I open my email first thing in the morning when I arrive to work. 

Today from my mother I read:

“Hi bebe,” followed by confirmation that yes, I could defer the loan I was supposed to begin paying her back; that her students’ work looks good; that her broken pinky is healing, and that graduation is soon. 
My throat aggressively constricts over the last detail. 

I graduated from the Evergreen State College one year ago. It was like a wedding, everyone joked. We were prom king and queen. Surrounded by those I loved and in love myself, it was the best day of my life.

Now, alone at my white and sticky desk, in my grey and recycled cubicle, I have nothing of that life anymore. 
Not the boyfriend, the adoring professors, or the comfort of living near home. 
Not the notion that I can do anything. 
Not the image of eternal blossoms playing forever in my mind. 

My throat tightens another notch and my eyes well. Briney hot tears leak not as drops but as puddles around my eyes surely dragging my mascara with them.

Loneliness.

I am lonely all the time and in many directions. 
My 12-year-old cousin asked my aunt what kind of machine she would build to save the world, she replied, “one that could cure loneliness.” 
His machine?  A bed that teaches you everything you need to learn in high school, cleverly equipped with the capacity to print your diploma, too. 
My aunt thought her response was inappropriate to tell a 12-year-old, but it had just slipped out.

I loved Tom very much. I loved our story and that time in my life, more. It didn’t stay perfect. Following graduation was a hot, noxious summer where I worked too much and we drank too much, and then a misguided move to Denver, Tom’s hometown. But that day—my college graduation—in a white dress that looked delicate enough to be made of paper, was perfect. And reading about its shadow whilst already reeling from loneliness, anxiety and fear was more than I could take.  

If you want to know if this is a story about how you have to love yourself before you can love anyone or anything else, it is. 
If you want to know that life gets better once that illusive self-love is discovered, it doesn’t. 
At least that’s my suspicion. 
I don’t know because I’m only just beginning. 
I am a vessel with too much chatter in her head and life is demanding that I make peace with myself; 
that I learn to talk myself down from the ledge instead of asking others to do it for me; 
that I fortify myself;
that I withstand the moments, (or hours,) where I think I may die;
that I hoard self efficacy. 
That I do these things and be totally alone.

 Unless it all just does me in. 

After a tumultuous year plus, it's time to revisit the practice of writing. Time and time again, I've tried to start. to break the seal of fear that prevents me from doing precisely what I need.
So now, with no audience, I will revisit the cause of this space and recommit to collecting wisdom.

What is wisdom?

It can't merely be experiential knowledge, right? It must transcend something as ordinary and entitled as age, though I'd rather remain secular with my definition instead of insinuating a spiritual connotation.

I think wisdom is intentional; a prophetic combination of knowledge, inherent qualities and honesty. No two people can offer the same wisdom. It's like a chemical reaction, like fresh sheets that don't fold and wrinkle under your weight during sleepless nights.

Wisdom(s) are acorns of auditory gold, invaluable, sturdy and something you can put in your pocket.

Let's get collecting.

It finally happened.
Walking across 6th Ave after work yesterday to meet my mom who had just arrived to GCS, I saw him.

Bill Cunningham casually rode past me, even more handsome in person, with his electric blue coat.

I peeled my sunglasses off the bridge of my nose, and said instinctively, "hi Bill!"

He turned his head towards me, slowly, inquisitively, and then said, "oh, hello" with a big, toothy grin.

I have hoped for this moment all summer.

I was wearing wedges, Anne Taylor patterned shorts, a brown belt, and a black scoop neck T.

I read letters from Truman Capote.

"i love new york, even though it isn't mine, the way something has to be, a tree or a street or a house, something, anyway, that belongs to me because i belong to it."

A thick swarm of muggy, hot air made today a New York summer day.
I sit on the windowsill and sing, "At Last". Traffic, dripping air conditioners, and funneled air render my insecurities anonymous. It's a marvelous thing that we can be someone and yet no one in the same stroke.
My best friend is in flight on a brave adventure. Religulous-ly, I pray for her.

I wait for the rain. I wait for tomorrow.



What are you waiting for?



A long drive home from the country last night, from my uncle: in being lost, you find yourself.

Let's write a field guide to getting lost.

