times...I assume of course they're 16-year-old selves are so thrilled with the idea of finally getting laid they mostly forget what the hell to do, not that they knew in the first place. Look guys, you've been jerking off in the shower since what, like the 3rd grade? Most girls at that age have only a slight idea of what an orgasm is, few have actually had one and even less believe it's going to happen right now. So thank you for putting the condom on backwards, and no that's my belly button, and holy crap my leg doesn't bend that way, not to mention this hurts like fucking hell and I will never understand how people consider this fun. Yes, ow, I love you too.
Laughing at the handful of first times makes me happily realize how naive and open we all were once upon a time. Eager to please, you probably scoured all the porn you could get your hands on, looking for advice or tips. (even if your parents didn't subscribe, so it was caught fleetingly between the flickering channels and white noise...before internet porn all those born after 1990) Because who of us really ever went to our parents to say, Gee Mom could you teach me how to give a killer blow job? Grade school didn't teach us how to balance our checkbooks either- life lessons that were easily overlooked... And if you went to a school that preached abstinence, like mine (which incidentally saw at least three girls drop out from pregnancy a year) you'd have to experience the joy of lying in bed your first time, praying to god he had a condom and he knew how the hell to put it on. Sexy, right?
I'm certainly not preaching to anyone, and not nearly suggesting you go out and screw all the guys/girls you can. I don't have enough experience in sex or life to tell anyone what to do, I'm simply saying that after a few years of practice, I can sincerely say sex is a hell of a lot more fun than it first was. And if we're basing the scale of fun on the rate of progression, it's bound to be the highlight of my life- and looking back, well there are worse things to highlight one's life. I've done a lot of independent study on the psyche of men, women and sex in general, and I have learned a few things of my own. One is that sex is exercise, it releases endorphins in the brain, (same as chocolate!) makes you feel better about yourself, and apparently, people who have sex 3 times a week burn around 7500 calories in a year- approximately the equivalent of jogging 75 miles- Haha, which would you rather do? The other thing I learned is that too frequently men and mostly women turn down their partners ideas in bed because they're scared, embarrassed or fearful of unknown territory. And while I haven't gone out of my way to seduce the men of Manhattan, I have tried to keep up an active, healthy and diverse sex life, which makes me knowledgeable enough to safely say, relax, and if it feels good, do it. Jokingly, I used to tell my boyfriend I will try absolutely anything once, or until I get it right. Now, after years of coming up with fun new ways to keep our sex life inventive and exhausting, I can say there must be some truth in jest.
So what's all the embarrassment about? Why should something that feels so good cause so much guilt? I have no answer here. But my books about sex, 365 different positions, advice on the perfect lingerie and how to give the best blow job he's ever had are proudly on display on our bedside tables. So what, we've got a stripper pole? It's a hell of a lot harder than it looks, and let me tell you something, more often than not, not very sexy. How appealing does a six inch bruise on your inner thigh while your clinging on upside down for dear life sound? Yeah, that's what I thought...explains black lights in strip clubs. I've got every postcard Agent Provocateur ever sent me up as decoration. There's a whole dresser of drawers devoted to my lingerie, my sex-only lingerie and if you went through my top bedroom drawers you'd find more plastic than lace, and lord knows, you'd certainly be more embarrassed than me. You know how some people keep a little black box full of naughty toys and handcuffs that they tell their sister to go find, should they die, and destroy it? Let's just say, Ashley would have to burn down our entire house.
So why would I tell you this? Perhaps perfect strangers, since the entire world wide web is at liberty to read my blog. To make one tiny dent in your conscience and the ideas you have about sex. If one more person in the world is just a little more open to trying something new, or one more person sheds those cumbersome feelings of shame over sex, it will have been worth the write. I design lingerie for Playboy for Christ sake...it's not too hard to guess what's in my top drawer.
So go get laid. Burn calories, shed inhibition, smile happily, drowsily, stupidly. Relax, it's just sex.
