When the Walls are Too Thick To Break Down, Try Climbing Over Instead

"You want to experience the anticipation for what's around the next bend, but there's just too much stuff for you to do right now before you can allow yourself to feel the excitement. You have big decisions to make as the Sun moves through your 12th House of Destiny for the next month. Choose carefully, for your current choices will likely have a lasting impact."

-my Google horoscope for Sunday, December 21st

It's almost four o'clock in the morning and I've been torturing myself for hours, days weeks...

I have become completely and totally nocturnal in the past few days. If my insomnia was bad before, it may now have reached irreversible. The problem is, I'm too anxious and too excited about my life to sleep. Sleep seems so irrelevent, so expendable right now...there is just too much to do, to much to think about, to ruminate on... possibilities overflowing all around me. I am sometimes hit by these amazing periods of inspiration, of total openness and awareness of all that I am capable of receiving from the universe, and how much I am capable of giving back in return.

I know I sound totally esoteric and a little insane. I've been sleeping about 4 hours a night for the past couple weeks. And consuming far too much coffee and alcohol.

Tonight I got home and was determined to finish my grad school applications. I've nearly done just that. I've put my documents to bed for the night and will reopen them tomorrow to be printed out. I may edit again tomorrow night, but I've decided: they go out on Monday. No exception. I must lift this weight from my sloping little shoulders. I must cease the self-torment. I could edit until I'm dead. I'm choosing life instead. Que sera sera, as they say. C'est la vie. Soon it will be out of my hands and into the universe. And the hands of Kristin Linklater, head of acting at Columbia, my dream school.

Yes, that's right. She has her own technique. I can't handle my affection for this ivy-league institution. It's reached an obsessive, all-consuming level. I'm completely infatuated.

My friends are amazingly supportive. I feel like I should come with a disclaimer: Difficult, Exhausting, but Unendingly Loyal and Eternally Grateful! Will Challenge and Enhance Your Life With Her Presence!

It never ceases to amaze me how little we change over the years. Yes, we grow and learn and devise ways of coping with our neuroses, but they remain embedded inside our psyches, nonetheless. The childhood baggage, the insecurities...these things are irremoveable parts of who we are. Yes, we can turn down the volume, shut them away in drawers and cabinets, yet they always remain. Our vulnerabilities are part of what makes each of us special, and understanding and embracing them gives us immeasurable strength. However, every so often when they peek out from behind closed doors and cause us momentary lapses in sanity and coherence, we have no choice but to collapse under the weight. For a moment. To release it. My insecurities are like poltergeists: they just need to be acknowledged and released. They have unfinished business, and when it's completed, they retreat. Except they're never fully evicerated. They just lie dormant for a while, until roused the next time.

I may have a tired emotional cycle. But it's much shorter now than it used to be.

And now I think I have a personal statement.

Here goes nothing:

Though it's been a year and a half since I finished my BFA, I never really stopped feeling like a student. All that's changed is that the walls of the classroom have faded away, or rather have receded out of sight so that now I look out at the world and can see no walls, no boundaries. I am a student of experience, not only of the theatre, but of the streets, the subway, the restaurants I work in, the city of New York and beyond.

For more than half of my undergraduate career, I was still a teenager, vigorously working toward discovering and defining who I was as a person. The search for myself was prevalent throughout my technique training, and after four years of work I found that while my fragile adolescent whimsy had transformed into a poised and confident adult perspective, I was still unsure of my place in the theatre industry. Certain of my artistic inspirations and beginning to explore my own creative strengths, I moved to New York hoping to fall into a niche. The professional tools I had were steering me down a specific path that was leading my performance career into the mainstream musical theatre, hopefully capitalizing on my special skill as a violinist along the way. Though I had some success in that area, sparking interest in casting directors and working a little along the way, I quickly discovered how important it was to me to constantly redefine my ideas of art and its relationship with its audience. I longed to continually seek out more effective and meaningful means of collaborative communication. I wanted a chance to experiment, to collaborate more actively on progressive new work, to develop a wider variety of skills, and to deepen and diversify my artistic sensibilities.

As the gradual decline of our economy has coincided with my generation's transition into adulthood, I find myself emerging as an artist in an age of extreme social despair. We have felt the odds of achieving our personal goals rising higher and higher against us; and yet, as artists we continue to believe fundamentally in our responsibility to care for each other and the world we live in. I've always felt compelled to act in the interest of the greater good, and to me, the theatre is the place where that responsibility can blend harmoniously with my own pursuit of self-fulfillment. As I grow and learn from my adult experiences, a certain truth has moved to the forefront of my awareness: as Anne Bogart wrote, "you cannot create results; you can only create conditions in which something can happen." I can no longer sit back and wait patiently for my career to happen. I must pursue my goals more actively, more vigorously, taking control of my circumstances, placing myself at the forefront of the theatre of the new millenium. I believe that I can stand on that precipice at Columbia University, prepared to leap at every opportunity.

The limit was 500 words (approximately.) I clocked in at a miraculous 496.

I hope it's good. I hope it accomplishes what I was intending. I hope you like it, but please don't tell me what you think. What I think and how I feel about it is more important. I can't revise it any longer. I have to stop beating myself up. I always secretly wanted to be a writer, but honestly, I don't think I could handle it. Acting is so much more cathartic. Good acting absolutely depends on being able to silence the voices in your head and be present in the moment. Writing is all about utilizing the voices in your head. I think I have too many angry, scared voices to be harnessed. They resist being translated. They resist being edited. I hate editing myself. And I hate being edited by others. Putting the voices into someone else's head is fantastic.

Okay, so it's a little like therapy. But I swear to you, communication of ideas is of utmost importance to me as an actor, and I prefer to communicate other people's ideas that move me. My own ideas are so confused, so frustrated. But people who have talent for saying things that matter... those people are my heros.

All I can do is cry and scream and sing and laugh through your words onstage.

"Courage doesn't always roar. Sometimes courage is the little voice at the end of the day that says 'I'll try again tomorrow."

- Mary Anne Radmacher

"...a subject for a short story..."

I never really stopped feeling like a student. All that's really changed is that the walls of the classroom have faded away, or rather they've receded out of sight, so that now I look out at the world and can see no walls, no boundaries. This feeling both exhilirates and terrifies me.

It's intermission at the Walter Kerr Theater. I've just finished watching Act I of The Seagull, a play that has fascinated me since I first discovered it in my high school drama class. A girl in my class once said "Chekhov is about how boring people are." I don't think she was entirely right, nor was she entirely wrong. The curiosity of Chekhov is that he is always examining how seriously people take their lives, because our lives are all we have; and this seriousness is absurd, because all we're left with in the end is death--nothing to show for our lives.

Yes, I'm writing in my journal at intermission of a Broadway play. In front of me, an 18-year old boy is asking his two teenage fag-hags what their favorite musicals are. Beside me, a middle-aged woman is yawning and remarking to her husband how she likes The Cherry Orchard better. And I am sitting alone with tears in my eyes feeling finally that my creative channels have been opened.

My grad school applications are due in 3 weeks. I realized this yesterday and suddenly all my old neuroses, kept at bay for so long, kicked into gear. It isn't a thought of not being worthy of acceptance--I've outgrown that, thank goodness--but the awareness that I'm finally down to the wire. It's a reality now, even though I've completed 75 percent of the applications, recommendations have already been submitted for me, and my transcripts have already been sent. I've always had every single intention of completing this task, yet for some reason, the awareness that it is possible for me to fail to complete it is there. It's so silly: I know it's just a matter of doing the work. There's just one task that's holding me up...the personal statement.

I went through the same battle when I was applying for undergraduate school. My sense of self-awareness is so debilitating and unfortunately does not have an on/off switch but rather a slow and stubborn dimmer. I can dim it...but it takes soooooo long. I know what I must do but I've been putting it off, knowing how much time and effort it requires. In situations like this, I must write and write and write and write and write until finally I realize I've hit the zone, the place where my neuroses are drowned by the soothing buzz of my ideas, flowing like water, directly from the source, straight from my gut and my soul, simple, succinct and essential. But first I must wade through draft after draft of terrible, eager-to-please, validation-obsessed, self-conscious drivel, draining each pathetic, calculating, self-loathing waste of thought and word from my stubborn psyche. As the writer Trigorin says to Nina in The Seagull:

"Oh, when I'm writing it's not bad, and doing the final editing, that's enjoyable. But once it's published I can't stand to read it, I can see how wrong it is, I realize I should never have written it, and I'm depressed and miserable."

Yeah. That pretty much sums it up.

Everyone is so desperately lonely and crying out for someone to appreciate them and thus validate their miserable existence and thus everyone is so wrapped up in their own suffering that they're completely incapable of giving or received real love. And without love, what happiness is there? The artists in The Seagull are searching for truth and beauty, yet their self-obsessions prevent them from ever finding it. And how true to life is that? Perhaps cynical, but heartbreaking nonetheless. Human isolation and loneliness is devastatingly tragic. Like Tennessee Williams wrote in the preface to the published version of Cat on a Hot Tin Roof:

"As a character in a play once said, 'We're all of us sentanced to solitary confinement inside our own skins.' Personal lyricism is the outcry of prisoner to prisoner from the cell in solitary where each is confined for the duration of his life."