House as Home

As I prepare my ego for an unsuspected retreat --moving back home to Olympia with my parents-- I reflect on the concept of "home".

What is home? Is a house a home?

I'm reading a book called Life Would be Perfect if I Lived in That House, in which the author says, "if there's anything I've learned over the many years and many moves, it's this: a house is not the same as a home. Despite certain Muzak-sounding catchphrases of the real estate world -- "home buyer," "home sales," "home loans" -- the words "house" and "home" are not interchangeable. Your buy a house, but you make a home. You do not shop for a "home" anymore than you'd shop for a life."

I've always quarreled with my house. Like siblings, we irritate each other, a sentiment laced with unconditional love and affection. I used to wish my house were one of those new, pale-colored fixtures with white trim, plush carpets, pergo floors, and a perfectly manicured 4x4 backyard.

Our house is a litany of never-ending DIY projects. It conjures dust faster than the inside of a Dirt Devil, the windows are never clean, strange stale odors linger from pets past, and the furniture is anything but coordinated. To me, our expansive backyard only meant the chore of lawn-mowing, and the likely probability of stepping in sneaky, hidden dog shit.

I suspect that many, like myself, began to appreciate their childhood home as soon as they left it, either willfully or not. Thanksgiving break of my Freshman year, the familiar living room satisfied my pangs of homesickness and lulled my criticisms. For the time being.

My house is home.
One year, Olympia experienced a week-long power outage. Since our house runs primarily on propane, gathered on blankets near the fireplace, my mom gave myself and my two best girlfriends a most memorable and entertaining sex-talk.
Two years ago this fall, my parents were re-married at the head of our dining room table in an intimate ceremony.
That was the second wedding our home has housed. Not to mention the various parties and potlucks and annual dinner parties that I myself began to host for a few close friends.

And I am teeming with memories and smells from houses of friends. Houses are such intimate portals into family culture, the real innards of a family's dynamic. The magnetic decor on a refrigerator alone can give you extensive insight into a family's values. Houses have discernible smells, usually consisting of a combination of laundry detergent mixed with one parent's prevailing hobby, like skiing or painting.
When I was younger, I loved how if I sniffed an item left in my room, I could almost always discern its rightful owner.

Houses are also not homes. We manicure our lawns, obsessively clean, we decorate and re-decorate. We see our house as a reflections of us, and we want our reflection to be spotless. It's like in those episodes of Hoarders, when the house looks perfectly normal from the outside, but upon opening the door, viewers are exposed to a chaotic and often disgusting mess. Houses allow us to live inside a facade that we can prune or manicure or leave well alone.

Exiting my apartment this morning, the door to my left was slightly ajar, and I couldn't resist the temptation to look inside. Every day, I come home to a short hallway of closed, black doors. I suppose I had assumed that nothing existed beyond the doors. To my surprise there was bright green and yellow wall paper, carpet, tile, and a strong foul smell of cigarettes.

Houses are homes, and so much more. We have evolved to live a domesticated life, inside these structures.

I wonder what a homeless person would say about a house.

Ever tried.
Ever failed.

No matter.

Try again.
Fail again.

Fail better.


-- Samuel Beckett

Bill Cunningham

I finally saw Bill Cunningham New York with my mother and our good friend Molly.



Trailer:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M8kINiFhplc&feature=grec_index

I have spent many mornings on 5th Ave at 9AM, hoping to catch the man in action.
My face was soggy with tears during the whole film. I really love him.

There is a generation of wonderful people I've come to appreciate and love who are beginning to die, and there are generations already dead who I will never know. Brilliant, eccentric, timeless characters who do not live through myth or text alone. We are so afraid of death that we marginalize the old, but they're the wisest, and the most beautiful.

I'm sad that the generation of holocaust survivors is fleeting, that Bill Cunningham will soon be too old for his bike, that my grandfather can no longer plays tennis, that my father is losing hair. I feel for friends of my grandparents who in their youth were social dynamos and now appear disconnected from the world. Youth is a commodity.Those that age are left behind to fend for themselves in orthopedic shoes, entertaining crazy anecdotal stories from back in the day.

No wonder we're all afraid of getting old. Let's celebrate the wise, the old, the eccentric, dandruff-ed, disconnect and wrinkles. How fortunate we are to live amongst vessels of history.

