“There were days, rainy gray days, when the streets of Brooklyn were worthy of a photograph, every window the lens of a Leica, the view grainy and immobile. We gathered our colored pencils and sheets of paper and drew like wild, feral children into the night, until, exhausted, we fell into bed. We lay in each other’s arms, still awkward but happy, exchanging breathless kisses into sleep.”—Patti Smith, Just Kids
There’s a face I make when it’s dark and I’m feeling nervous coming home at night. I jut out my chin and scowl. I dare the men in hooded sweatshirts to look back. Dare them to even glance. I make tiny fists in my coat pockets. I come home and put on Martha Wainwright and tell everyone in my mind to go to hell, you bloody mother fucking assholes.
I found a painting on the street today in a giant wooden frame and I took it home with me. I don’t know what to do with it, but I like how it looks, propped against my wall, falling out of the frame. Makes me feel like some bohemian artist girl that I’m not.
Will it ever feel like something other than playing house?
I’ve all but abandoned my Vyou account. I’m way too self-conscious for this stuff. However, I’m content in the knowledge that Vyou is pretty much only good for working through how wildly attracted I am to Dave Holmes.
Hey y’all. It’s been a little while. I’ve been in a weird place, mentally speaking, lately. The only way I can really describe it is that I’ve been focusing a huge amount of emotional energy on trying to make myself happy, trying to feel optimistic, upbeat, proud of myself, and all around enthusiastic about life. And I’ve been failing.
All I want for Christmas is you, but also, I’d really like to bound out of bed in the morning. I keep picturing the girl that I want to be and I see someone excited to go to the gym and take care of her body, excited to greet work’s challenges, friendly with strangers and colleagues, and bounding back home with enough energy to write and to read and to watch movies and think about them. I want to treat myself like a really fantastic best friend. I want to compliment myself and mean it. Comfort myself. Look in the mirror and like something. There are moments when this is possible and true, but mostly I am letting myself down.
For the sake of positivity, however, let’s look on the bright side. Preparing for Christmas is one of my favorite things in the world. I am wildly, madly obsessed with picking out presents for my loved ones. I love finding them, wrapping them, giving them away. This weekend I went home and decorated the Christmas tree at my mom’s house, taking breaks to sip hot chocolate and teach the new puppy to sit (she’s such a fast learner!). My sister got engaged this weekend and I am so genuinely, positively excited for her.
I know some people hate when stores start playing Christmas music all the time, but I cannot get enough. I have a playlist that’s 7.2 hours long with no repeats of the same song and it’s the best. I’m very excited to spend my first Christmas season here in NYC and go to visit the tree in Rockefeller Center, watch the skaters, and the streets filled with people toting shopping bags. Christmas transforms me and I would give anything to feel that way all the time. That is my goal.
So I don’t care if this whole thing is incredibly cheesy. I need to promote my own well-being. Starting today I am redoubling my efforts.
(This would all be a lot easier if I weren’t currently convinced that there is a rodent or a very noisy insect hanging out under my bookcase right now. I can do this. Positivity. A calm and endless ocean of contentment. I’m going to sleep on the couch now I think.)
As aware as I an that this is an ask box, i'm really just going to leave two comments. Firstly, after watching the your video blogging video, when I read one of your posts, I seem to hear your voice reading it in my head. It's odd, but a personal touch nonetheless.
Secondly, a more general note, lovely blog. It's a pleasure to follow.
Thank you? And thank you! I’m not even sure that it’s such a good thing for people to now hear my blog in my voice. I think that my writing comes closer to the way I want to be heard. My voice doesn’t even sound like me, to me. Pay no attention to that man behind the curtain.
“if you’re someone who likes people but has trouble meeting them, or gets shy in unfamiliar social settings, you probably don’t think the Internet has made you less human. If you live in a big city but don’t like bar culture and managed to find someone to love — and who loves you — by e-mailing back-and-forth about your shared affection for the third season of “Happy Days” — which of course got you talking about Nick at Nite in general, and then your families, and then the difficulties of being so far away from them — you probably don’t feel like the Internet made you less human.”—
first.. i sort of found nicole atkins. many years ago when she opened for a friend of mine at bowery ballroom. she's a stunner. so you seem to have impeccable taste yourself.
second.. some of the 30 somethings out there have given up on grasping to their cool. but are anyway..
