August 13, 2014 § 1 Comment
Last night my roommates and I were interviewing someone to take over my room before I move out in September. While absently flipping through his phone, one of my roommates gasped. He told us Robin Williams died. Of course none of us knew Robin Williams personally. Of course we continued to vet the potential subletter, letting him know about our cleaning chart and the protocols for having friends over during the workweek. Of course we went about our lives.
When our guest left, I headed to my room, searching the internet until 2am in the hopes of clarity, and perhaps some absolution from the tragedy. I read the tweets from his celebrity friends. I watched a skit with Carol Burnett and a clip from “Inside the Actor’s Studio.” I looked at my DVD of “Hook” sitting in the corner.
I don’t remember feeling this bad about other celebrities that have passed away. Sometimes it was shocking, and sometimes I did feel sad, but only in the abstract way that death is always sad to hear about. I cried for Robin Williams. I think about how my parents knew him so young and how I grew up with him. I think about how overwhelmingly, horrifically depressed one must be to feel that is the only way out.
But from the outpouring I see on my newsfeeds and in the conversations I have with friends, it is nice to be reminded of the transcendent power of comedy and art, how it cuts through to universal human experience, that someone none of us knew could make us feel something. It’s easy to forget that. Fame can seem dependent on “selling out” at best, and cultural materialism and immoralism at worst. But Robin Williams was not that. He was charming. Did he make crude jokes? Yes. He made fun of all types of people, but it never felt malicious or mean-spirited or offensive. He was a verbal force, sometimes exhaustingly so, with an unbelievably quick mind that is stunning to watch in old Johnny Carson videos or SNL skits. I remember being a child and laughing along at “Mork and Mindy” reruns, and my not-so-brief “Aladdin” addiction, and feeling moved by “Good Will Hunting,” and weeping at “Good Morning Vietnam.” I remember being grossed out at his comedy specials. It feels almost inappropriate, but also remarkable, to say that I miss him.
February 24, 2014 § 1 Comment
February 14, 2014 § 1 Comment
If this sounds plucked straight from a mediocre “Seinfeld” sketch, that’s because the situation warrants it and I cannot be remotely creative when my brain is frozen. Why is my brain frozen? Because it’s freezing. I don’t use the word freezing lightly. I’m from Chicago. 15 degrees feels balmy to me. But this? This weather is just self-indulgent. It’s like Mother Nature has an itchy trigger finger and a vanity complex. Back in the early 90’s, pre-noticeable onset of global warming, snow was kind of a joyous event. It was exciting to put on your snowsuit, have your mom wrap 14 scarves around your face, then build a dilapidated snowman as a precursor to homemade hot chocolate. Now I wake up and all I see is muddy sheets of gray—and just a one-dimensional sheet of gray at that. I’m talking about the kind of gray where you can’t tell if it’s hailing from the sky or coming at you laterally from the ground or if it’s just the End of Days and all analysis is obsolete. It’s been this way all week. This is really terrible. And there are no other thoughts. It’s just, “This is terrible, this is terrible, this is terrible.” With each step you take to the subway. Then when you’re on the subway. And throughout the day, too. Like if you happen to ever glance out a window, “This is terrible,” just flows from the neurons. Then if you do some work, and around midday, you kind of want Chipotle on your lunch break, you just think “This is terrible,” I mean, who has the kind of superhuman strength to assemble all the necessary 700 layers in a reasonable amount of time during the workday? So now not only are you freezing all time, which we established earlier, but you’re also perpetually burrito-less as well.
I’m not sure if it’s raining or thundering or snowing pellets of rainthunder at the moment, but I’ve spent the last few hours researching climate change and we need to reverse some stuff. New Yorkers can’t live like this! We’re a very busy tribe and inclement weather does not agree with our artisanal cocktail plans and food delivery plans and walking down the subway steps without falling plans. Does no one hear our pleas??
That being said, I do hear it’s worse in Chicago.
August 9, 2013 § Leave a comment
My latest piece for Read it Forward:
(You should seriously all check out this book by Venedikt Erofeev, “From Moscow to the End of the Line.” It’s a weird, hilarious, unique, insert other positive adjectives, treasure.)