Foggy Friday

The sky is gray, I am anything but.

I am pleased to announce that I will be spending the spring in France!
Despite my resistance, I have succumb to my inevitable fate of being a 4evergreen grad.

Yes, that's right, I'm moving home and going to Evergreen. One might think I was joking.

I found a perfect program called, "Forbidden Metaphors: Rewriting the Real in 20th Century France". The past week I've been exhaustively finagling connections and contacts in a desperate last-minute attempt to get into this program. And I just received word that I'm in!

Here's a link to the course description:
http://www.evergreen.edu/catalog/2011-12/program s /forbiddenmetaphorsrewritingtherealin20thcenturyfrance-1407

Technically, I'm participating in an exchange program through my current college. This way, I can return to Western in a year if I so choose.

I'm over the moon with delight and excitement. Judith Jones and Julia Child loved Paris, and so will I.

I'm meeting my best friend Rachel in the summer of 2012. We will connect on the tail end of her year-long trek in Africa. We will be picnic-ing in Paris for the summer. Feel free to join.

My mother, my pal, finally arrived yesterday afternoon. After she exercised several outfit changes to get the right look, (light purple converse, mother?) we crossed the park, traversing Broadway for dinner. We settled into the cozy restaurant atop Fairway Market. If you've never been, I highly recommend it. Mom couldn't help but watch the old, bearded man behind us, eating solo, and neatly fastening a napkin bib to his shirt. In fact, many diners ate as alone. It was fabulous. They hardly looked lonely, accompanied by misted cold glasses of white wine, and finger-food appetizers, dates enough in my opinion.

My mom and I ordered two glasses of Pinot. We shared a butter lettuce salad dressed in lemon vinaigrette, with wafer thin slices of smoked salmon, pink like lox. Smoky, but delicate. The salad came with slices of pumpernickel bread and butter. We fashioned perfect-bite sandwiches with the bread, lettuce, salmon, an haricot vert or two for crunch, and plenty of pepper. We also shared two crab cakes. For dessert, a tangy Pinkberry ice cream with blueberries, strawberries, mangoes and raspberries.

We walked home in sweltering heat, arm-in-arm, past ruckus taverns and bars on Amsterdam. Delirious with happiness, I felt I could have skated across the purple water of the Central Park Reservoir.

Day or night, New York is my city.



"Sometimes when I'm with you, I feel I could burst," my mom lovingly said to me at dinner.

Fabulous Food Trucks

We have entered an age of food trucks.

Throughout midtown, these fanciful wagons crank out some delectable and interesting treats. Froyo, fried chicken, báhm mi sandwiches, fresh juices, dumplings, crêpes, and outside of Random House this afternoon: lobster rolls!

Each truck is designed with logos or gizmos to attract attention. But the wonderful thing about them is their complete lack of pretentiousness. Unlike in a restaurant, or a Whole Foods, there's no atmosphere or culture to be created. One simply walks up to the window, places an order, and then finds an awkward place to stand on the sidewalk to enjoy their meal. I imagine a food truck would be a wonderful place to pick up a date.

My aunt offered me wisdom today. She is the wisest woman I know.
In grappling with my inability to distinguish between the appropriate time to full force pursue my desire, or hold back lest I be an irritating kiss-ass, my aunt had this to say:

To succeed in life, u need all 3.
Education/skills
Contacts
Life skills to recognize opportunity
(not in any order)
Don't worry about nepotism
xx

I foolishly view my life as some sort of clock. I criticize myself for being an inert spectator, watching others fulfill their dreams while I continually worry over some benign idea that I'm running out of time.

Time is not uncontrollably elapsing, it is merely unfolding as we await prime opportunities to arise. To put it in words that would resonate with a man, it's like crabbing; you lure the crab in with all your tricks; (your skills/education), which in this case are a slab of dead chicken, a piece of twine, and a bent metal hook.
Unlike fishing, the hunter hasn't won when prey bites. When the string runs taught, the crabbing game is just beginning. You must romance a crab into your net, seduce it to shore with small nibbles of mealy, raw chicken. Your netter, (contact!) is the person who helps you seal the deal.

So you see, life is like crabbing, you wade through muddy, bracken swamps that smell like sewage. Occasionally you fall into the shit. But when you find something you want --your prey-- you can seduce it in and reap the rewards.