Friday, February 11, 2011
When I Grow Up
Barbie was my favorite toy growing up. Hard to believe, right? First off, Barbie's got a bad rep- let me clear that up for you. Okay, fashion, runways, yachts, corvettes and condos in Malibu aside, momentarily, Barbie was an icon for young girls- and don't start all that "she's got fake boobs and fake hair and she's a dumb blonde" nonsense. Let's get some facts straight about Barbie. She was/is one of the biggest superstars in the world, and she's never even released a sex tape. She's got a pink corvette (we'll get to more of that in a minute), a house with an elevator inside (I assume she installed an escalator in 2002 as well), and like 60 professions- with cute accessories! Not only that, but home girl's a self made woman- ever notice Barbie only ever had a "dream" wedding? True story- 70 years later and Ken still hasn't put a ring on it, which is why Barbie dumped him for an Australian surfer name Blaine around 2003- also a true story. She's sexy, smart, sophisticated...the woman all little girls wanted to grow up to be. Barbie taught us that a woman could do anything she set her mind to... She was the Jackie O, the Marilyn Monroe of at least 5 generations. Don't give me that hype about her being a dumb blonde- she's a doctor for Christ sake. And a veterinarian and a supermodel. Can you do all that? No. And neither can I. Which is why Barbie was and will always be my favorite toy. Go girl.
Our parents taught us as children to dream big. Barbie big. My first dream was to be a lawyer when I was 6... I had no idea what lawyers did. I just knew they made lots of money and my parents generally supported my 6 year old career choice. My sister was going to be a supermodel and in her spare time, a supermarket check-out girl...because, you know, supermodels have a lot of spare time. My second dream, I remember clear as day, was to have a corvette like Barbie. A neon pink 69' Stingray, 5 speed, 300 horsepower with black leather interior, tee-tops and a black racing stripe to be exact, but you know, who's writing down details...
I've been following that dream path my whole life and sometimes wonder if I'm on the same road as my friends and colleagues. Something or someone planned out a lifeline for people hundreds of years ago that people today still generally follow. We are born, we are schooled, we marry, we have kids, we die. Ugh. Seriously? That's it? I'm here to have babies, send them to school so they can find a husband, have babies and die? What a miserable existence... no wonder the average life expectancy was only 35 in the 1600's... people were bored to death. Terrible joke. Let's move on.
Where is the paragraph in the time line of humanity for me? Where is the sentence about the dreamers, the rogues and pirates, the scientists and politicians who lead the people out of the darkness into something fantastic and grand? I can't imagine, after a mere 25 years on this little desolate planet, of knowing everything there is to know, enough to marry someone, teach them things and have children to teach as well. But then again, that was never my dream. At this age my mother already had been married 6 years, with a 2 year old and a 3 year old. And although I am grateful to her for the wisdom she tried to teach me as a woman, I could see something else that is inherent in many young mothers in her eyes. The faintest sparkle of longing or regret. Not about having me or my sister, whom she loved dearly, but for the dreams she lost or would never chase. The foreign shores she would never see, the posh boutique she would never open, the sunrise over Fiji she would never photograph. All those beautiful lost dreams, just gone. Are we as young adults forced down this path, because history dictates that this is our destiny...or am I part of the generation changing the way we think about life? I'd like to believe the second.
I should have, generally speaking, been born a man. And not because I think men have more rights, or are smarter or stronger than women... Lord knows I've never met a man I thought was smarter than me...Maybe my future father-in-law. Maybe. Barely. But he's the head of medicine at Good Sam... I digress. No one believes in the mental and physical capabilities of women more than me. I couldn't be more pro feminism if I tried. Women are stronger than any man could possibly imagine. They weather unkindness, social stereotypes, heartbreak and injustice with smiles on their faces. They endure a menstrual period once a month, ( which, incidentally is like being punched in the balls repeatedly for 7 seven days straight) which is only nature's way of prepping them for physical pain of child birth. They've been politically and socially repressed for longer than our country has been in existence and still are in many parts of the world. And yet, their smiles stop men in their tracks, their kindness raises children to be leaders and their emotional velocity and strength would simply cripple a man. We think too quickly, we act too rashly, our hearts get tangled in our thoughts and in some bizarre effort to please or save the world, we are more often than not our own downfall. Which is why I should have been a man.
