Describe what you were wearing from head to toe, or toe to head if you rather. I want visualize you, sitting there with that little sultry pout, pretending you are focused.”
The blood rushed to her face, caught off guard by his directness. He, a prominent business man, handsome, suave, respectful stole a glimpse into her soul.
“I told you” she responded, “I was in all black with red lips and rouge, only a whisper of my white skin peeking through.”
“But what was the fabric, where was the whisper?”
Her heart began to beat a little faster, and her mouth grew dry, aroused by the seductive and artistic approach of this unexpected observer. She was vulnerable and transparent, read.
She cleared hear throat and responded. “Black stockings with a little diamond pattern, a silk high waist pencil skirt, black cashmere turtle neck, and hair pulled back sleek, and don’t forget my snake-skin pointed toe-pumps.”
“And the supposed whisper?” He countered, more concerned with what was not covered than hidden.
“My neck, strong but tired from hovering over the keys, posture not what it should be.”
“Women have a unique power,” he grinned, “And they are usually completely oblivious to extensive nature of this power.”
She laughed at his comment, because she did in fact know her power, he told her nothing new.
“It is in the details you see,” he proposed. “For example, do you wear stockings or pull-ups?”
His language dated him.
“Stockings ofcourse.” She blushed. “I am seeking no scandal. There is nothing sexy about the office…”
“I do not allude to a scandal, and I too believe “sexy” is for off the clock. I just know the power a woman holds if she harnesses it. Do you know what it does to a man, to see a classic beauty, dressed with the upmost modesty, and to catch just the slightest glimpse of flesh between her skirt and cusp of her pull-ups? It is intoxicating, it renders a man immobile for just a moment, and then you look at him as though you know. He becomes your slave…”
She could not hold back the laugher, “But it is so cold out!”
“I suppose you are right” he smiled. “A glimpse of the neck will have to do.”
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Men
He told her life is best lived in boxes and she responded with a curious stare.
“Boxes?” She questioned, “And what my dear do you mean by that?”
“My success,” He explained “I attribute to my boxes. A box for love and passion, a larger box for work, another for hobbies and so on. If you want what I have, you must create boxes.”
And she looked at him, a handsome man, but aged by the stress and responsibility hidden in the lining of certain boxes and she wondered if she too could actually compartmentalize her life.
-
“Women who are 35 are crazy” he explained.
She laughed, never quite able to predict what he would bring to the table. Her look was enough to beckon an elaboration.
“They wake up one day and look at themselves in the mirror and ask what the hell have they been doing since college. They wanted to keep up with the boys, and at the end of the day they failed, and now their eggs are drying up and the successful men want the woman they were 10 years ago. You take them on a date and they want a ring, not an appetizer”
He looked at her and continued, “Men like myself want women like you.”
Her stomach clenched, and she remembered something her father once said. A man and a woman can only be friends for so long before one wants more.
He was that one.
-
“Something about you pulls me in. I can’t place it. Maybe it is the sadness in your eyes. They are so beautiful, but so sad.”
She uncomfortably laughed and said she was the happiest girl in the world. And began to list reasons as to why, creating a case for her contentment, but she trailed off..
He looked at her with a serious stare and said “No, that is not true, there is something behind those eyes, hidden in that heart.”
And she felt vulnerable. She missed being misunderstood.
-
She lost her mind, and her heart.
“What do you want me to say??? Give up everything, come with me to Israel? Forget your dreams, make sacrifices.”
Yes, she thought, I want you to say precisely that, or maybe just that you love me. That I didn’t follow you around the world to discover I can’t keep you for myself. That you were meant for another.
But she discovered precisely that. A delayed flight back from Panama, a restless sleep on an airport floor, and a silent drive home. She then understood why there are thousands of novels written about broken hearts.
-
“Come with me to Paris!” He said with an unattractive dose of enthusiasm.
“Oh, don’t be silly” she responded.
“I’m serious. Or Vegas, London, New York, the moon…Just come with me somewhere”
She sipped her dirty martini and grimaced at the bite of the vodka. She turned to him with kind but sad eyes and replied, “I don’t think I can ever fall in love with you . I don’t feel the connection you do. I see you as a friend, but we can never be more. I’m sorry”
“Love?” He questioned. “ I’m not asking you to jump beneath the sheets, just to take a chance on me. I will make you a queen.”
But she did not want to be a queen.
She never spoke to him again, preferring her pauper she left in Panama.
“Boxes?” She questioned, “And what my dear do you mean by that?”
“My success,” He explained “I attribute to my boxes. A box for love and passion, a larger box for work, another for hobbies and so on. If you want what I have, you must create boxes.”
And she looked at him, a handsome man, but aged by the stress and responsibility hidden in the lining of certain boxes and she wondered if she too could actually compartmentalize her life.
-
“Women who are 35 are crazy” he explained.
She laughed, never quite able to predict what he would bring to the table. Her look was enough to beckon an elaboration.
“They wake up one day and look at themselves in the mirror and ask what the hell have they been doing since college. They wanted to keep up with the boys, and at the end of the day they failed, and now their eggs are drying up and the successful men want the woman they were 10 years ago. You take them on a date and they want a ring, not an appetizer”
He looked at her and continued, “Men like myself want women like you.”
Her stomach clenched, and she remembered something her father once said. A man and a woman can only be friends for so long before one wants more.
He was that one.
-
“Something about you pulls me in. I can’t place it. Maybe it is the sadness in your eyes. They are so beautiful, but so sad.”
She uncomfortably laughed and said she was the happiest girl in the world. And began to list reasons as to why, creating a case for her contentment, but she trailed off..
He looked at her with a serious stare and said “No, that is not true, there is something behind those eyes, hidden in that heart.”
And she felt vulnerable. She missed being misunderstood.
-
She lost her mind, and her heart.