Just make sure to share your bounty, because eating crab alone is not nearly as fun as it is with family. Especially if your Grandfather accidentally says, "pass the Oil of Olay," instead of "pass the old bay" (seasoning).

Kindness is a mighty force.

Today's post is in homage to Ira Glass and will be present in three acts.

Act I.
Wednesday night, I was en route to carelessly and recklessly spend money, when a homeless man on the corner of Madison politely asked me for some. Sitting on an orange crate box, with brimming, brown eyes and a few teeth, I offered to buy him dinner. He chose 6 Dunkin' Donuts which he selected meticulously, and a cherry slurpee. The man behind the counter eyed me suspiciously. I didn't have the courage to join him for his meal. My head was racing and pulsating with anxiety and heavy thoughts.
I returned to my luxurious Upper East Side apartment and cried, for all that I have and for how seldom I take the time to recognize it.
The next day, my friend recognized me as I walked by, and he said "Good day Miss."

Act II.
I spent the long holiday weekend with family in Stonington, CT. Sunday afternoon, alone on the highway, my right front tire popped. Panicking, I pulled into an adjacent parking lot and tried to calm my nerves before proceeding. A woman in a Toyota 4-runner pulled up next to me and offered to help. Michelle had just come from a yoga class, and was about to walk her dog in the nature preserve when she saw me pull in. She had long dark brown hair with some feathers wrapped in. Her legs resembled those of my father in hair quantity. She had just moved back to Stonington from Nothern California on account of her family, "getting older one me."
Michelle taught me how to change a tire, how to jack the car using a solid piece of the car frame (the closer the jack is to the tire, the less high you'll have to go). She taught me to secure the car from rolling on me by wedging pieces of wood behind each back tire. Michelle taught me to reattach the bolts on the tire in a star pattern so as to prevent any lopsidedness.
I've watched others change tires before, and I've certainly heard that anyone is capable of doing the job. I loved that Michelle taught me to change mine. She instructed, I did. Afterward, I took her out for coffee and muffins.

Act III.
The journey home from CT involves two trains. One to New Haven, which is comfortable, well air-conditioned, and seldom full. And one from New Haven to Grand Central, uncomfortable, hot, and always teeming with commuters. A woman boarded the New Haven train, wearing jean shorts, two gray shirts, blonde hair up in a ponytail, and dark sunglasses. She was clearly distressed. She asked the man standing beside us where we were. 5 minutes later, she asked again, 30 seconds later, again. When the man asked if she was alright, she said that her husband had left her aboard the train and disappeared. All of the passengers on the car had watched the woman board the train, no husband in sight. The woman to my right used her hand to motion drinking, and then circled her index finger around her ear, insinuating that the woman was drunk or crazy. The blonde woman asked the man when we'd be in Manhattan, he responded 40 minutes, she asked why it would take so long, and replied that it was because we don't live in france, and trains don't travel 90 Mph. Everyone on the car laughed. At which time the blonde woman began to panic even more. From my peripheral perspective of her face, I could see her eyes squinting and welling with tears. I asked if there was anything I could do, she asked to make a call, first to her husband, who did not pick up, and then to her father, who did. After 5 minutes of repeating the same story of being left in an imaginary chair by her boyfriend, the pantomiming woman took the phone out of the blonde's hands and began speaking to her father. She assured him that his daughter was on a real train, that she was fine, but that someone ought to meet in her Grand Central.
That's what I love about New Yorkers, they're direct and they don't patronize. They'll help you, but they're not going to be fluffy about it.
Pretty soon, a ticket-taker was doing rounds to collect fares for the train. The blonde woman turned to face the window, and pretended not to hear him as he asked for her fare. The six of us around her contributed a dollar to pay for her. As we all dug in our wallets, and passed bills about, I recognized a profound and powerful contrast; the frivolity of paper money, in the face of human kindness.
The blonde woman never thanked or acknowledged how we had helped her, but that was never the point anyway.

There is endless wisdom in kindness.

Grappling to overcome first love

What makes us such prisoners to the grip of first love?
Or is it just me?