The drafts of this stupid personal statement I've written so far have all been focused on figuring out the right thing to say, cracking the verbal code for being accepted to an Ivy-league MFA program. As if there was a secret Ivy-league language that only wealthy trust-fund kids were entrusted with. Fuck, they're just people. And artists, no less! We speak the same language! Before the play, I took myself out to dinner at an over-priced French bistro down the block from the theater and as I watched the staff ease their way through the pre-theater rush, I felt like I was part of a secret society. Actually, I feel like I'm part of two secret societies: Restaurants and Theater. There is a language, a rhythm to each world, which I've mastered through years of experience. It's a very satisfying feeling, to feel united to others in this way. I feel most comfortable, most at home when in a theater or a restaurant. And strangely, this realization didn't make me feel small or limited in any way; it made me feel accomplished. There are other little worlds out there that I will grow to understand in time...how exciting! I have the rest of my life to make discoveries!

I don't know what it is about December...maybe it's because the stars are aligned under my sign, Sagittarius, but I always feel most like myself at this time of year. Even when relatively little is happening.

Subway. Headed home.


Chekhov is an actor's Everest. So rich. So much to be mined. So unsteady. So layered. Nina's last speech...I know it by heart: "I know now...that what is important in our work...is not fame, not glory...but the ability to endure. To be able to bear one's cross and have faith. I have faith, and when I think of my vocation, I'm not afraid of life."

Would it be cliche to quote Chekhov in my personal statement? Would it seem trite? It reminds me of that Artaud quote, about how trying to put words to that which moves us most diminishes its meaning, but to use a symbol is to capture its essence in an undefineable and infinitely more accurate way. Only he said it more eloquently.

My creative channels feel open thanks to the stimulation of good theater. Thank goodness! Reality TV and the internet must be killing my artistic soul. Not to mention fashion magazines.

Though I still have no idea what to write.

Motherfucker.

All day I've been determined to return home after the play and write until I had a finished draft, even if it took me until the wee hours of the morning.

Of course, the moment I sat down and turned on my computer, I felt at a loss. Not for words themselves, of course--I'm rarely at a loss for words--but for the right words. The words that would best convey the truth of myself as an artist, my voice and what I want to use it to say, and the order to put them in to give them the most precise, effective meaning.

Konstantin: The more I write, the more I think it's not a matter of old forms and new forms: what's important is to write without thinking about forms at all. Just write and pour out whatever's in your heart.

But what to do when you only have 500 words at your disposal? How to filter the outpour of my heart into it's purest, most concentrated and most potent form?

Jesus Christ. I belong in a fucking Chekhov play. All talk and no action.

I'm never getting to Moscow at this rate.

Finding a Home for the Holidays

Every year, increasingly as I get older, the holiday season arrives on an emotional roller coaster that doesn't really stop until well after New Year's, with an extension through Valentine's Day. Okay. If I'm truly being honest, I'll probably be moody until the spring thaw. Chalk it up to Seasonal Affective Disorder, family baggage, or just plain hormones, the holiday season never ceases to rev me up to the giddiest highs then without warning plummet me down to the lowest of lows. Is it just me? Am I bipolar? In need of a shrink? Or does everyone else get the same warm, fuzzy heartaches around the holidays?


I hate to sound so curmudgeonly on Thanksgiving. After all, this was one of the best Thanksgivings I've had in years. At least better than last year's, when I was brand new to the city, and spent the whole day working the Thanksgiving banquet at Beacon. In spite of the many trials and tribulations I've been facing in the past year, it suddenly dawned on me yesterday that I have so many things to be thankful for. I generally make a habit of appreciating the many gifts in my life, but you know, sometimes when things are tough it's easy for us to lose sight of how lucky we really are. I may be overworked, underpaid and thoroughly exhasted about ninety-five percent of the time, but the people who matter to me are always there, even when I have so little time to spend with them. And I'm so lucky to find myself in two extremely positive, supportive working environments, where I am embraced and appreciated as an employee. Fight as I may to keep myself emotionally detached from my day jobs, I've found myself in a strange place where my life is composed of nothing but those day jobs...and I'm not entirely miserable. I'm creatively and personally challenged and unfulfilled, yes, but the people I'm working with are largely so generous and accomodating and understanding that I'm finding myself becoming more and more charmed by them and more and more guilty for my own lack of enthusiasm.



On Thanksgiving Eve, I worked my usual Wednesday lunch shift, knowing I would have the night off to cuddle with some tea in bed and watch my usual reality TV shows (currently Top Chef and Stylista.) All week, I'd been hearing about the Tabla tradition of the Thanksgiving family meal, which always occured on the day before Thanksgiving, at 4:15, our usual pm family meal time. Each cook in the restaurant, including the sous chefs, brought in one dish to share with the entire staff, anyone who was working, or who wanted to come in to partake. The managers set the entire upstairs dining room for the staff with festive table decorations and champagne flutes filled with sparkling cider. Ty, the Chef de Cuisine, cooked the turkey to perfection and we all piled into the dining room at 4:15. "It may be the most important meal you have this year" said Eric, one of my favorite bartenders. I was excited because I wasn't sure I'd have another Thanksgiving dinner this year. The food was incredible. There must have been twenty five different dishes, all the classics, and some takes on the classics. Some of my favorites included amazing scalloped sweet potatoes that were sweet and succulent, and sous chef Logan's chile rellano, a Thanksgiving tradition from his family in southern California, which struck a chord in my memory as well. It was over pretty quickly, since we had to clear out in time for the first 5:30 reservations.



As I stumbled out of the restaurant into the early evening darkness, my belly bursting and my heart warmed, I marvelled at how unique this display of community was amongst restaurant people. I mean honestly, and I've worked at all kinds of restaurants, I've never known a restaurant to be so accomodating of its employees. Earlier that week I'd gotten called into the managers' office at the end of my closing dinner shift to sit down with Gretchen and Peter (two of my favorite managers, thank God) and chat about my apparent lack of presence on the floor. "You're pretty brilliant when dealing with your tables. Your guests really respond to you. But you seem to be going through the motions on the floor." I immediately got emotional and had to explain to them that I feel like the exception at a place where almost every single front-of-house employee went to culinary school and plans to have a career in hospitality. Every other place I've ever worked has been a temporary solution for ninety percent of its employees. Even at Morimoto, a restaurant of a similiarly high caliber (maybe higher, if you consider cover count and the exposure of having a celebrity chef) every single server and host has another career, be it modelling, acting, music, makeup artistry, instillation art, teaching yoga, you name it. This doesn't make them bad servers. On the contrary, I think the fact that they have rich lives outside the restaurant contributes to the quality of their service. At Tabla, the service is equally as high, if not higher. It's just a different atmosphere, one where every employee is expected to be better than good; they're expected to be exemplary. I didn't think I had a problem with that expectation. I'll always admit first that I admire the staff's committment to and passion for hospitality. It's totally remarkable, coming from my perspective, which was that everyone who worked in service fucking hated it. I always try to adhere to the highest standards possible in everything that I do...unless I begin to feel that it isn't worth it. When my general manager at Lunetta stopped showing any interest in the well-being of any of my co-workers, I had no desire to try my hardest to do my best. In a dramatic episode that ended my affiliation with Lunetta forever, my GM had a similar conference with me, after which I realized I would never care enough about the restaurant to suck it up and try any harder. There was no point in me staying. I had nothing left to gain, and nothing left to give. But at Tabla, as I sat in the office with tears streaming down my face uncontrollably, I explained to the managers where I was coming from--that I was unhappy in my personal life and trying to save money to help improve my quality of living by funding such things as grad school and an apartment of my own, and also completely creatively unfulfilled, which made everything even harder because I knew that I was supposed to be doing something else with my life something I cared deeply about--and they listened! And they showed great empathy! And I told them sincerely that I wanted to improve my attitude because I respected the way they cared about their jobs and how that translated into how well they did their jobs.


So. I'm thankful for the company I'm in at Tabla. Although my heart still isn't quite in it, and I know it never will be. I'm thankful for the role this job is playing at this juncture in my life.


I waddled to the liquor store last night for a cheap bottle of wine to wash down the amazing family meal when I got home, and as I was on my way, I got a call from my friend Elyse about the details of the Thanksgiving dinner she was hosting the next day. Elated to hear from her, I vowed to be there the next day, flowers and wine in hand, to share the holiday with my estranged college friends and friends from Lunetta (where they all still work.) I went home, DVRd the Macy's parade and fell asleep early in my amazing, snuggly new Victoria's Secret robe that I ordered online while at Morimoto last weekend.


The next day, I awoke at 1:00, and cuddled with a glass of soy egg nog and a Greenmarket blackberry pie for breakfast, and watched the parade commercial-free before dragging my tired lazy ass out of bed and heading to the Upper West Side. It was a divinely perfect morning off.