“What do you want me to say??? Give up everything, come with me to Israel? Forget your dreams, make sacrifices.”
Yes, she thought, I want you to say precisely that, or maybe just that you love me. That I didn’t follow you around the world to discover I can’t keep you for myself. That you were meant for another.
But she discovered precisely that. A delayed flight back from Panama, a restless sleep on an airport floor, and a silent drive home. She then understood why there are thousands of novels written about broken hearts.
-
“Come with me to Paris!” He said with an unattractive dose of enthusiasm.
“Oh, don’t be silly” she responded.
“I’m serious. Or Vegas, London, New York, the moon…Just come with me somewhere”
She sipped her dirty martini and grimaced at the bite of the vodka. She turned to him with kind but sad eyes and replied, “I don’t think I can ever fall in love with you . I don’t feel the connection you do. I see you as a friend, but we can never be more. I’m sorry”
“Love?” He questioned. “ I’m not asking you to jump beneath the sheets, just to take a chance on me. I will make you a queen.”
But she did not want to be a queen.
She never spoke to him again, preferring her pauper she left in Panama.
Monday, December 7, 2009
The Boogie Man
To wake in a sweat. To fear for just a blink that the dream was true, that all was lost, that her imagination had stained her sheets. That she had taken a risk, and faced the consequences, whispered a forbidden thought and been heard by the masses. Once a marble goddess crumbled into ashes by actualized thoughts…
But it was just a dream.
Yet she tiptoes through the night, immobilized by the twilight. Fearful of who and what awaits here when she relinquishes control of her breath and thoughts. Circles beneath her eyes are the evidence that she fears something much greater than the boogie man. For while he resides beneath her bed, her mind consumes her, and grips her in a mad, passionate and unforgiving fury…
But these are just dreams we speak of.
Then she will fall into a pool of diamonds that taste like sugar, and never get tired of their sweetness. She will bathe in fountains of champagne that keeps her ageless. No care or reasonability in the world. No disappointments or doubts, none disappointed or doubtful of her..
But it was just a dream.
And reality assumes a post somewhere in between the cold sweats and bliss while not entirely independent of one another. Neither a goddness, nor a heathen, she is merely a human who sometimes dances on the brink of extremes.
But it was just a dream.
Yet she tiptoes through the night, immobilized by the twilight. Fearful of who and what awaits here when she relinquishes control of her breath and thoughts. Circles beneath her eyes are the evidence that she fears something much greater than the boogie man. For while he resides beneath her bed, her mind consumes her, and grips her in a mad, passionate and unforgiving fury…
But these are just dreams we speak of.
Then she will fall into a pool of diamonds that taste like sugar, and never get tired of their sweetness. She will bathe in fountains of champagne that keeps her ageless. No care or reasonability in the world. No disappointments or doubts, none disappointed or doubtful of her..
But it was just a dream.
And reality assumes a post somewhere in between the cold sweats and bliss while not entirely independent of one another. Neither a goddness, nor a heathen, she is merely a human who sometimes dances on the brink of extremes.
Dis-Aloosive
“What is your favorite word?” my hair-stylest asked me as he applied white goop to my locks.
“That’s a good question,” I replied. “Give me a minute to think.
I considered the words I say most often, the words with a funky sound, the words I hold onto because of their deeper personal meaning.
“Disillusioned!” exclaimed my friend sitting in the chair beside me. “Becca loveeees the word disillusioned” she giggled.
I looked at her and laughed. This had recently become a word I probably say too frequently: When someone asks me to do something I certainly will not, when I am asked on a date that is implausible, when someone makes an erroneous assumption about me and my intentions. This world is disillusioned..
“That is a good one” I said with a grin on my face, but I think my word has to be elusive.
“Eelluusssiveeeee?” said my stylist mocking. “And what does that mean miss sassy pants?”[1]
I explained that it means that something has a bit of mystery, a person, or a concept you can’t quite put your finger on.
“Oh, like me” he said smiling. “Let’s see, how would you spell that…A-L-O-O-S-I-V-E…You girls and these big words.”
We all laughed.
“Well can you be disaloosive?” He asked cracking a smirk that revealed he was completely unserious.
I thought about it, and suggested that maybe it is when someone discovers your secrets, and you are not so elusive anymore…
I hope to never become too “diselusive.” I think there is something intrinsically sexy and classy about keeping a bit to oneself. I think too often we fall into the trap of becoming open books, thinking that the world is actually interested in hearing everything we have to say. When in reality, the person who likes to hear themselves talk the most, is well, themselves…
[1] Apparently some think I am sassy. Strangest thing.
Monday, November 30, 2009
Fortunate Fortunes
She has this bi-polar sense of self-worth. Some days she will dance into room, intoxicating every bystander with her charisma and charm, but other days she forgets how to take the most modest compliment. It is a bit of a gamble who she will wake up to in the morning. She goes to bed not knowing, just praying that her opinion of self will be kind, forgiving, supple.
They say don’t judge a book by its cover but she is a slave to her binding and reinterprets her title incessantly, sometimes for better, other times for worse. It is strange how her opinion of her value is contingent on so many unstable factors. The other day for instance, was bleak and dismal. Her apartment was unbearable chilly and damp because she neglected to close the windows after setting the oven smoking. The feeling the weather instilled in her was enough to steer her self-perception down a very critical path…
But sometimes she cannot pinpoint the rhyme or the reason. She woke up today an hour and 45 minutes later than intended, leaving no time for the gym or to find a remedy for her orphanesque façade. She surrendered to her harsh judgment and accepted that today she would not stand tall.