I'm not the pretty-in-pink emotional ball of fuzziness most women are, which is both good and bad. But I do believe I think like a man more than I think like a woman...which is mostly bad. I too am rash, charming with words and although loving, I acknowledge a thin calculated streak of coldness in me, that could easily translate to craziness or cruelty...but then again, history never remembers the normal ones. Maybe I generalize here, but most of the women I know around my age are following that other path I was talking about earlier. They're marrying, having babies, starting families. Settling down. That's what it's called. Darling, I couldn't settle in one place for twenty minutes if you stapled my stilettos to the floor, let alone the rest of my life. I'm drawn, like a man, to the call of the wind. To the fantastical dreams lingering in my thoughts, the adventures just over the horizon. Everyday when I wake up some instinct inside tells me to run. To get on a plane, go to Africa, explore what is unknown, find the cure for some illness, sail on a ship with crisp white sails into the deep bright blue. Look for that dream, wherever or whatever is it. Let the wind take me where it will, come back with mountains of treasure and claim some new city in the name of independence and freedom and glory. Like a man, I crave the adventure, the money, the fashion, the beauty, the knowledge. Is it naivete that spins my thoughts into the webs they are? Or am I just part of a smaller component of humanity? The chasers and the dreamers. The tiny percent who were meant to run forever, wild, never settling, creating a path through the wild debris so others can follow easily. That's what I want in this life. The journey- to find my adventure and lead the expedition. To be seen among men as an equal, a contender, a force to be reckoned with. The image of Queen Elizabeth I, Joan of Arc...those who cleared the path for me to follow, so I could clear the path further. To find my adventure.
A friend recently said to me, "If the 15 year old version of you had to describe your life at 25, you are exactly what she would describe. Living and chasing your dreams". When I was 6 dreams were just coloring book images that hadn't materialized yet. But they would. I was quite positive I'd be the proud owner of a unicorn by 1996. And something inside us tells us to hold onto those dreams no matter how crazy they are... I'm sure the unicorn is on his way. But sometimes, life gets ahead somehow. And we are suddenly 15. And the next day we are 25. And wildly we wake up mere hours later to be 35, then 45, then 60... And the dreams get stacked on the shelves in the basement because we are too tired. We have families. We are too old. There are bills to pay. We just don't dream anymore...
But not me. I'm part of the small but growing percent of humanity whose tiny paragraph is written on the time line in electric green. I will always be running, chasing, letting the summer wind pull me towards my destiny, standing on the prow of the ship, holding the rigging for dear life while the tropical wind tosses the boat and tears through my hair. I'll be swimming against the tides, and taking the fork in the road no one else wants to go down. I'm too fickle to devote myself to much of anything besides Manhattan but I know this feeling will never dissolve. If I live to 35. Or 40. Or 60 or 80 I'll never stop. I'll be running, chasing those dreams until I catch them. Clearing the path for the rogues and pirates behind me. Rewriting our time line. Forever.
Our parents taught us as children to dream big. Barbie big. My first dream was to be a lawyer when I was 6... I had no idea what lawyers did. I just knew they made lots of money and my parents generally supported my 6 year old career choice. My sister was going to be a supermodel and in her spare time, a supermarket check-out girl...because, you know, supermodels have a lot of spare time. My second dream, I remember clear as day, was to have a corvette like Barbie. A neon pink 69' Stingray, 5 speed, 300 horsepower with black leather interior, tee-tops and a black racing stripe to be exact, but you know, who's writing down details...
I've been following that dream path my whole life and sometimes wonder if I'm on the same road as my friends and colleagues. Something or someone planned out a lifeline for people hundreds of years ago that people today still generally follow. We are born, we are schooled, we marry, we have kids, we die. Ugh. Seriously? That's it? I'm here to have babies, send them to school so they can find a husband, have babies and die? What a miserable existence... no wonder the average life expectancy was only 35 in the 1600's... people were bored to death. Terrible joke. Let's move on.
Where is the paragraph in the time line of humanity for me? Where is the sentence about the dreamers, the rogues and pirates, the scientists and politicians who lead the people out of the darkness into something fantastic and grand? I can't imagine, after a mere 25 years on this little desolate planet, of knowing everything there is to know, enough to marry someone, teach them things and have children to teach as well. But then again, that was never my dream. At this age my mother already had been married 6 years, with a 2 year old and a 3 year old. And although I am grateful to her for the wisdom she tried to teach me as a woman, I could see something else that is inherent in many young mothers in her eyes. The faintest sparkle of longing or regret. Not about having me or my sister, whom she loved dearly, but for the dreams she lost or would never chase. The foreign shores she would never see, the posh boutique she would never open, the sunrise over Fiji she would never photograph. All those beautiful lost dreams, just gone. Are we as young adults forced down this path, because history dictates that this is our destiny...or am I part of the generation changing the way we think about life? I'd like to believe the second.