I have a theory that we fear never being as close to someone (non-familial) again, and it is this fear that magnifies the pain of letting a first love go.
I'm fairly certain that some of my most embarrassing moments occurred with my first boyfriend, and vice-versa. The next time around, in a new relationship, things won't be as new or awkward, I won't be as green or young. I'm not just talking about sex either, I'm talking about every portion of first love. The incessant feeling of butterflies -- really just a kinder word for nausea -- that accompanies the first month of the relationship. The I-can't-believe-you-just-said/did-that, moments. The terror of meeting the family. The family dinners in which one parent spots a hickey and then brings it to the attention of everyone at the table. The "accidental" sleepovers. The first big fight.

There is nothing quite like first love.

When Judith Jones' husband Evan died, she wrote, "I doubted that I would ever find pleasure in making a nice meal for myself and sitting down to eat it alone. I was wrong. Instead, I realized that the ritual we had shared together for almost fifty years was a part of the rhythm of my life, and by honoring it I kept alive something that was deeply engrained in our relationship."

Evan may not have been Judith's first love, but he was certainly her greatest. And my ex-boyfriend may not be dead, but sometimes I feel I've lost a loved one.

How do we find pleasure in relationships past? Is it possible to maintain rituals, to celebrate what was, to cook with first love?

Is it healthy?

Judith Jones

This morning, a clean copy of Judith Jones': The Tenth Muse, My Life in Food awaited me in the book room.
I met Ms. Jones a few years ago, she was petite and lovely. She told me about how she visits the union square market every other day, and always prepares delicious meals for herself, despite living alone.
But today, I met her anew.
I couldn't put the book down.
I savored every page, word, experience, flavor and photo.
I made an effort to walk by her office three times, and I inhaled deeply, hoping for a draft to escape the empty, still office.
Judith is in Vermont for the summer, but I hope to see her again someday.

For dinner, I made myself a fried egg, blanched asparagus and hollandaise, which ribboned in pale yellow, dotted by bits of pepper. Delicious.

I've realized that I have two passions in life; food and fashion. Are they mutually exclusive?

Sunday, Sundae.

Some dread Sunday. I think it is perhaps my favorite day of the week. Sunday brunch, the Sunday times, it is the last day to lazy around before a bustling work week begins again. It's like dessert, you savor it because it's the last portion of a meal, it's also the sweetest.

On this Sunday, I saw Woody Allen's Midnight in Paris. I suggest you see it if you haven't already. I found it full of wisdom in an ironic, jovial sort of way. In the film, Kathy Bates says something along the lines of, "It is not the job of an artist to succumb to the despairity of life, it is the job of an artist to fill the void of emptiness created by life." The film is all about how we long for the past, to live in another era, to experience another time, and how each of us must come to terms with our own present.

The most wonderful part of the day was the meal I shared with my aunt afterwards. We ate gaspacho, crab salad, and pâté on crunchy french bread, outside a small french bistro on 81st and Broadway. I was thrilled to order a glass of white wine, no proof of ID necessary. We talked about the film and I externally processed my complicated life plans. I'm only 20, and I already feel as though my life is sand, rapidly running through my fingers. I'm plagued by a fear that I'm running out of time, that I'm failing to make critical decisions and soon it will be too late, I'll find myself old, dissatisfied with my job and ultimately depressed. This sounds rash, but it's true. I imagine I'm not the only 20 year-old feeling this way.

My aunt spoke about sacrifice, she told me that it is important when making decisions to recognize that every option involves sacrifice. It is in weighing sacrifices, almost economically, that we can come upon the right decision.

I'm not sure that she said that at all actually, but that's what I took from the conversation.

It's like Bill Clinton's lists of goals, perhaps we should always revert to the basic tool of a pro's and con's list. Weigh our sacrifices, analyze the cost-benefit of the equation. Above all, know that there exists no perfect scenario, that everything involves sacrifice.

Midnight in Paris had me longing to travel to France, which further complicates my already shaky life plan.

Back in the city for a second summer to collect wisdom.

It's time to begin writing again.

Armed with a broken foot, a new internship, and a refreshed spirit despite my best friend leaving yesterday -- it is the end of week 2.

I adore my grandparents.
They left for CT at the end of last week, but the apartment is littered with their remnants: Keebler Chips Delux cookies, stacks of ambiguous papers and books, and my grandmother's unhealthy collection of miniature bath products, and jams.