But sometimes ones opinions are challenged by the simplest things. Her local coffee spot always posts the day’s horoscope on the barista counter. Typically her roommate surprises her with a text around 10:30 revealing her omen like a fortune cookie, but today she needed coffee to drive her to work. While not superstitious, she is occasionally tickled by irony and serendipity. Her horoscope read: “How many times do you need to be told you’re beautiful before you believe it? You light up a room with your smile. Embrace it”…
They say don’t judge a book by its cover but she is a slave to her binding and reinterprets her title incessantly, sometimes for better, other times for worse. It is strange how her opinion of her value is contingent on so many unstable factors. The other day for instance, was bleak and dismal. Her apartment was unbearable chilly and damp because she neglected to close the windows after setting the oven smoking. The feeling the weather instilled in her was enough to steer her self-perception down a very critical path…
But sometimes she cannot pinpoint the rhyme or the reason. She woke up today an hour and 45 minutes later than intended, leaving no time for the gym or to find a remedy for her orphanesque façade. She surrendered to her harsh judgment and accepted that today she would not stand tall.
But sometimes ones opinions are challenged by the simplest things. Her local coffee spot always posts the day’s horoscope on the barista counter. Typically her roommate surprises her with a text around 10:30 revealing her omen like a fortune cookie, but today she needed coffee to drive her to work. While not superstitious, she is occasionally tickled by irony and serendipity. Her horoscope read: “How many times do you need to be told you’re beautiful before you believe it? You light up a room with your smile. Embrace it”…
Monday, November 23, 2009
Elephants and Art..
There are people, posers if you will, who stand before the most abstract of art, to evaluate nothing but their ego. They search between the stark lines and contours of a canvas, to prove nothing but a point. An illusion unfolds as they project a capacity to unearth the hidden message of the artist, an artist who had no other intention than to splash a dash of this and dabble of that, an artist who likely laughed at the idea of the pompous viewers who would someday assess his afterthoughts.
But then there is art that grips even the most indifferent observer, perhaps one who would love to dwell before a masterpiece but has forgotten how. Art so captivating that is beckons appreciation from the rushed and taxed. It inspires connoisseurs and troglodytes alike with a message so saturated with sadness and grace that it seeps beyond the confines of frames and into one’s consideration.
I don’t know how to pinpoint why certain images speak. I am no master, and I lack the language to articulate the mechanics of a captivating canvas. But does that really matter? Beauty, like most things is relative and the language to correctly describe something, no matter how refined and widely endorsed, is merely a construction…
I haven’t cried in several months. I sometimes consider tears a luxury my schedule does not permit. Or maybe that is my justification for not being as sensitive as I used to be.
I will not say I cried today, but I was somewhere on the brink. I shed a tear or two. I went to the DIA to see an exhibition of Avedon’s photography. One shot, imparticular stirred something in me and silenced my cynicism. Before me stood a woman, fair and slender, surrounded by circus elephants. They were tethered down by chains and she by the sash below her breasts. All were in captivity, and somehow a silent understanding was shared by all.
This image spoke.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Hocus Pocus...
She is darned in black: silk skirt a glove on her curves, yet she tastefully salvages a bit of mystery by concealing every ounce of porcelain flesh. Her neck the only visible fragment of her body, since even her cheeks are camouflaged by a bloodly rouge, and her eyes disguised by dark circles. Everything is in place, except her hair which had different plans: Dark, wildly, nostalgic for nights on the town, and unwilling to conform to the life she now leads. But don’t be fooled by her thick rimmed glasses, double tall extra foam elixir, and PDA in hand..she is but an actress.
Hocus-pocus bravado. She labels Uncle Sam the tyrant and her artistic soul the damsel in distress. In her fairy tale she is the star: protagonist, antagonist, director, producer…She whispers poignant memories of trudging through the Balkans and basking on dessert islands to anyone who will listen to her weave them a tale. Her former commitment to humanitarianism, the guilt she lives with every day for not being all things: rehearsed, calculated, an illusion she believe. Truth be told, she has no external enemies, she is fighting only herself, and she is losing the battle. Fighting to believe she is a creative yet resilient spirit, not a corporate sell-out, quick enough to keep up with the boys, and competitive enough to drop everything that means something to her to win this race.
“Cut the bull-shit” he told me. And I told him he didn’t understand me, but I knew he didn’t need to. He didn’t need to know my thoughts and intentions to recognize the hypocrisy in my fairy tale. Abra Cadabra won’t work on them all. “If you call yourself some staved artist, get off your ass and go to the DIA, sacrifice one predictable night of dancing to paint a picture, to contribute to something you supposedly believe in.”
Sell out.
Yet she is but an actress, who can’t always win the Oscar. Who doesn’t even know she is performing because it is how she copes.
Hocus-pocus bravado. She labels Uncle Sam the tyrant and her artistic soul the damsel in distress. In her fairy tale she is the star: protagonist, antagonist, director, producer…She whispers poignant memories of trudging through the Balkans and basking on dessert islands to anyone who will listen to her weave them a tale. Her former commitment to humanitarianism, the guilt she lives with every day for not being all things: rehearsed, calculated, an illusion she believe. Truth be told, she has no external enemies, she is fighting only herself, and she is losing the battle. Fighting to believe she is a creative yet resilient spirit, not a corporate sell-out, quick enough to keep up with the boys, and competitive enough to drop everything that means something to her to win this race.
“Cut the bull-shit” he told me. And I told him he didn’t understand me, but I knew he didn’t need to. He didn’t need to know my thoughts and intentions to recognize the hypocrisy in my fairy tale. Abra Cadabra won’t work on them all. “If you call yourself some staved artist, get off your ass and go to the DIA, sacrifice one predictable night of dancing to paint a picture, to contribute to something you supposedly believe in.”
Sell out.
Yet she is but an actress, who can’t always win the Oscar. Who doesn’t even know she is performing because it is how she copes.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Creatures of havoc
The other day someone told me I am living the dream. While I know this was intended as a kind gesture, I pause to assess the meaning of such a statement. Do they speak of their own dreams, because I dream of other things..