I should have, generally speaking, been born a man. And not because I think men have more rights, or are smarter or stronger than women... Lord knows I've never met a man I thought was smarter than me...Maybe my future father-in-law. Maybe. Barely. But he's the head of medicine at Good Sam... I digress. No one believes in the mental and physical capabilities of women more than me. I couldn't be more pro feminism if I tried. Women are stronger than any man could possibly imagine. They weather unkindness, social stereotypes, heartbreak and injustice with smiles on their faces. They endure a menstrual period once a month, ( which, incidentally is like being punched in the balls repeatedly for 7 seven days straight) which is only nature's way of prepping them for physical pain of child birth. They've been politically and socially repressed for longer than our country has been in existence and still are in many parts of the world. And yet, their smiles stop men in their tracks, their kindness raises children to be leaders and their emotional velocity and strength would simply cripple a man. We think too quickly, we act too rashly, our hearts get tangled in our thoughts and in some bizarre effort to please or save the world, we are more often than not our own downfall. Which is why I should have been a man.
I'm not the pretty-in-pink emotional ball of fuzziness most women are, which is both good and bad. But I do believe I think like a man more than I think like a woman...which is mostly bad. I too am rash, charming with words and although loving, I acknowledge a thin calculated streak of coldness in me, that could easily translate to craziness or cruelty...but then again, history never remembers the normal ones. Maybe I generalize here, but most of the women I know around my age are following that other path I was talking about earlier. They're marrying, having babies, starting families. Settling down. That's what it's called. Darling, I couldn't settle in one place for twenty minutes if you stapled my stilettos to the floor, let alone the rest of my life. I'm drawn, like a man, to the call of the wind. To the fantastical dreams lingering in my thoughts, the adventures just over the horizon. Everyday when I wake up some instinct inside tells me to run. To get on a plane, go to Africa, explore what is unknown, find the cure for some illness, sail on a ship with crisp white sails into the deep bright blue. Look for that dream, wherever or whatever is it. Let the wind take me where it will, come back with mountains of treasure and claim some new city in the name of independence and freedom and glory. Like a man, I crave the adventure, the money, the fashion, the beauty, the knowledge. Is it naivete that spins my thoughts into the webs they are? Or am I just part of a smaller component of humanity? The chasers and the dreamers. The tiny percent who were meant to run forever, wild, never settling, creating a path through the wild debris so others can follow easily. That's what I want in this life. The journey- to find my adventure and lead the expedition. To be seen among men as an equal, a contender, a force to be reckoned with. The image of Queen Elizabeth I, Joan of Arc...those who cleared the path for me to follow, so I could clear the path further. To find my adventure.
A friend recently said to me, "If the 15 year old version of you had to describe your life at 25, you are exactly what she would describe. Living and chasing your dreams". When I was 6 dreams were just coloring book images that hadn't materialized yet. But they would. I was quite positive I'd be the proud owner of a unicorn by 1996. And something inside us tells us to hold onto those dreams no matter how crazy they are... I'm sure the unicorn is on his way. But sometimes, life gets ahead somehow. And we are suddenly 15. And the next day we are 25. And wildly we wake up mere hours later to be 35, then 45, then 60... And the dreams get stacked on the shelves in the basement because we are too tired. We have families. We are too old. There are bills to pay. We just don't dream anymore...
But not me. I'm part of the small but growing percent of humanity whose tiny paragraph is written on the time line in electric green. I will always be running, chasing, letting the summer wind pull me towards my destiny, standing on the prow of the ship, holding the rigging for dear life while the tropical wind tosses the boat and tears through my hair. I'll be swimming against the tides, and taking the fork in the road no one else wants to go down. I'm too fickle to devote myself to much of anything besides Manhattan but I know this feeling will never dissolve. If I live to 35. Or 40. Or 60 or 80 I'll never stop. I'll be running, chasing those dreams until I catch them. Clearing the path for the rogues and pirates behind me. Rewriting our time line. Forever.
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