I am working for Knopf. I have my own badge equipped with a proximity card that allows me to enter and exit through every door. For those of you who cannot appreciate the thrill of such seemingly benign power, you have clearly never been an intern.

This morning I sat in on a sales meeting via conference call. The interesting thing about the advent of non face-to-face business meetings, is that no one can see each other's expressions. There was a litany of eye-rolling, head shaking, and pantomimed temple shooting. My boss is too handsome to be straight and working in publishing. He is Spanish, and speaks with one of those slick, effortless lisps. He bought me lunch on day 2.

Collected wisdom thus far this summer, has come from books. Random House has a room of free books from which we are free to take whatever we like. The liberty to take new, crisp, free books, has likened me to the greedy little fat girl in Gourmet Garage, camped out by the bread sampler tonight.

I finally read Bill Clinton's autobiography, a few years late, I know. I loved the preface the most. Clinton says he read a self-help book that taught him the necessity of listing. The book instructed him to make lists of long, short and medium term life goals. Then to categorize each goal in order of importance (A, B or C). Finally, the book said to list under each goal specific activities designed to achieve the goals. Bill's goals were boring, something like: be successful, be a good husband and a good person. He definitely fell short with the husband goal.

Could this simple method of setting and accomplishing goals really be effective? I've decided to try for myself. Being a more visual person, I've stuck notecards on the walls in the hall. I won't say what my goals are specifically, but I will tell you that one of my activities designed to achieve a goal included deleting my facebook. Yes, I have taken that leap, and I already feel like a marginalized outsider. I have no idea how I'll remember birthdays.

What are your goals?

It feels like I've entered publishing during a civil war. The just-familiar world of words and books is shaking and crumbling at my feet. Tho new is seceding form the old.

This morning at work I was sent to retrieve as many copies as I could of Crain, a magazine that had published an article about the company.

The article was front, center, and large. The graphic displayed a Kindle with great, sharp, teeth attacking and consuming a hardcover book. Although it was a drawing, it may as well have been a photograph, because that is literally what's happening.

Some have advised me not to enter the world of publishing, because it is a dying field. As each new mac invention and digital-portable-whatever gets thrown onto the market, another newspaper, or paperback book gets bulldozed by its modernized counterpart. It's like Fahrenheit 451, without the burning of books, of course.

The ipad is now selling children's books that are interactive and whose pages you physical turn with your hand. Of course, physically turning really means finger gliding across the screen. Our children will be inept page-turners.

In Alice in Wonderland, the clock ticks, the cat talks, and you literally follow Alice through the rabbit hole.

I can't imagine growing up without real books, ruined book covers that I drew on with a crayon, or bindings, tattered and frayed from constant and relentless reading.

The Magic Skates was one of my favorites. The pictures were bright, and I could hold the sweet smelling, shiny pages right up to my nose as my mom read aloud. Can you imagine a parent putting their child to bed with an ipad? How cold.

My mom says that she felt the same way about the transition from records to CD's. She couldn't imagine choosing the modern version and foregoing the aesthetic appeal and bold sound of a record. But it happened. Will it happen to books and newspapers?

I feel like I'm setting myself up for heartbreak. Why enter an industry that is being pruned of all the things I love most? Just the other week, and editor at Open Road yelled at one of the techies because at a publishing company, we have no machines with word processing applications.

It is a luxury to be in the business of reading.

I feel that way despite having spent all day organizing book shelves.

It wasn't so bad. I bagged 5 books. Among them: A guide to happiness, Paul Newman's biography, a book about werewolves, and a new Gleick to add to my collection.

Today was also the last day for my fellow interns. We spent our lunch hour eating pizza and sharing thoughts in a circle. The topics discussed included favorite or least favorite person in the office. And, of course, office crush. We were gossiping to such an extent, that we closed to door to the small conference room, lest anyone overheard us.

It's harder to write when you're down, why is that?

Yesterday was a dark day. I left work with a toxic inferiority complex, generated by the growing knowledge that my fabulous internships are direct results of my very well connected grandparents, and not necessarily my own merit.

Many of my family members have thrown in an encouraging, slightly anecdotal word to the contrary.

The only person who has been successful in bolstering my confidence is my grandfather. In typical Ash style, he reminded me of his reputation, something he values dearly. And comforted me by saying that he would not have used his connections had he lacked faith in my ability to uphold is reputation.