And to clarify, I definitely do not think 30-somethings are old or uncool. It was a lame joke, meant only to be self-deprecating in that I feel about 10 years removed from my peers.
It’s been nearly a year since I downloaded any new music. Like, really sat down and spent a few hours downloading, which is something I used to do with relative frequency in college. I used to put a lot of time and consideration into checking out new bands and figuring out what I liked and didn’t. Even then, I was usually about a year behind because it took me so long to get around to listening.
I didn’t really mean for it to happen this way, or for this long, but I’ve spent the last year getting reacquainted with all the old artists on my ipod that I didn’t remember even listening to the first time around. At a certain point I should probably start sifting through and deleting the things that continue to make no impression on me, no matter how many times I listen, but that’s another time-consuming job in itself.
Anyway, what this is all leading up to is that I’m ready to delve back in and discover something new. The trouble is that I no longer subscribe to indie music magazines, and sifting through the music blogs is a massive time suck. So I’m counting on you. What have I missed in the past year or two? What new bands/artists have become really important to you lately? I keep hearing about Best Coast and Sleighbells (I sound like someone’s 30 something aunt, trying with grasping fingers to hold onto her cool) so I plan to see what I think of those two. Can you make any other recommendations for me? I’m especially interested in things that have just become popular in the past year or two, because that’s about where I left off.
If it helps, here are some bands/artists that I really enjoy: Ben Folds, Camera Obscura, Rogue Wave, Noah and the Whale, Frightened Rabbit, Regina Spektor, Beirut, Laura Marling, Spoon, Lykke Li, Rufus Wainwright, Sia, Florence and the Machine, Passion Pit, Nicole Atkins… you get the picture.
“It may not be written in any book, but it is written-
You can’t go back,
you can’t repeat the unrepeatable.
No matter how fast you drive, or how hard the slide show
of memory flicks and releases,
It’s always some other place,
some other car in the driveway,
Someone unrecognizable about to open the door.”—Charles Wright, Littlefoot (via youveescaped)
I’ve been feeling really crazy lately. I pace around my apartment at night. I get the urge to drink more than I should. I feel messed up and trapped and sometimes aggravated to the point of tears at nothing at all.
The whole VYou thing (which is only tangentially related to my craziness) is addictive but also frustrating and bothering me. I don’t like seeing myself on my computer screen. I don’t feel like I’m presenting myself honestly, or in a way that makes me content. It’s a weird medium because you’re limited by the questions that people ask you and you’re trying to be concise and you’re trying to not look awful or trip over your words. I think about myself too much already, and I think maybe this is bad for me. And those are a lot of thoughts to have about what is essentially a video Q&A website.
I worry that I’m becoming boring. I worry that I’m getting older and I don’t have enough life experiences. I worry about getting people to like me. I worry about liking myself. I feel this huge rift between photos/videos of myself and the person I actually think of myself as.
I am hungry too often and lonely too often and there is a void that has something to do with friendships and something else to do with desire and I am crazy ravenous for your love, attention, shoulder, reassurance. Please just remind me it’s ok, it’s ok, it’s ok.
too many things in life are dimming and dull. love is great. do not settle for a mediocre spark just because you are sick of sleeping alone.
adopt a dog so that it can walk you and provide you with a warm, loving home.
being single is a fucking gift. do not trade it for anything in the world. (exception: someone who is so incredible that you have to question whether you are a bat because you feel like you are dreaming upside-down.)
you’re allowed to write many poems about what happened to you. you’re allowed to read them and you’re allowed to submit them to magazines and you’re allowed to post them on your blog because it is yours. you’re allowed to speak your truth into this corner of a world that coincidence has allowed you to inhabit for a little while. do not ever let anyone make you feel wrong for that.