Our misfit Manhattan Thanksgiving couldn't have been lovelier. As Elyse wrote in her Facebook status, it was a party made up of lesbians, hipsters and gays, with Alee, Elyse and I living somewhere in the middle. When I arrived, Natalya, our manager from Lunetta, and her girlfriend Tammy had slaved all day in the kitchen with masters of the house Adam and Dennis; Elyse, having been banned from her own kitchen, had mostly been drinking all day; our hipster friends Ryan, Thurman and Ulysses, all former Lunetta servers, were lounging around with cheap Mexican beers in hand (the only beer they could get from the very sketchy East Harlem liquor store down the street); Spadoni was her wacky self, emphasized by organic wine from Trader Joe's; and Tammy and Natalya's tiny chihuaua Missy was nervously weaving around everyone's feet. It was so wonderful to see everyone. I spent the remainder of the hor d'oeuvres session catching up, and by the time dinner was properly served (on no-muss no fuss plastic plates), I'd found myself in a yummy wine haze myself. The food was, again incredible. Halfway through, I definitely regretted having eaten so much the day before, as my stomach still seemed to be in recovery, but the more I ate, the more nostalgic I felt: it was a proper, old-fashioned Thanksgiving after all. We all talked about what we were thankful for, as a non-denominational substution for saying grace, and though we're all struggling to find peace of mind, artistic fulfillment, and financial stability, we all found ourselves to be thankful for the struggle and the opportunity to pursure the things that made us happy, supported by each other in the endeavor.


Around 11:00, Spadoni, Ryan, Ulysses and I stumbled onto the 6 train, dying a little from our gluttony, and I started to feel my sleepy contentment give way to melancholy, the same way it always had when I was a kid, on the drive home from whichever relative's home we had visited for Thanksgiving. I remember sitting in the car, my little brothers passed out on either side of me, listening to Christmas music on the radio and feeling sad for no reason, as if having a premonition of my impending adulthood.


I think the reason some of us are prone to holiday depression is because we're mourning our own loss of childhood innocence. The holidays used to be so simple: Thanksgiving meant turkey, Christmas meant presents, and that was that. As adults, there's the terrifying pressure of finding a home for the holidays, when your childhood home no longer exists, or when it's too far away to get to. Home is one of our greatest losses when we grow up, a sense of knowing where you belong, and that there are always people there to take care of you. My childhood was different than many peoples' in that it was jilted, fragmented and constantly chaotic. But the silver lining was always that I had multiple homes, and each one was filled with people who loved me and wanted the best for me. My heart was torn in two, but each piece was always so full. Now, I feel like my heart has been smashed with a hammer, and some of the smaller pieces have been blown away by the wind, never to be found again. They're part of the earth now, and I'll forever be mourning them. The bigger pieces are easier to see and to hang on to--my spread-out, far awar family, my beautiful, caring friends, spread-out as well, New York, Philadelphia, Vista, Toronto...all my various homes that stay with me even as I'm torn from them. It's becoming easy to see how grown-ups put their memories up on pedastals. My memories are starting to feel like pieces of myself that I've lost and can never get back. Even as I make new memories, I can't help mourning the old ones.


I should have felt happy and stuffed and fallen into bed and to sleep instantly upon arriving home. But instead, I entered my empty apartment and felt, for the first time in a long time, lonely. I crave alone time, time to be with my thoughts and try to sort them out, time to decompress from the stimulation of the world outside. My room is my sanctuary, everywhere I go, everywhere I live. I'm usually elated to come home to an empty apartment. But tonight, I wished that Matty wasn't home in Syracuse so we could stay up chatting, or cuddle and watch a movie. I wished my father and stepmother and brother had called me from California to say hi. I wished my friends weren't all working on my birthday next week. I wished I had the strength to put myself out in the world more forcefully, without fear of rejection and ultimate loneliness.


I know these feelings will pass. Ultimately, I've come to realize that the only way I've been able to take any of the risks I've taken in my life, regarding my career and my own personal pursuit of happiness, is through realizing the support of my family and friends. I know I'll always have a place to go for Thanksgiving, now matter where the coming year takes me. I'll wake up tomorrow and I'll realize that and I won't mind working a double at Morimoto. Everything in my life is temporary...except the people who matter.


Damn the holidays. They make me so thankful to be alive, and yet yearn so badly for the things I cannot find.

Pomegrantastic!

This week I bought my first pomegranate. They were on sale at Whole Foods when I did my grocery shopping and I thought, why not?


I used to think that if I were a fruit, I would be an avocado. It's one of my top three favorite foods, it's a native of southern California, it is an excellent addition to all of my favorite easy meals to make for myself: grilled cheese, fajitas, scrambled eggs, salads...


But really, avocados are far too agreeable for me to truly relate to. Their skin is thin and their flesh is smooth, soft, and mild. They have only one big flaw: the pit in the center. The character of the avocado is simple, palatable, excellent for one's hair and skin.


As I broke into my pomegranate this evening, I couldn't help but feel a sense of metaphoric understanding of the challenging fruit. It takes strategy and preparation to open a pomegranate. You really have to commit to the pomegranate. It is not a fruit to be eaten recreationally...it must be taken very seriously.


I held it over the sink as I carefully made shallow incisions into its skin that would allow me to pull it into quarters without breaking too many of the seeds open inside. Tiny flecks of bright red juice splattered my hands and the kitchen counter. My mouth was already watering at the thought of tasting that first juicy kernel as it burst between my teeth.


I imagine if one did not know how delicious a pomegranate tasted, it may not seem worth the time it takes to peel it open. One might think to themselves "Goddam, I hate this motherfucking pomegranate! It's such a phenomenal pain in the ass!" as the juice squirts all over the kitchen. But after one taste of the luscious nectar inside, there would be no turning back. Both quenching and perpetuating thirst, the pomegranate's simultaneous sweetness and tartness always inspires one to want more.


The pomegranate has a thick skin that's ultimately spongy and vulnerable on the inside. It takes a lot of time and effort to crack it open, but once you do, it's insides burst forth onto display. Each seed inside is like a tiny jewel, embedded safely in it's eggy casing. Once cracked open, the work has just begun. You must then take time and care to pry each tiny little jewel from its sedentary state of rest. The pomegranate is very reluctant to be eaten. It wants to stay self-contained. But unlike a coconut, it succumbs to consumption easily once broken open, suggesting that behind its hard, defensive exterior, the pomegranate is really desperate to be consumed, to inspire the tastebuds of whomever has invested the time in opening it up. Unlike the simple avocado, the pomegranate has hundreds of little seeds, and unlike the avocado's blunt, heavy pit, the pomegranate's delicate little seeds are the assets of the fruit. The casing of the seeds is irrelevant, without use...but the seeds themselves are full of rich, luxurious, anti-oxidant filled value. The flaws of the fruit are its treasures as well.


In Armenia, pomegranates are a popular symbol of fertility, abundance and marriage.


In Greek mythology, pomegranates play a key role in the story of Persephone, which offers an explanation of the changing of the seasons. Persephone was kidnapped by Hades and taken to the underworld to be his wife. Her mother Demeter was the goddess of the Harvest and as she mourned the loss of her daughter, all green things ceased to grow. Zeus demanded that Hades return Persephone to the Earth so that the winter would end. Before letting Persephone go, Hades tricked her into eating four pomegranate seeds. The law of the Fates stated that whomever ate food from the underworld would be doomed to stay there for eternity. Because of the four pomegranate seeds she consumed, Persephone was forever doomed to return to the underworld for four months of every year. Each year when her daughter descends into the underworld, Demeter goes into mourning and winter settles over the Earth.


Thriving in tropical climates, robust and curvacious, hard yet delicate, juicy and challenging, complicated, slightly esoteric...


Yes, if I were a fruit, I would definitely be a pomegrante.


If I ever break down entirely and resort to internet dating, that will be the headline of my profile.


Perhaps also the first line of my autobiography.

"I Have a Dream..."

At eleven forty, I got off the subway at New Utrecht Avenue and briskly walked the 6 blocks to my apartment. Fourteen hours had passed since I walked these same blocks in the opposite direction, on my way to the polls before continuing to work a double. The last couple hours at the restaurant we'd all monitered the election results on the internet in the office, and as I left, Obama had maintained his solid lead. Still, my manager Gretchen was tensely huddled in the corner, willing the night to end as quickly as possible so the waiting with bated breath would be over. "We remember the 2000 election," Gretchen and Sara, one of the bartenders, were saying last night. "We voted in 2000. It's not over 'til it's over."


It was over by the time I got off the subway. My cell phone vibrated as I left the train with a text message from my best friend Mark in California:



Mark Hoke: mccain train derailed!



As I walked, my heart racing and my pace quickening, I logged onto Facebook on my phone and scrolled through my cyberfriends' statuses...victory cry after victory cry. Tears sprung to my eyes. When I finally made it to my front door, I raced straight to the TV, just in time to watch the new president of the United States make his acceptance speech.



I knew he would win. I just knew it. And yet, I wept alone in my apartment from the sheer weight of it all. As hopeful and optimistic as I try to be, that cynical little voice in the back of my head is always there. I've turned the volume way down, so low in fact that I can only hear it in the event that things don't work out for the best in the end. Of course, there is no real end to anything...the best we can hope for is a new beginning. And now, after 8 years of residing under a stolen presidency, this country has finally been given a chance at a new beginning that we, it's lowly, floundering little citizens, can actually invest some faith in.


Not that I've ever been one to take things for granted. In my adult life I've always been aware that even at the worst of times, America is still a far better place to live than, say, Afghanistan or Cambodia or Sudan. Our government has never been run by terrorists, and even while it was being run by a Christian fundamentalist fanatic never terrorized it's citizens at gunpoint in the streets, raping and murdering women and burning our houses down. One wouldn't be wrong in stating that, relatively speaking, we've always had it pretty decent. When I moved to New York a year ago, I started to meet people who were so thankful to be in America, even as us natives were bitching about it. Nowhere in the country is the Melting Pot more evident than in New York City. I'm quite sure there are few cities in the world that rival New York's cultural diversity. Morimoto's staff is comprised of immigrants from Japan, Korea, India, Mexico, Sudan and England (ha ha) and every restaurant I've worked in has been a similar mini-melting pot in and of itself. Some of the stories these people have to tell are just amazing.