I have an unrealistic fear of becoming a prisoner of convention. And thus some days this dream I supposedly live feels more like a nightmare. The instillation of simple habits sometimes set my heart racing. I notice that I have a morning routine. I become complacent with monotony and side with predictability for the sake of convenience. I wake at a set time, eat the same things, drive the same way. It is an unchallenged regimen. Am I but a machine? I fear habit extinguishes creativity, yet this dream I am living feels increasingly habitual
In the background of blockbuster hits walk the blur of business men and women. The John Smiths and Jane Does who stride in synchronization, darned in snaggless tights and crisp suites. They are but the backdrop, their every movement determined by their hunger for success, their fire fueled by the glamorization of a paradigm entitled “more, more, more….”
But with such an unquantifiable goal, can it ever be enough?
I have an unrealistic fear of becoming a prisoner of convention. And thus some days this dream I supposedly live feels more like a nightmare. The instillation of simple habits sometimes set my heart racing. I notice that I have a morning routine. I become complacent with monotony and side with predictability for the sake of convenience. I wake at a set time, eat the same things, drive the same way. It is an unchallenged regimen. Am I but a machine? I fear habit extinguishes creativity, yet this dream I am living feels increasingly habitual
In the background of blockbuster hits walk the blur of business men and women. The John Smiths and Jane Does who stride in synchronization, darned in snaggless tights and crisp suites. They are but the backdrop, their every movement determined by their hunger for success, their fire fueled by the glamorization of a paradigm entitled “more, more, more….”
But with such an unquantifiable goal, can it ever be enough?
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
The Prostitution Princess
“You researched what?” He asked in surprise.
“Prostitution” I responded with a straight face, not looking for small talk, particularly not the kind initiated by men several drinks in.
His lips gave way to the mischievous grin that all men accidently let slip when I reveal my anthropological interest.
“What do you mean prostitution?” He asked, hungry for a playful response, clearly ignorant of my disinterest in prolonging the conversation.
“I studied the relationship between prostitution and capitalism.”
He’s eyes revealed he wanted more.
I reluctantly explained that My interest was in the impact of capitalism on sex workers in contemporary US society, how the body is conceptualized as something which should remain whole, but the process of commoditization mandates fragmentation. I considered morality, and relationships, and ultimately how a woman living on the fringe of society is given no option but a schizophrenic existence. I took a sip of my wine and looked him in the eye.
What once was excitement, had been exchanged for terror. In this man’s eyes, I transformed into a monster: Smart, arrogant, immune to his advances, and partial to my own company.
He walked away.
I was relieved. Flirting takes too much energy these days, particularly when it means foolishly giggling about things I am passionate about, diminishing my accomplishments, subduing my intelligence. I would rather someone run away from fear of me eating them than wake-up one day to only discover I am a stranger to my forgotten self. When individuals act astonished that I am an artist, an anthropologist and a business women, I respond with equal astonishment that they fail to see the obvious relationship….
“I think the problem with people these days is they try to put everyone in a box. You are this, or that, but God forbid you be a dynamic individual. How then could we put a label on you?” My new friend laughed.
I couldn’t agree more. Society seems to entice us with stereotypes that we are encouraged to inhabit. I could rant about those who buckle beneath the weight of status symbols and cultural propaganda, but I am also guilty of this crime. I tried the hippy gig for a spurt, followed by the rebellious city girl, only to disregard this for the preppy cape cod, Lily Pulitzer wearing sorority sister. I’m afraid, however, that I am a cracked vessel. The truth has always seeped through.
I passed a little girl the other day, wearing roller skates, a cape and a crown, fist tightly clinched around her magic fairy wand. It wasn’t Halloween, it was Tuesday, and she had important things to do. I looked at her with hidden admiration, jealous of her inhibition and sense of purpose. She wasn’t smiling, but daunted a serious glare. She was on a mission, be it a mystery to the rest of us.
I wonder what would happen if I rolled up to the office dressed as a princess with a purpose. My suspicion is that it might not go over so well, and that I would either be asked to remove my skates or rolled out.
“Prostitution” I responded with a straight face, not looking for small talk, particularly not the kind initiated by men several drinks in.
His lips gave way to the mischievous grin that all men accidently let slip when I reveal my anthropological interest.
“What do you mean prostitution?” He asked, hungry for a playful response, clearly ignorant of my disinterest in prolonging the conversation.
“I studied the relationship between prostitution and capitalism.”
He’s eyes revealed he wanted more.
I reluctantly explained that My interest was in the impact of capitalism on sex workers in contemporary US society, how the body is conceptualized as something which should remain whole, but the process of commoditization mandates fragmentation. I considered morality, and relationships, and ultimately how a woman living on the fringe of society is given no option but a schizophrenic existence. I took a sip of my wine and looked him in the eye.
What once was excitement, had been exchanged for terror. In this man’s eyes, I transformed into a monster: Smart, arrogant, immune to his advances, and partial to my own company.
He walked away.
I was relieved. Flirting takes too much energy these days, particularly when it means foolishly giggling about things I am passionate about, diminishing my accomplishments, subduing my intelligence. I would rather someone run away from fear of me eating them than wake-up one day to only discover I am a stranger to my forgotten self. When individuals act astonished that I am an artist, an anthropologist and a business women, I respond with equal astonishment that they fail to see the obvious relationship….
“I think the problem with people these days is they try to put everyone in a box. You are this, or that, but God forbid you be a dynamic individual. How then could we put a label on you?” My new friend laughed.
I couldn’t agree more. Society seems to entice us with stereotypes that we are encouraged to inhabit. I could rant about those who buckle beneath the weight of status symbols and cultural propaganda, but I am also guilty of this crime. I tried the hippy gig for a spurt, followed by the rebellious city girl, only to disregard this for the preppy cape cod, Lily Pulitzer wearing sorority sister. I’m afraid, however, that I am a cracked vessel. The truth has always seeped through.
I passed a little girl the other day, wearing roller skates, a cape and a crown, fist tightly clinched around her magic fairy wand. It wasn’t Halloween, it was Tuesday, and she had important things to do. I looked at her with hidden admiration, jealous of her inhibition and sense of purpose. She wasn’t smiling, but daunted a serious glare. She was on a mission, be it a mystery to the rest of us.
I wonder what would happen if I rolled up to the office dressed as a princess with a purpose. My suspicion is that it might not go over so well, and that I would either be asked to remove my skates or rolled out.
Monday, October 26, 2009
back on track
I certainly have meandered off the path I originally intended, and now I am at a crux: to return to my original vision or to continue to bombard the reader with schizophrenic snippets of poems and commiseration. For now, I do intend to return to the former, a closer allegiance to business insights. If this proves dry, I apologize, but my hope it to maintain a creative thread throughout. Afterall, business is not so boring, quite the contrary. I find myself facing greater challenges and excitements than in any other prior experience. I recognize I have not been the most faithful blogger and for that I apologize. This is my commitment to getting back on track. You have my word, or in the literal since, words.
Sunday, September 27, 2009
A poem
Somedays I miss being a child so much it hurts. I find myself giving oblivious toddles dirty glares, envious of their lack of responsibility and abundance of time. And while this new life is certainly a transition for me, I cannot fathom what a unusual feeling this must be for my parents. For the first time, the nest is empty, as Jenny has also left home to begin her Freshman year of college. This is all to preface my decision to post a poem I wrote this past year. I am no poet, however sometimes I prefer poetry because it enables the delivery of a poignant message with a dash of ambiguity. It permits the reader to use their own judgement to interpret aspects of the message and thus enables the potential personalization of the prose. I give you the following.
Mama
Times of change are bittersweet
We round the turns, knowing not what we’ll meet
Yet I feel as though we’ve been here before.
Faced these same dragons, escaped these same storms.
Yes mama, dragons we already defied.
Each time we weren’t too proud to cry
To one another.
We’ve always had each other.
Someone once told me that I sing the sadness.
I think you know the tune.
I always thought is was written for me
But it was also written for you.
So together lets sing it so we can get through
To the joyful chorus
Also written for us.
I know so much of who I am,
Was also experienced by you.
You need not tell me when,
You need not tell me why,
Let us both refuse to justify the crises for which we cry.
Because we both know,
That to grow
Has mean fighting many dragons,
Who sometimes nearly had us
Defeated.
But we beat them.
So come with me,
This is victory.
And sing with me this chorus
Yes mama, it was written for us.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
My first novel...
I have decided to write a book...I have no idea how long it will take, or what it will be about, but I feel as though I have no other choice.
Sunday, September 20, 2009
Planes
I hate flying. I wish I was kidding when I tell you that on every flight, I fear that I am on the brink of death. I see the light at the end of the tunnel. I am a super human. I neither breathe nor blink for hours on end. Sure this is unrealistic, and some might go so far as to say that I am embarrassing myself. I look to the closest person for consolation be it a former Air Force pilot or yesterday, a snotty nose seven year old boy who was kind enough to inform me that I looked pretty scared. Children are so wise these days. I know what you are thinking, how odd that I chose a job where I could fly up to 100 times a year. I suppose I view myself as a martyr for the business world… or just girl who needs to get over a couple of her fears.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Bumps...
I lean into the mirror to examine the texture of my skin. It reads like brail, revealing neglect. Not pimples, but risen redness, taught, oily and dry all in the same moment. My Dad tells me that he knows how I am actually doing by looking at my skin. The transformation begins above my temples. Sneaky bumps on the sly, pitter-patter down my cheekbones, consuming my forehead, and never neglecting to kiss my chin. One bump for Starbucks, a smatter from the sun, another for that extra glass of chardonnay, a constellation for short nights of sleep, and evenings when I was too tired to wash before I rested. My skin speaks the truth…
Bumps are never good, since they either refer to things too small, or others to large. Due to the mysterious nature of this audience, I won’t focus on the bumps I wish were lumps or even humps.
There is, however, one bump that plagues all women. Maybe it is better referred to as a landmark, as it is the spot all women eyes immediately focus when standing naked in the mirror. It is that space below the navel, that despite hours of cardio, slim fast shakes, and voodoo pills from Rite-Aid, will not subside. I am told that because I am a woman and will have children someday, this bump is necessary. It is my kangaroo pouch. Shape magazine says it increases in size due to Cortisol expenditure, and thus stress is a trigger. If that’s the case, I am going to need a sling in the near future.
In a perfect world, this bump would be sexy. Women would get implants, and have bump envy. Padded panties would be a top seller at Victoria’s Secret, and all the stars would wear designer jeans to accentuate their muffin tops.
But for now, bumps are out. I suppose one can always dream.
Bumps are never good, since they either refer to things too small, or others to large. Due to the mysterious nature of this audience, I won’t focus on the bumps I wish were lumps or even humps.
There is, however, one bump that plagues all women. Maybe it is better referred to as a landmark, as it is the spot all women eyes immediately focus when standing naked in the mirror. It is that space below the navel, that despite hours of cardio, slim fast shakes, and voodoo pills from Rite-Aid, will not subside. I am told that because I am a woman and will have children someday, this bump is necessary. It is my kangaroo pouch. Shape magazine says it increases in size due to Cortisol expenditure, and thus stress is a trigger. If that’s the case, I am going to need a sling in the near future.
In a perfect world, this bump would be sexy. Women would get implants, and have bump envy. Padded panties would be a top seller at Victoria’s Secret, and all the stars would wear designer jeans to accentuate their muffin tops.
But for now, bumps are out. I suppose one can always dream.
Monday, September 14, 2009
Thoughts of the day...
Sometimes it feels like I am running out of time to do all the things I want to do. You might role your eyes at this notion and remind me that I am merely 22 years old, but these years were a blink and I am told that each day time only passes all the quicker. When shall I be a scholar, a best friend, an activist and anthropologist, an artist, and a business woman. Not to mention a daughter, a world traveler, an entrepreneur, a peacemaker, a revolutionary and a writer. Does this string ring of contradictions? Am I selfish to seek such a bounty of independently intricate identities? Would someone say, “She wants it all”? Because I do. But quite frankly, in this moment, I struggle to fathom how I can simultaneously be all these things. While I am not ready to surrender the possibility that I can, neither can I shed the perception that some things must be pushed aside, at least for now. But what I ask? I certainly cannot disregard my role as a daughter, a friend, a sister, but neither can I cease to be any of these other identifiers. At the end of the day I am exhausted being me, but I would rather be tried and true than compromised and rested. I suppose that drained is a small price to pay for authenticity. I can imagine nothing else…Some people make-sense, while others make-believe, and then there are those of us who are plagued by the perception that farcical ambitions are the only available to us. I am not the kind of girl who dreams of possibilities, but impossibilities, and I pursue them with such unrelenting passion that I occasionally manage to transform mirages into nearly tangible oases.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Barbies and Bowling Balls
I wore fire engine red lipstick to work today. What else was I supposed to do? In what other capacity can I be rebellious these days? In college, edgy meant people would talk. In real life, edgy means layoff…
If I was a sport, I would be racketball: spontaneous, frustrating, and painful if you don’t know how to handle me. During a recent meeting with common sense, I was encouraged to put away my rackets in exchange for a tight-rope. To my dismay, balancing is a hard act. I hold my breath and attempt to channel all my energy into the task at hand: survival. I don’t want to fall and crack my head open. Unfortunately, patience and I were never good friends . As some of my peers run across their tight ropes in wheelbarrows, blindfolded, or riding bikes, it takes every ounce of that goodness mama instilled in me to refrain from pushing them off into the caverns below.
I’m wearing swimmies in this pool and using bumpers in this bowling alley. I’m “that” girl, the one wearing a neon Barbie helmet with matching elbow and knee pads. Usually I would resist these aids, but I don’t want to drown, throw my ball into my neighbor’s lane or scratch up my knees. Oh sweet humility…
Frank
I interact with a wide variety of people every day. I see in them characteristics I aspire to embody, as well as qualities I pray will never be ascribed to me. These people occupy all levels of social totem poles, and I have quickly recognized that there is little to no correlation between “good” and “powerful” people. Moreover, I often recognize the opposite to be true…
Frank is a simple man. He cleans the bathrooms in the building where I work. His hands are worn and his eyes say that despite his smile he has seen many storms. I am just an analyst, and most individuals needn’t remember my name, since “new girl” is a sufficient identifier to which even I have learned to respond. But this is not the case with Frank. When we pass in the halls, he shakes my hand, and says my name. He never forgets. Sometimes, it is Frank who makes my day when I cannot make it on my own.
But is he powerful? Maybe that is more of a philosophical question, because it is hinged on ones perception of power. In the traditional sense, of course Frank is not a powerful man. He is not the CEO of the company, but the man who scrubs the toilet seats on which the CEO sits. But it is Frank, not the CEO who inspires me. In this regard, perhaps Frank among the powerful. He is the pebble that generates not ripples but waves. Frank inspires me, and because I have the resources and opportunity to succeed, when I succeed, Frank has made a mark. So often, the pebbles are overlooked because they have worn hands, stutters or limps. But pebbles cast, ripples make, and when receptive turn to tides.
I say all this, to endorse the sense of responsibility I feel, to myself, my family, my friends, and people like Frank. My task is not merely to succeed, but to be a good woman while doing it. Frank reminds me of this responsibility everyday when he shakes my hand and says my name...
Frank is a simple man. He cleans the bathrooms in the building where I work. His hands are worn and his eyes say that despite his smile he has seen many storms. I am just an analyst, and most individuals needn’t remember my name, since “new girl” is a sufficient identifier to which even I have learned to respond. But this is not the case with Frank. When we pass in the halls, he shakes my hand, and says my name. He never forgets. Sometimes, it is Frank who makes my day when I cannot make it on my own.
But is he powerful? Maybe that is more of a philosophical question, because it is hinged on ones perception of power. In the traditional sense, of course Frank is not a powerful man. He is not the CEO of the company, but the man who scrubs the toilet seats on which the CEO sits. But it is Frank, not the CEO who inspires me. In this regard, perhaps Frank among the powerful. He is the pebble that generates not ripples but waves. Frank inspires me, and because I have the resources and opportunity to succeed, when I succeed, Frank has made a mark. So often, the pebbles are overlooked because they have worn hands, stutters or limps. But pebbles cast, ripples make, and when receptive turn to tides.
I say all this, to endorse the sense of responsibility I feel, to myself, my family, my friends, and people like Frank. My task is not merely to succeed, but to be a good woman while doing it. Frank reminds me of this responsibility everyday when he shakes my hand and says my name...
Monday, September 7, 2009
Curiously Content
I have days that feel as though they are not my own. The alarm halts my dream before the sun rises, and I occupy myself with work into the darker hours. I hear the weather has been nice lately, and the skies exceptionally clear, but my frugal allowance of personal time only permits me to wash my face and brush my teeth before collapsing into the continuation of this cycle.