then, write about something new.
let yourself cry at television shows. when someone assures you that the person in the show is still alive! that only their character has died! disown that person for the moment. you are in love with characters. that is the point.
women, be kind to other women. you have four billion sisters and you don’t know most of their names.
scientists just discovered that one of the rings on saturn is actually braided. i still don’t know what that means, but it makes me think of really big hands.
lying is sort of like a dread-locks. you really have to work, every day, at maintaining them. they’re going to fall a little loose. the undoing of them is the most difficult, you can comb through and condition and try to sort out where each piece was originally rooted, but the rational thing to do is to cut it all. cut it loose. start again.
I am actually very embarrassed about the whole thing. Mostly about when the videos pause on my face looking stupid. Not really about the egotistical part. I mean, I have a blog. I actively participate in blogging. I’m beyond feeling shame about the navel-gazing aspect.
I don’t have a lot of questions yet. You could ask me something.
“In bed that night I invented a special drain that would be underneath every pillow in New York, and would connect to the reservoir. Whenever people cried themselves to sleep, the tears would all go to the same place, and in the morning the weatherman could report if the water level of the Reservoir of Tears had gone up or down, and you could know if New York is in heavy boots.”—Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close — Jonathan Safran Foer (via beenthinking)
Today has been kind of lame, but I vacuumed my apartment for the first time, I’m about to make chocolate covered cookie dough balls, and tomorrow Caitlin is coming over for crepes and mimosas. So I’m feeling pretty good about this weekend.
This is Miss Hogan’s winter ‘10 collection - filled with blustery bows, retro prints, and casually gothic frocks. It feels like it should come with its own shiny espresso machine and quaint little cups - warm and bold and pretty all at once.
To create your own Cold Weather Goddess look, go for dark purples and blacks, oversized bows, floaty capes, school girl style skirts and jumpers.
Just trekked my way to downtown Brooklyn to finally, FINALLY get a new contact lens prescription (which I have been putting off for, literally, years) only to be told that my insurance doesn’t cover eye care for another two months.
Ok. That’s fine. I’ll just continue to wear two left eye contacts in my eyes, because I ran out of rights, using the prescription I got when I was, like, twenty. No, really, I’m becoming a much better typist because I can no longer see the keyboard or the computer screen unless they are centimeters from my face.
And I was so proud of myself for going on my day off.
REALLY IMPORTANT QUESTION: What is the name of the lipstick you got to match Michelle's color? I must know.
Ah! I’m sorry! But A, I seem to have thrown away the boxes and the Sephora lipsticks don’t have the names printed on them. And B, I think my color memory is fucked, because while shopping I was picturing it very coral-peachy, which obviously isn’t quite right. The one that comes closest, MIGHT be this one, in coral coquette (which looks nothing like that picture): http://www.sephora.com/browse/product.jhtml?id=P203600&categoryId=B70 but I think it’s too sheer to replicate what’s going on in that cover.
I should not be allowed to go to Sephora. And I don’t even wear a lot of makeup. Honestly. (I wear some eyeliner on a good day. Eyeliner and some lip gloss/stain when I want to impress someone. Eyeliner, mascara, lip gloss, and some sort of eye shimmer when I’m having a BIG NIGHT OUT. No foundation. Ever. It makes me feel like I’m about to be in a dance recital or a beauty pageant.) I think I just like to collect it, which is absolutely ridiculous.
I made the mistake of stopping in there last week, telling myself that I was only going in to sniff all the products by Fresh and decide which scent I want to ask for for Christmas. Which I did. But I also happened to get sucked into the World of Lipstick while I was there. Now, despite owning a few lipsticks, I really never wear the stuff. But they’re just so goddamn bright and pretty and once you start trying a few colors out on your wrist, you get pulled into the fun of making judgments and shocking yourself with the increasingly horrifying prices. Long story short, I walked out of there with four lipsticks in my tiny black and white bag, $65 poorer.
(I also spotted Miss Sara Zucker, style maven, though I was too shy to say hello.)
Actually, I blame this cover, because I haven’t been able to get her lip color out of my head and I have dreams about going blonde.
I bought three of Sephora’s own (relatively inexpensive) brand, whose names I can’ remember, and one pricey little Nars lipstick in “Barbarella,” because, c’mon -
She’s the Queen of the Galaxy. I don’t think you can argue with that.
At least not right away. Tonight, at half past midnight, walking down the same streets I do every night, I caught a glimpse of a glittering side street, too small even to have a name. I felt curiosity tingle through every inch of me, through the tips of my elbows and the ends of my hair. I felt sparkly as I turned off the main street, and wound my way around out of the way sidewalks. I glanced into the gated gardens of expensive apartment buildings. I put my face to the glass window of a Mexican restaurant, touting “one of the six best” margaritas in the city. I ambled down a more bustling street, cafes and pubs glowing warmly. I watched a girl in a white fur coat and a messy bun stagger cheerfully with two friends and I wished I were her, but it was time to go home.
On the subway platform, I sat by a man who smelled like alcohol at first. Vodka, probably, I thought. After a moment or two, I realized it was his cologne. A thin, dark-skinned girl with wavy black hair and tall black boots was dancing to the music on her headphones. She was gorgeous and I looked around to see if anyone else was watching her. Yes, a man across the way was staring, too, and I caught his eye as if to say “Isn’t that something?” And then we both looked away in agreement.
Tonight, I continued my foray into the world of fruit flavored malt beverages meant for frat boys and, possibly, serial killers, with the purchase of a Sparks Plus. The “Plus” means it has more alcohol. A plus, indeed. I never had the original caffeinated sparks, or its calmer (legal) cousin, so I didn’t have much to compare it to, other than last week’s Four Loko.
The Sparks (Spark?) won, no contest, because it didn’t make me want to stab myself in throat with every sip. This might also have something to do with wanting it more. It was a long day at work. I walked into the bodega for a plastic bottle of pineapple juice and walked out with 16 oz of desire to feel a little bit less. The available flavors were not labeled on the cans - one can only guess by the color of the font. I chose an orange fonted can, and found myself sucking down something that tasted very much like a mixture of beer and orange crush. A seventeen year old’s alcoholic experiment.
Walking down the street, I felt nervous and very illicit, open beverage container in hand. With a certain amount of glee, I even tried the cliched bag around the bottle trick, which made me feel like an old-timey town drunk. This pleased me, but by the time I found my seat on the subway, I had given up the bag, and turned to unabashed swilling.
I wondered how I looked to the other people on the subway car, in my heavy knit cream-colored scarf, wrapped thickly around my neck, Dave Eggers’ How We Are Hungry open in my little paw. A man looked at me and I looked back in way I hoped was audacious and a bit rude. I wished, suddenly, that I was wearing more makeup. Or any makeup.
I don’t know how this story ends. It ends with me reaching home, half a can still to go, looking with disappointment at the contents of my fridge. It ends with me sitting down to write this. It ends with me googling “24 hour delivery.” It ends here, and it doesn’t, because there’s still more Sparks Plus to drink and I’m thirsty and brave.
“I hate the feature that shows me the names of events some of my facebook friends are invited to. It’s always like, “Katie is attending NAKED DRUGZ RAVE IN THE VALLEY” and meanwhile I’m sitting there with an invite to “Clambake at Meemaw’s” on deck, unwilling to RSVP.”—
My coworkers and I had some delivered to us for dinner last night and I practically swooned. I ordered a dinner crepe and a dessert crepe. My made to order dinner crepe consisted of sauteed chicken, lots of fluffy goat cheese, tomato, and fresh basil leaves. My dessert crepe (which I saved until I got home last night) was a mind-blowing confection of white chocolate, bananas, and raspberry puree. Truth be told, the bananas were actually an unwelcome surprise, and even they couldn’t ruin this masterpiece.
Crepes are my new favorite dinner/drunk snack/eat on my couch at midnight meal.