My favorite examples of the American Dream come from two different Mexican-Americans who both happen to be named Manny. One was a busboy at Beacon, and the other is the head of the cleaning crew at Morimoto.



Last Thanksgiving, being the new girl, I'd been roped into working an 8 hour shift, 3pm to 11pm. It was a long-ass day that miraculously went pretty smoothly...until the final hour and a half stretch. I was the last hostess standing (in blood-filled pumps) around 9pm when a guest collapsed on the landing outside the ladies' restroom. She'd apparently become short of breath and extremely pale. My manager Joe rushed to the host podium and told me to dial 911. My heart was racing--I'd never dialed 911 before, let alone at work--though by the time the paramedics showed up, the guest seemed to be more or less okay. Seeing the ambulance parked outside, another guest got in my face and demanded that her son-in-law be examined by the paramedics as well, since they were there, because he was hyperventilating outside. Both guests were fine in the end--too much turkey and excitement for one day it seems. But then, not forty-five minutes later, Joe appeared again and with the same request. This time, it was Manny, one of the restaurant's hardest working bussers, who had collapsed from chest pains. Manny, I was told, had a heart condition and had had open-heart surgery about ten years earlier. So I called the ambulence for the second time in my life, and Joe let them in the back so they could take care of Manny without alarming the remaining guests. I barely knew who Manny was at that point.


A few weeks later, Manny returned to work. It seemed he had been back in the hospital for a few weeks and the doctor had instructed him to take some time off. He was fine...though his time away from work had set his family back financially a great deal. In need of some extra cash, the general manager had allowed him to pick up some coat check shifts as well. Of all the immigrant employees to whom English was a second language, Manny's English was one of the best. He showed up one evening when I was hosting alone, looking sharp in a sky blue cable-knit sweater and black slacks. It was a slow night, so he ended up spending most of his time up front chatting with me. A sweet little man with a kind disposition, Manny was barely half an inch taller than me on the rare occasions I was able to get away with wearing flats. He told me about his family: he and his wife had been married for 19 years. "I never cheated on my wife in 19 years" he told me. They had two kids, a daughter who was about to start college in the fall and a younger son. "Karen is so smart. She's going to NYU and then she wants to go to medical school. She wants to take care of her daddy's heart. That's what she said when she was a little girl. I had surgery when she was three and she said she would grown up and be a doctor to take care of Daddy's heart. She never changed her mind!" I swooned quietly over Manny. He was such a good person, a loyal and loving father. He reminded me of my own father in the way he'd do anything for his family. He told me about when he was 18 and first came to America. Looking for a job. "There's no money in Mexico. It's better in America. I've been here 20 years!" As the weeks passed, Manny developed a little crush on me. "Are you coming to the Christmas party? I told my wife I wanted to dance with you at the party!" I thought it was sweet.


Manny from Morimoto is even smaller than the other Manny. He's a little older, a little tougher, and much less sentimental. Since the weather's turned cooler he often shows up to work in the wee hours of the morning sporting swanky poly-blend suits to assert his authority over the much younger Mexican boys on the cleaning crew. I have no idea what time they get there in the morning, but by the time I get there for my reservations shift at 9am (well, you know...9:18 or so) they've already scrubbed most of the dining room clean. When the office door is locked, it means that Manny hasn't gotten around to cleaning it yet and I have to find him to unlock it. It's very low on his list of priorities, as it only takes a few minutes to change the trash can liners and windex the manager's desktops. But Manny often takes his time and talks my ear off about his experiences. "Where you from?" he asked me the first morning I came in by myself. "Portuguese? Oh, I see. You in school? I did not go to school." And yet, he came to America and managed to become a business owner, opening a deli that he still owns but no longer operates himself. He told me how his business was in the newspaper, and how President Clinton shook his hand and congratulated him on his success in America. "My mother is still in Mexico. She doesn't come to visit me. She's too old. It's too expensive to fly to Mexico. But I talk to her on the phone. I send her money." Now, every morning I work, Manny greets me: "Como estas, Senorita? I am happy if the senoritas are happy."


The Mannys are what America is all about, aren't they? The right to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness, no matter what your background or education. American children grow up being brainwashed by "America the beautiful", the land of hope and plenty where anyone who works hard can achieve all their hopes and dreams. A country where the world's less fortunate can take refuge from government and economic oppression...where all men are supposedly equal, as God created them.


I was 14 in 2000 and living in Toronto with my mom. My Canadian friends and I followed the 2000 election closely, and though we all made adolescently flippant comments about what was going to happen to America if George W. Bush was elected, I couldn't help feeling personally affected by the circumstance. I was still an American citizen, after all, even if I was currently living in Canada. In Toronto, I contradicted all the stereotypes about Americans that were posed to me by my little friends. I assured them time and time again that we were not a nation of gun-toting rednecks, that just because I was from Southern California did not mean that I was rich. Then along came this new president who spoke with hideously improper grammar in a dumbed-down Texas drawl, and all the stereotypes became impossible to deflect. I had no idea which country to be loyal to when people I met in each place knew nothing but stereotypes about the other and I came to the decision that the concept of patriotism itself was worthless, like worshipping a false idol created by man to gain power over the masses. American Bible-belt patriotism started to look more and more like a cult and I became nationally indifferent to both of the countries to which I claimed citizenship.


I've felt displaced my whole life, split between two places that I did not choose as my own but were thrust upon me. For many reasons other than national orientation, I've always struggled with defining myself. But one thing I am very thankful for is that my lack of national devotion provided me with a great deal of common sense. I try as often as possible to exercise intellect over emotion, and I think that is what compells me to continually strive to learn more about this complicated world we live in.


I voted for the first time in the 2004 election, an experience that was truly one of the first empowering experiences of my young adult life. I was 18 and so excited at the prospect of change. The people I'd grown up around had all opposed the war in Iraq from the beginning, and though I'd heard my father rant and rave about the corruption of an administration who could wage a war for control over a country's energy resources then lie about their motives to the American people, I was really just starting to open my eyes to the gravity of the situation. I'd gone to a school-sponsered screening of Farenheit 9-11 with my friends, and we'd all sat dumbfounded as Michael Moore spent two hours explaining to us that our country didn't respect us, didn't care about our needs as citizens, and didn't care about the lives of our peers who were being sent overseas to die for their phony cause. I started to feel like an adult that fall, and the prospect of voting against Bush felt like taking matters into my own hands. Of course, Kerry was running a campaign to defeat Bush, not a campaign that was ultimately focused around change for the greater good. Defeating Bush wasn't enough... Kerry lacked the necessary strategies to help guide the country out of its gradual recession. Perhaps most importantly, Kerry lacked the passion that was necessary to guide the American populace.


Maybe we really needed to hit rock bottom before we were collectively ready to make some serious changes. Some of us could see it coming years ago...others evidentally needed more persuasion.


Since casting my vote for the losing candidate in 2004, I've definitely felt a collective downward spiral in morale, one that unfortunately has coincided with my generations transition into adulthood. We've come of age in a time of extreme social despair. I've felt my adolescent hopes and dreams slowly corode into jaded cynicism far beyond my years. Those of us who are still in the early stages of post-academic "real life" have felt the odds rising higher and higher against us over the past couple of years. We're all broke, struggling to keep our heads above water, and barely finding the strength to persevere in the name of our artistic ideals. We are artists because we fundamentally believe in the good of humanity and that the world is a beautiful place that we should strive to take care of. These ideals have been so very difficult to maintain in the face of all the pain and suffering that has been surmouting in the world. I've often felt helpless, trapped between pursuing my dreams in the spirit of American opportunity that was supposedly my birthright, and desperate guilt for not working harder to oppose worldwide injustice and intolerance. I've been weighing my options for a long time, and I know I'll be weighing them longer still. But at this point in my life I've arrived at the conclusion that I do not have to sacrifice my duty as human being to contribute to the betterment of society in the interest of pursuing self-fulfillment, or vice versa. I can do both at the same time. That is what I believe the purpose of art to be. For me, in my life, I am an artist because I know that my artistic talents are my God-given means of reaching out to other human beings. This conclusion has led me to the decision to return to school, to pursure my MFA in Acting, in order to deepen my understanding and practice of my artistic craft, as well as to continue to pursue more diverse means of artistic collaboration. It is important to me in my career to be constantly redefining my ideas of art and its relationship with its audience in an effort to seek out more effective and meaningful means of communication and collaborative expression of the human condition. It is also important to me to pursue teaching as one of the facets of my career, for my teachers have always been my greatest role models, inspiring me endlessly with their selflessness. The gifts of support, inspirtation and encouragement that I've been given are such that I feel strongly about giving back to others.


Fuck. I've been trying to start writing an effective, yet concise personal statement for my application essays for weeks. I think I might have just found the heart of this decision of mine.


For that, and for many other things, I have President Barack Obama to thank.


Seriously, dude. A country that can transition from slavery and civil war to electing an African-American president in less than 200 years can't be all bad. Other countries have been waging the same civil wars for thousands of years. This is a great change... of course, tomorrow morning the world will still look exactly the same as it does today. But already I feel a little lighter, a little more hopeful. I only hope we can all see that Obama is a man who is bound to make some mistakes. It will take a lot of time to pull this country out of it's slide into impending social and economic ruin. Likewise, it will take time to repair our foreign affairs with the nations of the world. However, the first step has been taken. All we can really do is continue to put one foot in front of the other and focus on the future as it becomes the present.



I don't think I've ever felt quite so empowered and humbled at the same time.



What a day.

“The world only exists in your eyes. You can make it as big or as small as you want.” - F. Scott Fitzgerald

I awake to the tinkly sounds of my cell phone alarm and instantly am struck with an impulse to kill myself in order to get out of going to work. I hit the snooze button instead. Eight minutes later the chimes urge me awake once more and I give in. I stumble through the motions of my morning routine, barely aware of what I'm doing as I'm doing it. I look for things through fuzzy, lensless eyes: washcloth, underwear, shoes, uniform, keys, cell phone...all of it goes in a pile on my bed. I wear the same thing to work every day, yet even in the sleepy morning hours I inevitably spend too much time accessorizing in an effort to minimize the frumpiness of my uniform. My hair has managed to work itself into a state that is somehow both greasy and frizzy. I pin it back in a bun and spruce it up with a black sequined headband. Somehow I make it out the door, though, true to form, I'm running 15 minutes late. Somehow...

The next thing I know I'm standing in line at Ruthy's Deli in Chelsea Market, determined to get a bagel with cream cheese and an enormous cup of coffee, no matter how much later it makes me. I'll still get there before the opening manager, and that's all that matters to me right now. I clock in fifteen minutes late...the first bite proves every second was worth it. I take my time doing my opening paperwork and savoring my coffee. I'm sitting in the office with Tiffany, the morning reservationist, when our manager Sara calls to say she's running fifteen minutes late and to ask us if we'd like breakfast. My heart leaps: even though I've already had my breakfast, I'm down to five bucks in my wallet and I'm heading straight from this restaurant to the next with no time to eat in between, so I figure I could stand to stock up while the opportunity has arisen. Plus, my exhausted little immune system has been working overtime and is dying for some refreshing, nutrient-filled oj this morning. I hang up the phone and head upstairs to set up the floor. But first I pop outside and down the block for a fresh copy of this week's Village Voice to have with my coffee.


When Sara arrives, I find I'm too full for my second breakfast (she's chosen for me yet another bagel with cream cheese), so into my bag it goes, destined to be my lunch on the walk between restaurants. Somehow, be it the free food, getting away with being late, or just the caffeine starting to kick in, I've managed to find myself in a good mood by the time we open at noon.

Around 12:30, five people laden with very intense looking camera equipment enter the sliding glass doors and approach the host desk. The one woman amongst them, shorter and bonier than me though saddled with the largest pieces of equipment (my kind of lady) tells me she's here for "the shoot" and asks where they can park their gear. I point them to the north private dining room that's closed off for lunch. Shoot? I ask Sara. Apparently Chef Morimoto is having a sushi lesson with his fellow Iron Chef Bobby Flay this afternoon. We decide it must be a segment for Throwdown With Bobby Flay. Cool. As the camera crew are loading in more and more paraphernalia, I duck into the coat check for a hot second to check my cell phone, as I do obsessively about ten times an hour. Lo and behold, there's a text from Molly:

Molly: Guess what event im workin today? Yer gonna shit yer pants

Molly: Obama concert with Billy Joel, Bruce Springsteen, John Legend, India Arie and James Taylor...billy and Bruce are doing sound check right now

Me: BAD ASS. Take pictures! Bobby Flay and Morimoto are making sushi together in a couple hours and the Food Network is filming in the restaurant

Me: But you still win

Molly: Shut up! U take pics too! Or get in a shot and wave like an idiot!

Can one become successful by osmosis? I'm pondering this coincidental synchronicity of Molly's and my proximity to fame, when a PA for the Food Network walks in carrying extension cords...he looks extremely familiar. A kid about my age with a puppy dog fave and shaggy brown hair in a green t-shirt and jeans. Then it hits me: I think I slept with that kid about a year ago.

My first and only one-night stand, about a month after I arrived in the city. Quite possibly my last one-night stand: as I remember, it was kind of awful. Not embarrassing or emotionally uncomfortable--I had absolutely no emotional investment in the tryst at all--but simply downright terrible sex. Is it really the same kid? It seems too random to be true. I keep an eye on him peripherally as I go about my business making confirmation calls for tomorrow's reservations and become increasingly convinced that it is, in fact, him. I'm certain because when I met him, he was PAing for MTV when they came into Beacon while I was working to shoot for an episode of Making the Band. The irony of it is enormously hilarious: that my pathetic little excuse for a sexual history would actually come back to haunt me seems so ridiculous. But it's not the first time this has happened.

I lost my virginity to a co-worker at one of my restaurants when I was 19, the summer after my sophomore year of college. After a month-long period of pseudo-dating (I hesitate to call it a relationship), I decided to break it off quickly by neglecting to call him back. I naively thought it would be easy and painless...until he started to call me every day. Luckily, I was in my last week at the restaurant so I only had one uncomfortable run-in with him at work, which ended with me leaving through the back door after my shift and him following me outside, cornering me, and badgering me about blowing him off. Which, granted, wasn't the most mature way to handle it, but I was young and there was a lot going on in my life and I just wanted to detach quickly and cleanly. He called me every day for almost two months and every day I ignored his call. Then one day, he left me a message telling me he was leaving for Europe for several months. I breathed a sigh of relief as I counted down the days until he would be out of the country and I would no longer run the risk of running into him. Then, an entire year later, I was walking out of the Ritz movie theater in Old City with Molly and Matty one Saturday afternoon, when suddenly, there he was, walking towards us. I saw him first and hoped he wouldn't recognize me, but he did, and walked right up to me. I panicked, making forced, frantic small talk and gave him my number again in a daze. Two months later, we met up for coffee one time, and I invited him to see a show I was in at school. After that, I faded him out of my life again. Until this summer, when I swore I passed by him on the street in Old City and added him as a friend on Facebook to see. We emailed about getting together, but my heart wasn't in it.

But the kid I hooked up with one time? New York is the most populated city in America. How could I possibly have run into him? Sure, this kind of thing happens on Sex and the City all the time... but I'm only 22 and I've only slept with four people, and only one in New York. Is the Universe trying to send me some sort of message? I can't possibly imagine what it must be--it certainly can't be to scale back my promiscuity. I couldn't be less promiscuous if I tried. What the hell?

I don't acknowledge that I recognize him. I'm not sure if he recognizes me, or even remembers me, as he makes no indication. I'm relieved. There is nothing to gain for either of is in acknowledging that one tiny event that links us together. It certainly doesn't seem like anything worth revisiting.

I am connected to random people in New York. Although individually they mean very little to me, something about that feels comforting.

The shoot starts around 3:00. I usually work until 5, but at 3:30 Sara lets me go. I leave quickly, relieved that I have an extra hour and a half to myself before I have to work at Tabla. I take the scenic route through Chelsea and walk all the way to Madison Square Park. It's a perfect sunny afternoon, and there's a perfect bench just waiting for me: across from the fountain by the playground, next to a water fountain. I settle onto the bench sitting cross-legged and devour my bagel from Sara as I browse through the Voice. All the parts of my day swirl through my head in a strange kind of way that makes me feel like I'm being guided.

An hour passes, and the sky has clouded over entirely. The threat of rain is in the air but I'm not scared. I'd be happy for it to rain while I'm at work. Everything feels different when it's raining...indoors people become a little stir-crazy and there's electricity in the air that somehow always serves to unite us. A gust of wind above stirs the leaves of the one yellow tree in the park. I noticed this tree earlier in the week while I worked the patio. It's the overachiever of Madison Square Park, eager to be the first to shed it's old leaves and start from scratch. Suddenly the fountain and I and all the people around me are being showered in yellow leaves. They flutter through the sky like birds and as they hit the ground the wind makes them scurry along the sidewalk in great clusters. Tiny children with their nannies squeal with delight. Two leaves land on my newspaper. I tuck them into its pages and save them for later, not for anything in particular...maybe only to remind me of this moment when I get home from work later, exhausted and bitter, and empty the contents of my bag. I'll see the leaves and smile and remember that randomness is itself a pattern worthy of believing in.

Is anything connected? Is everything? I have no idea.

"Our passionate preoccupation with the sky, the stars, and a God somewhere in outer space is a homing impulse. We are drawn back to where we came from."

- Eric Hoffer

Turning Over (Not Into) a New Leaf

Okay. I was just about to start blogging when I happened to look up at the television (which is tuned to TLC so I can watch What Not to Wear in my peripheral vision as I write) and saw a commercial for an upcoming program which has grossed me out so badly that I absolutely have to mention it before moving on. The program was about this man who is half tree, and half man. Half tree! Is this for real? How is such a thing even possible??? Dear God, the pictures of him were so incredibly upsetting I can't even describe them. I'm trying to shake it off.

Anyway.

If you've already noticed, there is something very different about the technical circumstances under which I'm writing today. Have you guessed? Here's a hint: I'm not at work. I'm not blogging by cell phone. That's right, I'm at home on my very own computer! Not a new computer, unfortunately, but my very old, very outdated Gateway laptop. Remember Gateway? I'm pretty sure I'm the only person who still owns one. My version of Windows XP is circa 2001. It's very retro. Still, I'm proud of this computer. My senior year of high school I entered a scholarship competition that I read about in my guidance counselor's office sponsered by Coca-Cola and the San Diego Public Transit Authority. I wrote an essay about the (very limited) history of public transportation in San Diego, and about six weeks later I received a phone call telling me that I was one of fifteen students selected to attend an awards luncheon at Coca-Cola headquarters, at which I was to receive my winnings: a $250 scholarship and a free Gateway laptop, complete with carrying case. Yes, apparently even at 17 I could bullshit in essay format with the best.

It's been about four years since my computer connected to the internet. My first semester of freshman year my roommate Megan's parents offered to pay for our internet connection. I went totally hogwild, downloading music and AIMing like crazy, to the point where I was finally inundated with viruses. Then Megan dropped out over winter break, and I was left again without internet access. After that, I reasoned that I just couldn't afford it and didn't need to, when the computer lab at school stayed open until 2 am every night. Since graduation, I've done what I could, stealing internet access at work and paying for it at Kinko's, then breathing a sigh of relief when I got my Palm Centro cell phone which had complete, miniature internet browsing ability. Then last night, Matty suggested I try connecting my computer directly to the router, since it lived in my subletted room right by my bed. Low and behold, it worked! I'll never be the same again! DVR, cable, and internet? Matty is spoiling the hell out of me. Thank goodness I've finally started to make some money so I'll be able to pay for all these technological goodies.

So, now that I've got all those tangents out of the way, let me tell you about my day. It was an ordinary, unremarkable day, but a perfect, lovely one nonetheless. Having closed at Tabla Monday night, then worked a thirteen hour double yesterday, my body was begging me to stay in bed this morning. Alas, I had to face another lunch shift, so I hoisted my worn-out self out of bed, put myself together as quickly as possible (given my insomnia) and rolled out the door, pausing to grab an apple and a magazine for the subway.

I was just telling Matty last night that I've started to realize the only way I'm going to be able to sustain working full time at both restaurants is to force myself to adapt a healthy new routine. Last summer, I spent one month working three jobs: teaching by day at the UArts summer program, hostessing by night at Jones, and serving on the weekends at Chili's. It was insane--but I didn't get sick once, and I was the happiest I'd been in a long time because I was managing to fulfill all my needs, both personal, professional, and financial. I was grocery shopping every Sunday evening and packing my lunches, eating really healthy, and taking yoga at the gym on my lunch breaks from the summer program. I've done it before, and I know I can do it again. What gives me the strength and the stamina to endure such a saturated schedule is knowing that it is temporary. I've given myself until February to maintain this ridiculous schedule. True, it doesn't leave much room for a social life, but hey--as Carrie Bradshaw once said, "isn't delayed gratification the definition of maturity?" My main priority right now is taking care to put my life seriously on a healthy track, and that starts with building some financial stability, even if it proves to be temporary, which I've accepted that it may very well be.

This was my online horoscope today:

"You may want to have more stability in your everyday routines, such as diet, exercise and sleep. But there can be too many distractions these days, making self-discipline even tougher than usual. You may reach a point where it's healthier to let go of control, instead of frustrating yourself by trying to tighten your grip on reality. Tomorrow is another day."

Well, shit.

Luckily for me, I've spent the last year purposfully working to accept that change is inevitably out of my control. The tide will always ebb and flow, and while I may not be able to change it, learning to roll with it allows for a sense of flexibility and ease in my life that has taken away my fear of failure. Yes, the confusion still remains, but the fog seems to be clearing little by little and it's fabulous.

I took a bite out of my Golden Delicious apple on the D train this morning and was surprised at how easily my teeth sank into the fruit, and what a satisfying crunch it made. My coppery-pink lipstick left a ring around the bite that glistened in the morning sunlight. I usually only buy Granny Smith apples (for some reason red apples or even Macintosh apples gross me out...I prefer the tartness of green ones.) The Granny Smiths are usually much harder to bite into than this Golden Delicious. Suddenly I was hit by the sensation of Autumn, all at once and very intensely. The potential for beauty and change fills the air everywhere I go in New York; I can feel nature vibrating as the leaves are perched on the very tips of their stems, just itching to change color and fall to the ground. The biggest changes in my life have always happened in the fall, from all the years I moved from school to school as I bounced back and forth between my parent's houses, to every new semester of college that held so much possibility, to last fall when I piled into the UHaul van with Alee and moved myself to New York. The big changes happen between September and January, and through the Winter I hibernate, settling into the new and improved version of my life that I've turned over.

The trains have been running very slowly the past few days, and I was about eight minutes late for work (though I called on the way to alleviate my fear of sullying my brand new unblemished reputation at Tabla.) Once I got onto the floor I settled down, and after several cups of coffee I was ready to work. It was a good shift--I've stopped making mistakes and I've started to create a new muscle memory for the restaurant. I feel settled and satisfied, and very relieved that my schedule has stabilized. As I neared the end of the shift, I started to plan out the rest of my evening. I have the night off and was determined to spend it in the most pleasurable, relaxing way possible so I'd be rejuvenated for my back to back doubles over the nest couple days. When I left the restaurant at 3:45, I headed straight for Union Square. The Farmer's Market was in full swing and I was determined to take advantage of it for the first time, since I had a little money to play with and double paychecks coming on Friday.

Tonight is the finale of Project Runway. Matty and I have been looking forward to this for weeks. It's an even bigger event since it's the show's final season on Bravo before it transfers to Lifetime next season. Miraculously, we both happened to have the evening off, so we planned to spend it together for the first time in weeks. He doesn't get off until 7:30 or so, so I'm cooking dinner for us: turkey burgers and sweet potato fries, with some kind of veggie dish on the side. Matt and I constantly bicker about our opposite beliefs regarding grocery shopping. Both of us love grocery shopping, and love crafting our own meals, although our styles and tastes couldn't be different. For one thing, Matty doesn't really buy or eat much fruit, whereas I crave fruit and juice all the time--it makes up for a large percentage of my shopping. He also buys pre-grated cheese (which I'm just so against), Kraft Singles (ditto), and frozen vegetables. He claims that every time he buys fresh produce it goes bad before he has time to eat it. I think it's a matter of buying less, only as much as you know you can eat in a week. Very few things actually spoil in a week if they're stored in the fridge, even if they're organic. He uses garlic powder instead of fresh garlic. The difference is obvious: he's all about convenience and practicality, whereas I'm all about authenticity and richness of taste and quality. You can tell which one of is is the restaurant snob.

At the market, I look for fresh organic garlic, onions and bell peppers--it's the first time I've ever bought produce at a farmer's market. It feels so fantastic for so many reasons. I feel like I'm getting back to the earth, taking a break from Corporate America with all it's overly-processed, pre-packaged, wasteful superstore glitz, and supporting local vendors at the same time. I feel like I'm making a difference--resisting over-economy, putting my money in the pockets of normal citizens instead of corporations. Shopping at the farmer's market feels like an act of rebellion. And, it makes me feel like part of a community.

I spend $2 on two small yellow onions, a clove of garlic and a green bell pepper...already I can smell how fresh and delicious they will taste with our dinner tonight. My next stop as I meander through the masses of green shoppers with their reusable shopping bags (I left mine at home) is at a little flower stand. The woman running the booth has backed her van into the tent, and its doors are open revealing her dwindling stock of fresh-cut flowers (I'm a little late...the market will start to close down in an hour or so.) I pick a small bouquet of fall-colored chrysantemums, and she tells me they're on sale, so I buy two for $10. The smile up at me with friendly red and yellow faces as I continue on through the market. I stop, on a whim, at a baked goods stand (my weakness) where I pick out a homeade pumpkin loaf and a large chocolate chip cookie (all I've eaten today was that apple and I'm dying for a snack) for a total of $4.50. Down the street from Union Square is a Trader Joe's, complete with an absolutely astounding wine store. This is my favorite new discovery in the entire city. Trader Joe's has a decent little wine selection from all over the world, and not one bottle is over $30 or so. I've purchased two bottles for $10 before...and it's still good quality wine. It's so worth going a few blocks out of my way for: I pick out an Il Valore Sangiovese from Puglia for (are you ready?) $4.59.

So, in half an hour, I've spent about $21 and I've purchased flowers, a bottle of wine, fresh organic veggies for dinner, a cookie for a snack, and a pumpkin loaf. All fresh, all organic, all deliciously satisfying.

New York is possible to enjoy on a budget, after all...you just have to know the little secrets. And stop assuming that the best things come with big price tags.

I'm divinely satiated on the N train ride home, even though I'm exhausted and have to stand (I always forget about rush hour.) I get home, arrange the flowers, and open the bottle of wine. I've decided to try drinking more in an effort to trick myself into going to bed earlier. I know, I know... it's a lonely, treacherous road to alcoholism. Luckily, it doesn't run in my family, and my body is so vulnerable to drugs and alcohol that one glass pretty much always does the trick. And besides, a glass of red wine with dinner is supposed to be good for you, isn't it? Wishful thinking?

"Still Life With Groceries"

How wonderful it feels to take comfort in small pleasures. My attitude has improved so much in the past few weeks...I'm sure it's a sign of ever greater developments to come. I have short-term goals in mind that serve only to take me from one phase to the next. I'm keeping my mind open to possibilities that are impossible for me to forsee. Right now I'm focused on my holistic happiness rather than my long term world-changing goals. Those are all still there. But focusing on the short term makes it easier to trust that the long term will fall into place. It's kinda like the way I see without glasses or contact lenses: everything that is within a foot of my face is clear, and everything that is farther away becomes blurrier and blurrier. I can still see it--the colors and the shapes are there, but fuzzy and blended together. The closer I come to an object, the more it comes into focus.

Clearly, I am near-sighted in life.

I've been blogging all summer to cope with a serious crash of my morale. Thank goodnessI'm finally changing with the leaves.

(...though thankfully not changing into the leaves...I just remembered the tree-man again. So gross!!!)

In Search of the Best of All Possible Worlds

"Life is not good or bad. Life is life."

-Voltaire, from Candide.

I have approximately ten dollars to my name right now. I'm starting to worry a bit because the new job isn't working out so far. They've been cutting me almost every shift I'm scheduled for, so I've only been getting to work one shift a week and I've cut my availability down at Morimoto in order to accomodate the new schedule. Every day I come home from work, make some pasta or scrambled eggs and settle in to watch hours of TV. It's a terrifying slippery slope.

My brother Jake sent me this text message a couple hours ago:

Jake: Hey, I'm like really really really unmotivated about life right now. Any advice?

In the middle of watching last night's episode of Top Design on DVR, I stared at my cell for a moment, trying to think of some pearl of big sisterly wisdom. I was tempted to blow it off with a flippant, breezy comment about how I'm not really one to advise these days, as my outlook hasn't exactly been sunny lately. But I ultimately wasn't ready to admit to spiritual defeat... especially to my little brother. He's about to graduate from UCLA's School of Film and Television in the spring and he's burnt out and discouraged. I know his plight all too well, and it breaks my heart that he feels so jaded. I tossed my cell phone aside in hopes that some kind of insight would come to me if I gave it a few minutes.

Tuesday morning as I sat on the New York-bound Bolt Bus at 7:15 am, returning from Philadelphia after a divine weekend trip, I tried to translate my complicated feelings into blog fodder:

"I don't think I'm supposed to continue living the way I'm currently living for much longer," I wrote.

At the time, I was a little overwhelmed (not to mention totally exhausted, having slept for one hour before leaving at the crack of dawn to return to NYC in time to work at Tabla at 10:30. And still a little drunk from the Barrymores the night before.) I was unable to further sort through the static in my head and the swirling in my heart. But I definitely felt a change...and whatever it was it felt so good.

My weekend in Philly was exactly what I needed, and not a moment too soon. I'd asked for Sunday and Monday off from the restaurants, and was pleasently surprised to get Saturday night off as well. I got off work at 5, rushed around getting my errands done (buying a dress for the awards show, bus tickets, and Vogue for the bus ride) and hopped on an 8pm Chinatown bus. Heather met me at the diner after her show, and we walked down to South Philly, catching eachother up on the past three months. As we walked, a cluster of burly former frat guys stopped us to ask where Finn McCool's was. We expertly pointed them in the right direction--I felt like I was home.

Sunday, I went into Center City early with Heather to shop for Barrymore jewelery and meet up with my old friend Andy for coffee. Having non-college friends makes me feel like such a grown-up. Andy worked at Chili's with me for one summer before he quit and somehow we've managed to stayed in touch over the years. He walked me to the Arden in Old City so I could take in the matinee of Candide that Heather had gotten me a comp ticket for (in exchange for me taking her as my plus-one to the Barrymores.)

I love going to the theater by myself. I especially love going to matinees and sitting amongst the over-sixty crowd. I feel like an insider, like I'm going undercover to watch how the patrons interact with eachother, and how they react to the show. (Plus, old-lady chit chat in the bathroom line at intermission is totally priceless. "I like it, but it's not my favorite. Sondheim is just so wordy...it goes by so fast. This is Stephen Sondheim who wrote this, right?The voices are just wonderful, though.")

As I waited for the lights to dim, I felt so inspired--and nothing had even happened yet! It was then I realized that it's been months since I'd been to see a show. I haven't had any money, so my entertainment options have been limited to the lowbrow. It was an absolute relief to be sitting there. As the overture started, I felt my heart thaw and my mind begin to open, and my whole being began to hungrily soak up every drop of creative juice that began to seep across the stage.

I always forget about the overture to Candide until I hear it. It is one of the most perfect, exhilirating overtures in the American musical canon. When I was in tenth grade, I played first violin in the Symphony Orchestra at the Etobicoke School of the Arts in Toronto, and the overture to Candide was in our repetoire that season. As I recall, it was the piece I had to play to audition for re-entry into the orchestra. As the Arden's ten-piece band played, I did miss the bravado of the seventy-piece orchestra. But the band did a commendable job with what they had, and the lush beauty of the playful, yet moving score remained in tact. I teared up the minute it started, and from then on was totally on the journey.

Heather told me that Terry Nolen, the director of the show, turned to the cast at one point in rehearsal and said "this may be the hardest musical...ever." And while the production may have fallen a tad short of its ambitions, I was still completely engaged from start to finish as I discovered the rich, poignant satire of the story, the lavish beauty of the score, and the bleak but desperatley moving philosophy of Voltaire.

"We have no choice", one of the characters says deep into the second act, as hope continues to dwindle. "The current will take us somewhere. and if it isn't nice--at least it will be new."

It reminds me of Nina in The Seagull : "And now I know, Kostya, I understand, finally, that in our business--acting, writing, it makes no difference--the main thing isn't being famous, it's not the sound of applause, it's not what I dreamed it was. All it is is the strength to keep going, no matter what happens. You have to keep on believing. I believe, and it helps. And when I think about my vocation, I'm not afraid of life."

After the matinee, Heather and I had a super cheap (but totally awesome) dinner at the Continental, where we visited our old managers from Jones, and discussed the show. We then parted ways as Heather got on a bus to go to New York for an audition the next morning, and I went home to hang out with the boys.

I think, of all the places I've lived in the last year, that the boys' house is the most comfortable, the safest, and the most nostalgic. I just feel so overcome by their kindness and acceptance of me, and so at home when I'm sitting up with them in their living room, talking about school and life. They are such lovely people, destined for so much happiness and success. I slept in until 2 pm the next day and when I got up, I realized it was the most satisfying sleep I'd had in weeks...on the boys'dilapidated couch, no less.

I realized: being back in Philly made me feel like myself again. It makes sense. Philly is where I found myself to begin with.

The next day I ran errands, bought Jamie a chocolate cupcake (it happened to be his 21st birthday) and dropped to visit Peggy, my friend Molly's mother. I adore Peggy. We've gotten to be very close over the years. She is an important part of my Philly family. Funny how the family we make for ourselves can become a more active part of our lives than our actual family.

Heather and I glammed up in a hurry and cabbed it to the Wanamaker building to make it in time for "Cocktail Hour." Within the first five minutes, we each ran into five people we knew from our various theatrical endeavors. (Let me take this moment to state: I'm totally jealous that Heather is now legitimately friends with Mary Martello.) And a lovely thing happened: even though I live in New York now, even though I was in one Philly show this season, for the first time I felt like I was a part of Philly Theater, instead of merely wishing I was. I'm so in love with the theater community in Philadelphia, and I've always felt that if it embraced me, I could be really content there. But for the first time, I realized that I can be a part of the community without living there full-time. I caught myself telling a friend that I was thinking about moving back to Philly. Truth is, this is only a thought I have when I'm there. When I'm in New York, I'm committed to it, and I'm certain that the tough times won't last forever. New York and I are starting to warm up to each other. It's been throwing all kinds of shit my way, and I've been consistently dodging bullets. I'm starting to feel like New York is accepting me as it's equal, acknowledging that I have the strength, stamina and determination to take it on my own terms. New York will never drive me away, and if I choose to leave, it will not be out of necessity or scorn, but because I've gotten what I need from the city and am ready to move on.

It's too soon. I need to stay in the thick of it for now. And in the meantime, a piece of my heart will always be in Philadelphia. I can't wait to go back for the revival of The Irish... in the winter and live with the boys again. I can't wait until my next visit. And right now, I'm trying to work. And I'm enduring.

About a half hour later, I text my brother back:

Me: Changing my location helps me change my perspective...find a new environment to spend some time in. It may help you define what's important to you.

Jake: Wow, that was really profound.

Me: Well, I try. Seriously though. Every time I get out of NYC I feel like my head clears and life seems much simpler.

I hope he wasn't being facetious. I'm a little vulnerable right now.

Maybe there is no such thing as the "Best of All Possible Worlds" where everything happens for a reason and all roads lead us to who we want to be and the ideals we most desire. But I refuse to believe in the worst of all possible worlds, where everything is painful and random and anarchy is the only path that makes any sense.

I have amazing friends and a wonderful family. I will take comfort in the love that surrounds me and the love I have for others and I will seek constant inspiration. I will defy the bleak cynicism that has overtaken this tragically messed-up country. I will maintain hope and faith in humanity. And I will strive to make art a larger priority in my life because art is what I do and who I am and it is that which makes me feel alive and connected to the universe and the greater good. Even in the darkest moments.

"Let us work without disputing: it is the only way to render life tolerable."

- Candide

Ode to the Midtown Diner (and Philly Diners in General)

It's 10:45 pm and I made it to Philly in one piece. I must say, it's been like 3 or 4 years since I took the Chinatown bus, and wow did I forget how ghetto it is. Like, three of the overhead reading lights on the whole bus work, the seats are tiny, the whole thing is dirty as hell, the TVs are covered in graffitti...and dear god, the bathroom shouldn't even be spoken about. All I can say is, thank goodness for the hand sanitizer I keep in my bag at all times.

At least they make good time. I got in at quarter to ten. I'm staying with my friend Heather this weekend who is currently crashing with my beloved South Philly boys while she's performing in Candide at the Arden. The show is like 3 hours long, so I figure I've got a while to kill before she can meet me. (Actually, I suppose I could've gone straight to the boys'--I still have a key to their house, after all. I'm not sure if they realize this, though, so I decide to lay low.)

Unfortunately, if Philly were a person it would be a seventy year-old man with bunions and bad eyesight who sits in the park and yells at people and goes to bed at 7:00. There is a serious shortage of establishments that actually stay open past 9pm...even on a Saturday (bars excluded of course, and they only stay open 'til 2.) So Starbucks is out, as is the bookstore. I can't really afford to go somewhere and be waited on as I always feel guilty ordering less than $20 worth of stuff at a restaurant--a sum that seems so indulgent to me now. I miss the days when I could afford to take myself out to a $50 dinner at a decent restaurant.

Pondering what to do as I walked down 11th st., the answer suddenly presented itself.

Midtown Diner!

So many memories of drunken post-party grilled cheese sandwichs at the midtown run through my head and I feel a warm sense of comfort and familiarity wash over me. One New Year's Day post-sleepover, a large group of us trekked across the drunken chaos of the annual Mummer's Parade on Broad Street to drown our hangovers in coffee and oj and pancakes. Last fall while I was subletting Kati's old apartment on South Street, I locked myself out of the apartment and didn't realize until returning home from work at 1:00am. So I went to Midtown and waited for Kati to return from Delaware so I could crash on her couch and drop by the real estate office in the morning for their extra key. Shivering in the early fall AC (that seems unnecessary to me) and miserably sipping hot chocolate, I felt safe in the fluorescent glow of the Midtown.

The diner hags at Midtown are the best. No one compares to authentic Philly waitresses. With their flat nasal accents, peroxide-fried hair and trademark smoker's coughs, they're the friendliest gals you could ever hope to meet.

"Yous ready to order, Hon?" Love it.

They let me plug my dying phone into the outlet at the service station and brought me decaf and apple pie with ice cream which I ordered in hopes of soothing my cramps with sugar and carbs. I desperately needed to use the restroom and realized as after the fact that I'd left my bags at the table unattended without thinking anything of it. Cell phone on the table. It seemed perfectly safe to me. I was as comfortable as in my own home.

Yeah, yeah I know it's Philly, I should never leave my stuff unwatched. I do know better than that. There's not much there to steal, I figure. My point is, I wasn't even conscious of it. There truly is so much comfort in familiarity.

New York diners just aren't the same. They're cleaner and sleeker and the food is better and the owners are all immigrants. There is something so distinctly American about Philly diners. At Philly diners the food is generally bad, often the service is worse, but there is so much charm in it all. Plus they're always open, the only places in Philly that you can always count on to be open when you need it most.

Mmm. How've you been, Philly? Did you miss me? I hate to admit it, but I've missed you. You know I always do. You're my first love, after all.

"For the person for whom small things do not exist, the great is not great." - Jose Ortega y Gasset

I have always been afflicted with chronic lateness. It's a very serious issue. I'm very rarely more than fifteen minutes late, and to things that really matter very rarely more than five minutes late. Somehow, I cannot figure out how to reprogram my internal clock to run on time let alone early.

One of the nice things about working the am reservations shift at Morimoto is that I am always the first front-of-house employee to arrive at the restaurant. I cherish my alone time in the office. It's my time to drink my coffee, eat my homeade breakfast sandwich, check my email and read the news online. It's heavenly. Also, and this is both a blessing and a curse, there is no one here to notice when I'm late.

Whenever I manage to make it to work on time, or early, I feel an enormous sense of satisfaction and pride akin to, I imagine, what it must feel like to run a marathon or adopt a small child in Sudan. I realize that it's completely ridiculous to feel such a grandiose sense of accomplishment for being on time to work, but for me, it's a big deal. It truly is the little things in life that count, after all.

I desperately wish I was a morning person. There is something so divinely grown-up about eating breakfast at home, at the table, before going to work. Or having the time to take the long route to work and not having to speed down the sidewalk like a bullet train, instead having the freedom to take in the crispness of the morning air, the quietness of the city, and the twinkle of the morning sun. The energy of New York changes so beautifully from the crisp potential of the morning, to the vibrant buzz of the afternoon, to the smooth coolness of the evening, to the hazy decadence of the night. My absolute favorite days are when I am awake for a long enough stretch to experience all four stages of a New York day...and then am able to sleep through all of them the following day.

Today, I was determined to leave early and enjoy my walk from the subway to the restaurant. I was scheduled to come in at 10am, and to be alone in the office until the manager comes in at 2pm. To clarify, I'm not proud of my chronic lateness. I'm actually extremely ashamed and embarrassed by it. I wish I could brush it off, but I'm still a little too much of a people-pleaser to avoid feeling guilty about being late. And I really love my job and all of my managers, which makes it even worse. Although they won't know I was late this morning if I don't tell them and they never scold me when I do, I still feel like crap about it.

I have two main subway routes that I can take to Morimoto. I can take the D train (which stops a block from my apartment) into Manhattan, transfer to the A,C,E at West 4th, then get off after one stop at 14th street and 8th avenue and walk three blocks. Or, I can take the N train (which stops six blocks from my apartment) straight to Union Square, and then walk seven long blocks to the restaurant. Though the blocks between avenues are very long, I actually prefer to walk from Union Square for a number of scenic reasons. First of all, Union Square is one of my favorite parts of New York. It is such a vibrant cross-section of people, what with the publishing district up the street in Flatiron, the NYU campus starting just down the street, Chelsea just the the west, and Gramercy just to the east. It's all of New York coming together, professionals, artists, students, street kids, bums, and rich people. All in the same square.

Union Square (not my pic)

Fifth Avenue is around the corner, there are tons of amazing restaurants, and just as many tiny diners and cheap pizza places. The Green Market goes on several days a week in the square, with produce and flowers and fresh breads and apple cider from local vendors, and though it's maddening to fight through the crowds if you're late for work, it's lovely to stroll through on a lazy afternoon. And best of all, when I have the time to walk the long walk, I get to walk through Chelsea and dream of the day when I'll be able to afford a beautiful brownstone apartment on a beautiful tree-lined street like the ones along 15th street between 6th and 9th avenue.

15th st. between 8th and 9th

Unfortunately, since I've apparently become nocturnal and can rarely fall asleep before 4am anymore, and had to pack for my weekend in Philly this morning, I left the house 20 minutes late and had to forgo the scenic route. I spent the entire subway ride planning my post-work errand schedule in my head and trying to figure out how I could get a quick breakfast and a cup of much needed coffee for the $2 and change. I haven't been able to find a coffee cart on my route, and I was pretty sure the designer coffee kiosk in Chelsea Market would charge at least as much as Starbucks. Luckily, I wasn't as late as I thought I'd be; I reached the corner of 9th ave and 15th street at 10:08 and decided that a cup of coffee was worth an extra few minutes that no one would ever know about. And even when they told me at Starbucks that the coffee was brewing and would take another 2 minutes, I consented. I've got a long day ahead of me, after all.

"There's perfection in simplicity." Well said, Starbucks.

In the three blocks from the C train to the restaurant, I did get to see a little of the urban scenery. And it's such a clean fall morning, if a little overcast, that I couldn't help appreciating it as I sped down 15th street. I can't help finding ordinary things interesting and beautiful.

An alley on 15th st between 9th and 10th

This city never ceases to inspire me. I just love New York. As difficult as it is to live here, as much as we're all suffering from the economy crash, and as much as I feel the city has toughened me up, every time I find a spare ounce of energy in a spare second to take in the little urban idiosyncracies around me, I am always flooded with emotion, nostalgia and pride in a place I haven't even lived in for an entire year, and the same sense of awe I felt at 16, the first time I visited the city, in a simpler time when Times Square seemed like the most beautiful place in the world. And even though I now absolutely cannot stand walking through midtown, it's not the city's fault. There will always be swarms of tourists and newcomers flocking to New York, no matter how bad things get financially, because New York is still the absolute icon of the American Dream, the place where anything still seems possible, even if it no longer is in actuality. In a time where I feel like I'm systematically being robbed of all the opportunites America is supposed to offer, all the opportunites my parents had at my age to build their lives the way they wanted to without worrying about the economy collapsing beneath them and things like health insurance and social security that should be fundamental rights being abolished, I can't help feeling like New York may be the only place left in America where it might still be possible for me to find my heart's desire. Without New York, I may as well move to Canada where the taxes are higher but nobody bitches about it because the streets are clean, public parks and pools are aplenty, and everyone can go to the doctor when they're sick.

Am I being naive? Perhaps. I prefer to think of it as full of the hope that only youth can sustain.

"This is not the same country as it was when I was growing up," my dad said to me last night. Everywhere I go all I hear is it's not the same city, either. But I'm not ready to give up on New York yet. It took me 23 years to get here. I'm not leaving that fast.

And so, I will continue to look for the beauty and simplicity of the little details in my New York life. And I will cherish my tiny freedoms.

The 9th st Corner of Chelsea Market