Structure

Hi everyone,
I started this entry perched on the top level of a Megabus returning to New York from Philadelphia, where I spent less than 24 hours this weekend (a good whirlwind trip). For those of you who aren't familiar with their $12 fares and unpredictable routes, Megabus is a cheap, mostly reliable way to travel between cities in the Northeast. My favorite feature, other than the free wi-fi, is the double decker buses. So, I sat up there, and started to write this, before I fell asleep and almost dropped my iPad.
So, as I mentioned before, I've been reading The Happiness Project by Gretchen Rubin, which my mother recommended to me. It's written by a woman who lives in New York with her husband and two young daughters, who, though her life is comfortable and relatively charmed, decided to spend a year trying to become happier through truths and resolutions she set for herself at the beginning. What sets this apart from Eat, Pray, Love and other, more superficial entries in the genre is the fact that Gretchen goes about her year in a smart, organized, and academically informed way. A former clerk for Justice Sandra Day O'Connor, she feels comfortable with lots of lists, research, and rational pursuits, and that really hit home for me - especially with all the resolutions I've made for myself in the past month.
I finished the book on Saturday, while my friend got her hair cut at a Philadelphia salon, and reading 200 pages of it in one sitting made things all the more clear. If I wanted to be successful in the goals I've set for myself, I need to set some guidelines and introduce real structure. Keeping the resolutions vaguely in mind throughout the days and weeks works for some people, but I'm someone who responds really well to boundaries. I was so busy being pleased with myself for making the resolutions in the first place that I didn't realize I was swimming in some ambiguity as far as how the hell I was going to get this stuff done. So, for some of the bigger and more isolated resolutions I've made, I'm going to attempt to devote one month to each of them, as Gretchen does in the book.
So, in February, which conveniently starts tomorrow, I am going to attempt something kind of huge and crazy. I'm going to write a novel. In one month. Typically, November is National Novel Writing Month, where people write a novel (about 50,000 words - the length of The Great Gatsby or The Catcher in the Rye) in one month - about 750 words, or 7 pages, each day. It's supposed to be a high velocity, low stress approach - not a ton of editing, just lots of writing each day for a month. One of my resolutions is to write every day, which this will certainly help me do, but the thought of finishing something this big (even if it's totally horrible) would be such a great way to knock that one out of the park. So, we'll see how I do!
As a fringe benefit, I'm trying to save lots of money for my Paris trip, so hopefully this new undertaking will keep me in the apartment working, instead of out doing the fun and expensive stuff.
More updates soon!

Nostalgia and Its Perils

So, for reasons including excitement for my return, the search for names of places to find again, and general madness, I spent a large amount of time yesterday going through all the emails and chats I had while living in Paris in the Spring of 2008. Aside from being a fantastic waste of time, it made me the most nostalgic I've been in recent memory.
I have a love/hate relationship with this feeling - mostly because it is such a combination of wistful happiness and sadness for me. I was such a different person in 2008, in ways that are both obvious and more subtly hidden upon reading all this correspondence. It was a time in which I had very few responsibilities, was able to pursue new adventures and experiences (mostly) as I wanted to. While I have a (bursting at the seams) journal I kept during my time there that I've since reread, I think there's something interesting to be seen in how we interact with others - how it's a reflection of who we are at that moment.
And who was I at that moment? Happier, more free to pursue my impulses, not consumed with the specifics of how to carve out life for myself post-graduation, surrounded by beauty in a place I love. Yes, all of these things, but also less informed about who I was, so often frustrated about the silliest problems, and without the knowledge that I have now. The past 2-3 years have been joyful, frustrating, and nothing if not eventful. My relationships have changed - the same ones chronicled in these emails. And some don't even really exist anymore. Some of it does make me miss the version of me that wrote these emails - she's just different enough from me now to feel like a separate person. I find it startling to think about.
Plus, all my Paris emails are labeled and filed together in the organizational wonderland that is Gmail, so it's all there, compact and staring at me - whereas ten or twenty years ago, that time in my life would be scattered in mismatched letters and postcards that could accidentally be thrown away. On a more cheerful note, all of this makes me more excited to go back and see how I respond to the same places, tastes, and language that were part of my life before.

Speaking of Paris and all things French, came across these ads today, and they're so perfect. Also, it is possible for Scarlett Johannsson to not look fantastic?

Makes me want red lipstick. And champagne, of course.

Deception/Devotion

As promised. I've been posting a lot of these initial attempts at stories, which, for me, is the most challenging part of the process. After I accrue enough with potential, they'll become more substantial and, hopefully, complete.

In the center of the very highest dome at the top of the church ceiling, there is a painted eye. I spend a lot of time looking at it when I'm at Mass with my mother, especially during the parts when we kneel on that cushion-thing that folds out. I hate it because it hurts my knees. I used to be able to get away with sitting during the kneeling parts, but I guess I'm too old to sit now. One Sunday, my mother suddenly started glaring at me when I stayed in the pew while everyone else moved to the floor. She whispered something at me, in a tone that she could barely use in church. Anyway, she meant business, and now I have to suffer through it like everyone else.
I told my mom that I saw the eye blink once, but of course I didn't. It's fun to see what I can get away with, and sometimes she pretends like she believes me, even though I know she doesn't. She loves my imagination, but I wonder if she knows how much I make up and how much is true. Sometimes, I forget that it's not true, and I walk around thinking that God's eye blinked at me, until I remember that I made it up. My parents make a big deal about lying, how it is "the one thing they don't tolerate", but I've been caught a bunch of times already and haven't really faced any consequences. I know it's bad for me to do, but sometimes it's fun to think about things like the eye in church and how amazing it would be if it moved and looked at just me, out of everyone in the room.
After Mass, I have Sunday School in the family center across the street. Some people call it CCD, but that bugs me because I don't know what those letters would even stand for. Anyway, we're split up into groups by which grade we're in, and we sit at round tables with nuns who teach us out of these workbooks. For the past few weeks, we've been learning about the ten commandments. I sit next to Peter, who goes to my school, and make illustrations of whichever commandment we're being taught that day in the back of my workbook. It's funny - in regular school, I would never talk to him during class and definitely wouldn't show him stupid drawings of "Thou Shall Not Steal" (a stick figure stealing a pile of money getting struck by lightning from a vengeful stick figured version of God). No matter how much I try to forget it, everyone in my grade seems to remember the Valentine I put in his desk last year. I thought it would be totally secret, since I only signed it with my first initial. Unfortunately, the only other girl whose first name starts with "B" was absent on Valentine's Day, so my foolproof plan fell through pretty quickly. Peter and I are the only two from our school in the group, so I can talk to him without everyone noticing.
Today, we had gotten to "Thou Shall Not Commit Adultery", which apparently has something to do with sex. I don't really know anything about what sex is, aside from things the boys whisper to each other at school and scenes in movies where my parents make me leave the room for 5 minutes. So, I just started to draw a bridal couple, the kind that they put on wedding cakes. Then, when Peter would look over (we sat next to each other), I would whisper the commandment under my breath and scribble through the couple as I said "adultery" - almost growling it so the nun wouldn't hear.

Time to (try to) Be a Grown-Up

This is another sheepish entry.
Life has been very busy lately, but that's no excuse for my absence! I'm feeling the need to slow down a bit for the next couple of days. I've been running at fever pitch for the last week or so, traveling, working late, and not getting to the things I need to - for both my practical and creative sanity.
I've been letting things get away from me, which I guess is normal for someone whose life has become filled with work and other diversions. At the same time, I feel as if I'm losing track of some important parts of my life - like writing, appreciating more about New York, and taking some time to be more responsible. These are lessons to be learned, but I get the impression I'm walking a line between being too easy and hard on myself about not confronting them head-on.
So, this weekend, I have decided to take a three-pronged approach. Sunday will be my no-excuses 9-5 writing day, and Saturday (after spending some time formulating - cringe- a much tighter monthly budget for myself) I will brave the crowds at the Met to see the Matisse exhibit. He's a favorite, and I haven't been to a museum in ages. Plus, while that exhibit will definitely be mobbed, the great thing about the Met is it's so huge you can always find space to yourself.
A few months ago, before it got too hot to be outside for more than 15 minutes at a time, I was reading a Russian novel in Central Park - The Idiot by Dostoevsky, which is heavy on the Christ-like themes and imagery. There was a somewhat disheveled man sitting on the bench next to me, drinking coffee and giving me strange sideways glances. When this went on past a comfortable amount of time, I was about to switch benches when he started to talk to me, asking about what I was reading. Oh boy, I thought, I don't need to talk Russian literature with some guy with a serial killer haircut. As it turns out, this man had been a docent at the Met for 10 years, and, given the nature of what I was reading, started chatting me up about his favorite paintings depicting the Crucifixion that were on display in the museum. He even pulled a little crumpled map of the Met out of his blazer pocket and circled the gallery where his favorite painting, The Crucifixion of Saint Sebastian, is hung. I was completely surprised by this man, as happens in New York from time to time, and felt grateful for being proven wrong about him.
So, in between tightening my belt, trying to spark some creativity, and searching for a second income, I'm going to dig for that map and go see Saint Sebastian and Matisse this weekend. My life has been so insular lately, so I'm looking forward to marveling at something much greater.