When I emerge on Friday evening, I look at myself in the mirror, and ask how I can retain myself amidst this chaos. My skin is clammy, my nails chipped, and I am drowning in a sea of unopened bills and bank statements. I miss writing poetry, slowly inhaling and exhaling during long sessions of yoga. I miss painting for hours on end for no reason other than self expression. STrangly enough, if you were to ask me if I am happy, my eyes would ignite with passion and I would tell you that I have never been so content…
And as this is the case, I infer that my happiness is rooted in several things. It is not so self-evident. Firstly, I find this new taste of independence extremely satiating. I leave my mark on all I touch, but most importantly, I am gradually finding ways to make “me” time. I use post-it-notes during lunch breaks to sketch ideas for future paintings, I run in the morning while it is dark and quite, giving me time to breath, think, and sweat, I talk to the people I love when driving. I refuse to sacrifice the important things. But now, every minute is precious…I never forget this.
When I emerge on Friday evening, I look at myself in the mirror, and ask how I can retain myself amidst this chaos. My skin is clammy, my nails chipped, and I am drowning in a sea of unopened bills and bank statements. I miss writing poetry, slowly inhaling and exhaling during long sessions of yoga. I miss painting for hours on end for no reason other than self expression. STrangly enough, if you were to ask me if I am happy, my eyes would ignite with passion and I would tell you that I have never been so content…
And as this is the case, I infer that my happiness is rooted in several things. It is not so self-evident. Firstly, I find this new taste of independence extremely satiating. I leave my mark on all I touch, but most importantly, I am gradually finding ways to make “me” time. I use post-it-notes during lunch breaks to sketch ideas for future paintings, I run in the morning while it is dark and quite, giving me time to breath, think, and sweat, I talk to the people I love when driving. I refuse to sacrifice the important things. But now, every minute is precious…I never forget this.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
A means to an end...
I have a problem, and a severe one at that. I want to be all things to all people, and to make matters worse, there is a rather diversified set of individuals I seek to please. There are those who encourage my creative spirit, those who encourage my drive and ferocity, those who tempt my sultry side, and those who nurture my spiritual longing. Sometimes I finish the day, feeling as though I have triumphantly executed the task at hand, living fully. Other days however, when I finally surrender to the silence, I feel quite alone.
I think this is part of the human condition. We busy ourselves throughout the day, often times with the most menial tasks. We convince ourselves that we do is purposeful, and in some way a means to an end, Rarely, however, do we fully process what this “end” is? Today for example, I woke early, practiced yoga, and drove to work where I successfully checked off each item on my to do list. I laughed at a dozen jokes, smiled at a dozen strangers, I ran to both CVS and the bank on my lunch break. After work, I called several friends, went for a run, checked my mail, and then, yes then in the late evening…there was the silence. Oh, how I had dreaded its inevitable onset. You might consider me melodramatic but I assure you, I am not exaggerating. The silence terrifies me, and thus at the end of the day, I ask myself, if all my tasks are to achieve an end or rather to prevent having to reconcile with my thoughts. This is a goal of mine, becoming comfortable in the stillness. I would be interested in discovering who I am there.
I think this is part of the human condition. We busy ourselves throughout the day, often times with the most menial tasks. We convince ourselves that we do is purposeful, and in some way a means to an end, Rarely, however, do we fully process what this “end” is? Today for example, I woke early, practiced yoga, and drove to work where I successfully checked off each item on my to do list. I laughed at a dozen jokes, smiled at a dozen strangers, I ran to both CVS and the bank on my lunch break. After work, I called several friends, went for a run, checked my mail, and then, yes then in the late evening…there was the silence. Oh, how I had dreaded its inevitable onset. You might consider me melodramatic but I assure you, I am not exaggerating. The silence terrifies me, and thus at the end of the day, I ask myself, if all my tasks are to achieve an end or rather to prevent having to reconcile with my thoughts. This is a goal of mine, becoming comfortable in the stillness. I would be interested in discovering who I am there.
Monday, August 10, 2009
It's all about the shoes...
After two weeks into the job, the most pressing matter on my mind was shoes. So much for not being a stereotype. But let me elaborate before you come to any harsh conclusions. After two weeks of wearing what were undoubtedly a rather chic pair of Sam Edelman pumps, I considered filing for disability insurance. On the way through the airport after week two of training, I was certain I would need wheel chair for assistance. It was not just the blisters. Those could be remedied with band-aids. It was the feeling that my entire bone structure had succumbed to the dark forces of my black, and rather stylish, pumps. I found myself not going to the bathroom as often to limit walking, sneaking behind corners to quickly switch from flip-flops to heels, and thinking about the pain rather than the task at hand. While during breaks co-workers were face-booking, I was searching online directories for podiatrists. I concluded that in a perfect world, women would always wear flats, or at least be allowed to expense a foot massage every so often…
But I like the height. After all, I am no giant, standing at a proud 5’4”. Call me stubborn, but the last thing I am ready to sacrifice is the extra umph I feel when wearing a pair of sexy heels. I feel more confident, more assertive, and safer, since under desperate circumstances a heel serve as a bludgeon or numb-chuck.
As you can imagine, I found myself in quite a fix.
That is until I met Cole Haan. I am certain he must be an incredible gentleman in person, because he won my feet over at first stride. As I limped through the mall last Saturday, I saw a sign in the distance that read “clearance” in the window of Mr. Haan’s store. I was drawn to it like a bee to honey. Before I knew it I had made best friends with the woman in the store, who had convinced me, vulnerable as I was, that a pair of Nike-Air pumps would change my life. Call me naive, but I believed her. My foot found herself in a pump of the finest smooth calfskin and beautifully concealed NIKE AIR technology for ultimate cushioning, fully leather lined, and with a front mini platform with softly buffed leather sole. These, were real shoes.
Since that day, I have reconsider my perceived disadvantage as an elevated woman. My shoes, need not be my enemy but my ally. Sure, the boys have loafers, but my dear friends, Mr. Haan is on our side, and thanks to him, we will not only do an exceptional job, but look exceptional doing it.
But I like the height. After all, I am no giant, standing at a proud 5’4”. Call me stubborn, but the last thing I am ready to sacrifice is the extra umph I feel when wearing a pair of sexy heels. I feel more confident, more assertive, and safer, since under desperate circumstances a heel serve as a bludgeon or numb-chuck.
As you can imagine, I found myself in quite a fix.
That is until I met Cole Haan. I am certain he must be an incredible gentleman in person, because he won my feet over at first stride. As I limped through the mall last Saturday, I saw a sign in the distance that read “clearance” in the window of Mr. Haan’s store. I was drawn to it like a bee to honey. Before I knew it I had made best friends with the woman in the store, who had convinced me, vulnerable as I was, that a pair of Nike-Air pumps would change my life. Call me naive, but I believed her. My foot found herself in a pump of the finest smooth calfskin and beautifully concealed NIKE AIR technology for ultimate cushioning, fully leather lined, and with a front mini platform with softly buffed leather sole. These, were real shoes.
Since that day, I have reconsider my perceived disadvantage as an elevated woman. My shoes, need not be my enemy but my ally. Sure, the boys have loafers, but my dear friends, Mr. Haan is on our side, and thanks to him, we will not only do an exceptional job, but look exceptional doing it.
Sunday, August 9, 2009
I am an outlier...
Malcolm Gladwell, in his New York Times Best seller Outliers, shared the stories of a collection of individuals he refers to as "outliers"—the best and the brightest, the most famous and the most successful. He asks the question: what makes high-achievers different? He suggests that we focus too much on what successful people are like, while neglected to ask where they are from: that is, their culture, their family, their generation, and the idiosyncratic experiences of their upbringing. The combination of both, he believes contribute to the unique success of certain individuals. It is not just about having certain skills, but often times about being in the right place at the right time. Based on Gladwell’s criteria laid out in his novel, I also would consider myself an Outlier. I am no Bill Gates, and certainly not Oprah, however, I currently find myself in the most unique situation I could ever imagine. Is it because I deserved it? Well yes, but not more than others who wanted my job.
Let me give you a brief background, and I will try not to lose you in the details. After all, I am in the business world now and striving toward consolidating my thoughts! Summer after my sophomore year of college, I interned at an anti-human trafficking non-profit in Washington DC. I was quickly moved from the grass roots campaign team to the development and outreach team, because the organization thought I had a unique potential to identify creative ways to generate more unrestricted funding for the organization. I was able to organically create unique fund-raising initiative, however, in doing so I was constantly frustrated with the disorder in the way the non-profit. I left D.C. to research in Bosnia, Serbia, and Croatia. There I examined the impact of social location on activists’ effectiveness when working with Roma in the slums around Belgrade. While many aspects of the experience were life changing, I quickly grew frustrated by the same disorder apparently inherent in non-profit sector on both sides of the ocean. The following summer was the final straw. I had the same frustrating experience researching for a Boston based non-profit focused on Gender, Security and human rights. I wanted to make a difference in the ways these organizations functioned. I recognized that the mission of these organizations was compromised by the inefficiencies in the ways in which they worked (or didn’t). But above all, I was tired of hearing myself complain.
I felt defeated, until several friends suggested that I look into consulting. At that point, I had no idea what they were talking about, but I was open to the idea. Fast forwarding several months, a consulting firm came to my university, looking to hire one or two students in their strategy and operations practice. I knew nothing about business, I had never heard the term “case-study,” and a balance sheet and income statement both resembled cryptic messages… But I got the job. Why? Because they saw in me a unique potential that I had not yet discovered in myself.
I have been working for two weeks now, and I have about one billion things to share. But for now, I will end on the note that I am exactly where I am supposed to be. I am an artist, I am a feminist, I am a human rights activist, I am a visionary, I am a friend, I am a daughter, I am a fighter, I am my biggest critic and now I am a business woman, and surprisingly this is not as ironic as you might imagine… I am outlier, because while I certainly have the skills and potential, it is because the unique way in which my experiences positioned me that I find myself here today
Let me give you a brief background, and I will try not to lose you in the details. After all, I am in the business world now and striving toward consolidating my thoughts! Summer after my sophomore year of college, I interned at an anti-human trafficking non-profit in Washington DC. I was quickly moved from the grass roots campaign team to the development and outreach team, because the organization thought I had a unique potential to identify creative ways to generate more unrestricted funding for the organization. I was able to organically create unique fund-raising initiative, however, in doing so I was constantly frustrated with the disorder in the way the non-profit. I left D.C. to research in Bosnia, Serbia, and Croatia. There I examined the impact of social location on activists’ effectiveness when working with Roma in the slums around Belgrade. While many aspects of the experience were life changing, I quickly grew frustrated by the same disorder apparently inherent in non-profit sector on both sides of the ocean. The following summer was the final straw. I had the same frustrating experience researching for a Boston based non-profit focused on Gender, Security and human rights. I wanted to make a difference in the ways these organizations functioned. I recognized that the mission of these organizations was compromised by the inefficiencies in the ways in which they worked (or didn’t). But above all, I was tired of hearing myself complain.
I felt defeated, until several friends suggested that I look into consulting. At that point, I had no idea what they were talking about, but I was open to the idea. Fast forwarding several months, a consulting firm came to my university, looking to hire one or two students in their strategy and operations practice. I knew nothing about business, I had never heard the term “case-study,” and a balance sheet and income statement both resembled cryptic messages… But I got the job. Why? Because they saw in me a unique potential that I had not yet discovered in myself.
I have been working for two weeks now, and I have about one billion things to share. But for now, I will end on the note that I am exactly where I am supposed to be. I am an artist, I am a feminist, I am a human rights activist, I am a visionary, I am a friend, I am a daughter, I am a fighter, I am my biggest critic and now I am a business woman, and surprisingly this is not as ironic as you might imagine… I am outlier, because while I certainly have the skills and potential, it is because the unique way in which my experiences positioned me that I find myself here today
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