Now onto other stuff:
Editing is hard, and unfortunately, it’s the not-so-glamorous part of a writer’s life that doesn’t get talked about much outside those in the writerly trenches themselves. Here’s the part we all love: you get in a zone, write something astoundingly magical, you’re pretty sure this piece will not only abolish world hunger via the power of its narrative, but you also managed to write it in prose that can only be described as “Tolstoy-Franzen floral hybrid.” Then you wake up the next day to find it is a horrible steaming pile of garbage and you consider law school for the bazillionth time.
So you have two options. You chalk up your first draft to the .docx graveyard, or you lick your ego wounds and take a stab at editing. It’s not easy to do. It ain’t famously called “killing your babies” for nothin’.
But we should make a distinction here. It’s different writing for a publication under a deadline than it is writing for yourself, and thus, the editing process is different. I happen to be more productive when I am given the constraints of a deadline, potentially because years of school trained me to work under this model, but it also probably has something to do with a certain, je ne sais quoi, extreme laziness. If you suffer from the same affliction as I do (“I could write, or I could paint my toenails and watch “Arrested Development” reruns for the 700th time while stalking the Domino’s pizza tracker.”), then editing your own work takes some artificial constraint-setting.
But sometimes, between a full-time job and tracking Domino’s all the live long day, some of the stuff you work on for your own pleasure slips through the cracks. One of the few positives to this is that I occasionally reap the benefits of one of editing’s closest compadres: time. Remember “killing your babies”? Well, having distance from a piece means that you’ve had time to grow apart from your children, stop loving them, and you can now properly shove them off a cliff without a second thought. Maybe you’re even sporting a grin while doing it! (I’ll stop working off that metaphor.)
The point of the editing shpiel and the Domino’s reference is this: tonight I edited a really old piece of mine from 2011! I haven’t written in this style in a long time, and I rarely get a chance to entertain this type of voice these days. This is originally an assignment I received from a dating editor, who supplied me with topics and gave me free rein in terms of letting my fiction go nuts(/a bit early 20’s emoish in this case.) It was originally titled “1:00am Ramblings, the Day After Dreaming of an Ex.” It’s a pretty bad title! Some other parts of it are still pretty bad, too, even after tonight’s editing! One of the comments I received back then was, “Are you talking about real love?? People don’t do that on the internet!” OKAY here we go!!
[Come up with a new title that's not the original title here, future self looking back on this]
There were a few moments the other night when my heart was tugged by the kind of invisible wires Jake talked about. He said they connected people at parties in subtextual undercurrents, or even across wider distances, like state lines.
I dreamt of him, and that’s why the lines came to mind. I want to confess it with a smirk, “Yes, yes, so I dreamt of you!” with the gumption and sass of an old movie star. But I cannot, and I do not, it is just what happened, and I deal with you in facts.
At first the dream didn’t make me sad, though, and I called that progress. At first it was just odd, like seeing another side of the moon. You, the stranger, with a foreign panache. I dream of you.
The sadness came the next night. I was cleaning my room and listening to records: Nat King Cole and Ella and Billie. And something became an encasement. The sounds that came through the stereo, even the sappiest or simplest songs, seized me like a thing underwater. The music unfurled so languidly until it was an environment, that cumulus nature of melody. A billowing out like a smokestack to fill the crevices of old places I thought were erased or dried beyond resuscitation.
I turned towards my bed and like an echo it said, “Empty. Empty.” And I could so imagine you there. I could so see myself through your gaze, watching me as I folded my summer dresses to pack them up for winter, shoving them in my suitcase, awkwardly jamming it under the bed.
I missed the security of someone I knew romantically for years and as a friend for years and all that soul level shit that’s not shit for what must be infinite years. At least, that is how we discussed ourselves with ourselves. That’s what we believed. I become melancholy when I think of belief as something so malleable that time and place dis-harbor it. So I looked down at the suitcase, a fallen tree limb, a grotesque bulge, a growth under the bed frame.
It’s probably a weightiness that was nestled in my thin golden curtains all along, if I had been paying attention. Starting from the place where the fringe is torn across the valance, it meandered down the serpentine way. “Gotcha,” and when it hisses I don’t know from whose mouth it is hissing.
I was mistaking bread for a kiss. I was trying to capture the meat of someone’s pupils like two birds’ shadows. It was a frail thing but it had an endurer’s heart, and I felt it pumping for years, tracing across so many widespread veins, and now: a landscape viewed from an airplane.
What comes to mind? The black studio theater. The cough syrup. Go Home #2 and the sweater you gave me years ago, which I saved, and the first time you frightened me (your eyes were black, your grin went too far). Your poetry, those words, the timbre of your voice–I was honest about that. I always told you how I loved that. The living room in your parents’ house where I was excited over you and, you know, you know, I cried, too.
Orange goo low as a brow. We both liked The Misfits t-shirt and Howlin Wolf records. We thought it would be cute to the point of nausea to get our mothers together for an embroidering club.
I was a dog circling back twice, not knowing his name. The love, whatever it was, a contamination.
May 3, 2013 § Leave a comment
Reasons I’ve been MIA:
- Hurricane Sandy caused the pipes in our building to explode, the heat to fail, our ceiling to collapse – in a nutshell I had to move to a new apartment. To give you non-New Yorkers some context, moving apartments here is the difficulty-equivalent to building Rome in a day while writing a Nabokovian novel while juggling purple elephants.
- I started a new job! At a great company! It’s great! But it means sacrificing certain things while adjusting, such as babbling in a blog at 2am.
- “Game of Thrones” returned. Naturally this means I had to re-watch every season before the premier. To do so involved retreating to my cave of a room, leaving society, throwing my fist in the air and yelling “Joffrey!” while covered in peanut butter, etc.
But I am alive, and have been busy. Feel free to check out some of my womany feministy human rightsy writings on PolicyMic:
January 11, 2013 § Leave a comment
I’ve been following the story unfold in India regarding the Delhi gang rape. The more I read, the more I am appalled.
But for now I don’t want to talk about the specificities of the case. What I want to discuss is how these incidents are appearing in American media. In an incident that appears to be so black and white, so good vs. evil, we as a Western culture have taken liberties in criticizing Indian culture without taking it one step further, in reflecting on the rape culture here at home. Of course, we should criticize this incident. We should be upset. But we should not presume a kind of colonial superiority, however unintentional this presumption may be. In fact, the “unintentional” is what frightens me most about this kind of editorial coverage.
A lot of people I know have difficulty seeing rape culture in our society. They don’t deny that there are faults within the system, but they also cannot identify how it affects their daily life and the life of those around them. I believe the men in my life who say they do not understand the purpose of a feminist movement anymore. These are not misogynists or idiots; they are friends and people I love. These are people whose opinions matter to me. But what I also believe is that if they understood the insidious ways gender inequality and social constructions have been established in American society, that they would no longer passively support them. I believe these issues would not be viewed with such cultural opacity the way it is often done now. I believe they would call themselves feminists.
Rape and sexual oppression are not issues that were ordained by God. If we are willing to label other cultures’ gender relations as morally wrong and separate from our own, than a country’s gender relations are not inherent. And that means the way we do things at home, as well as abroad, can be changed. Gender inequality has fallen under the umbrella of “culture”, a big, foggy word that often shifts our perception to one of concepts instead of something tangible to be dealt with proactively. But as any historian would tell you, it is possible for immense and drastic change among gender policies and cultural attitudes. This should make us hopeful. While we scrutinize Indian culture and advocate for positive changes abroad, we should take the opportunity to implement the same strategy here while these issues are in the national dialogue, and criticize.
Here are some things I’ve been reading:
- “Let’s look at our own rape culture,” Kate Heartfield, Ottawa Citizen
- “Short skirts, bad stars and chow mein: why Indian’s women get raped,” Shilpa Jamkhandikar, Reuters
- “Victims in Delhi rape case are to blame, defendants’ lawyer says,” The Sydney Morning Herald
- “After Being Raped, I Was Wounded; My Honor Wasn’t,” Sohaila Abdulali, The New York Times