This was on speakerphone while my mom cut his hair. I am still beaming.

I'd never walked up Madison at 7PM.

At 3PM, I find a variable assortment of runners, mothers with perfectly dressed children, small outfitted dogs, and, of course, normal people. But yesterday, as I perused the east side of the street, I found and felt something very different.

On 71st street, between a Prada and Ralph Lauren is a church. A few blocks up between more fancy boutiques, another church. Around the corner of a stiletto, spinning on a swarovski crystal pedestal, a trickle of a line is forming for the soup kitchen. Cardboard boxes, umbrellas and blankets are building forts like the ones my brother and I would make in the living room.

For me, it was the collision of real and fake, idealized and actual. The doors of Ralph Lauren opened, and fragrant, freezing air poured out. It smelled materialized, rich, luxurious. The homeless man wreaked of urine, tobacco and sweat.

I feel like I'm caught in a world where nothing is real.

4 Danish boys came over tonight for pizza and lots of beer. It was nice to be around people my age, boys was just an added bonus.

Neglect, neglect, neglect.

No matter, today was fantastic.

It began with the secretary informing me that I would be shadowing her for the morning. While secretarial duties may seem lowly and uninteresting, for me they are thrilling. Ever since I can remember, I've desired to answer a multi-lined phone.

I spent the morning doing just that.

James Gleick called.

Yes, that James Gleick, author of Genius.

I just finished reading Faster, the third of his books I've read this summer.

I told him to please hold, pushed the transfer key, but hesitated before dialing the extension.

I wanted, more than anything, to tell him how much I appreciated his books. How he taught me physics, chaos and chemistry through wonder and colorful characters.

Alas, I dialed 213 and Gleick left my life, or at least his voice did.

Tony Bourdain also called me. Somehow, in retrospect, that feels less exciting.

I was given the wisest words I've heard thus far. I'm tempted to cherish them for myself, they feel like insider, trade secrets.

We had an intern lunch with agents and partners today. One of the partners said that if you have an interview in publishing you need only prepare yourself in one, simple way.

Obtain the New York best seller list, draw a line through the center of the listed books, read all the books above your drawn line.

This, he told us, is all you need for preparation. Publishers know that you've read Shakespeare, but that doesn't matter today. Prove that you know what's happening now.

To men in NYC, and all over the world, I ask you this:

Why must you sit with your legs spread as though they being pried apart using one of those dentist's clamps? It began in 6th grade carpool, when I was squished into the door by your this ridiculous and incessant phenomena. It has followed me through life, today manifesting itself on an over-crowded train during rush hour.

Don't tell me it's just a comfort thing, either. I have seen men sitting, legs crossed tightly.

Men, you take twice the space you need, and look utterly foolish. Stop spreading you legs like your straddling the worlds largest pumpkin.

and

To the man with the fruit stand outside my apartment:

Where art thou?

You sell me my morning banana for only 25 cents, it makes my day, everyday.

You don't placate me with a smile I'm only paying you a quarter after all.

You speedily deliver a yellow pocket of creamy, sweet, fruit into my hands.

I don't think you sleep, because you're dutifully on the corner every time I walk past.

But today, my dear fruit man, you were a no-show.

I went work with nothing more than a smelly coin in my hand.

Please come back.

I've been sick, and it has been raining.

To make myself feel better, I took the 6 downtown. When the doors opened at 42nd street, music poured in, it beckoned me out, despite the unpleasantly warm draft that accompanied it.

I cried. Like one of the eccentric characters I spend so much time studying and thinking about, I couldn't help myself.

The City, especially during the summer, is accustomed to street performances, but this music was more than a well-rehearsed act. It was sound so rich and cultural that it flooded my body, nourishing the sick, apartment-bound person I've been reduced to recently.

I think I cried because I felt that these men and their music were an act of generosity, unintentional perhaps, but generous just the same. Plenty of songs are catchy, even trashy ones. This music was more that catchy, it was captivating; the direct product of culture, irreplaceable, impossible to replicate, impossible to ignore. It filled ever terminal of the dank, hot New York subway station. Even as people rushed past en route to their busy lives, I knew it touched them all. It was truly generous, and that's why I cried.

This is them in times square: