tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-43225405543068191262024-03-05T02:54:25.353-05:00Whiskey and WritingA Fictitious RealityKatehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06919624349500891677noreply@blogger.comBlogger76125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4322540554306819126.post-4050867668578118962010-08-18T10:01:00.002-04:002010-08-18T10:03:24.743-04:00This is serious<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibBnSITclTdc4ImNh92TXL8C0M8d9L-dHjzMnI2XoHQeDIr2bM3VQuxR0eiJ4v4QWBvAaE7ZtcAah2JI3Ygm5_QOzRIqWDIX3VJZIKJ7Fy70hopFutgjaARh4JJ-T82MYedwhKW5IaV40B/s1600/MistyAd.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibBnSITclTdc4ImNh92TXL8C0M8d9L-dHjzMnI2XoHQeDIr2bM3VQuxR0eiJ4v4QWBvAaE7ZtcAah2JI3Ygm5_QOzRIqWDIX3VJZIKJ7Fy70hopFutgjaARh4JJ-T82MYedwhKW5IaV40B/s400/MistyAd.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5506749979485033378" /></a>Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06919624349500891677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4322540554306819126.post-39235959340170299472010-07-27T22:41:00.005-04:002010-07-27T23:14:15.553-04:00Cat for GiftI never thought I'd have a cat, or any domesticated animal, for that matter. And it's not as if the cat is <i>mine</i>. It's David's. Sadly, it was given the name Misty; as her name indicates, she craves attention and behaves much like a stripper from New Jersey. <i>Oh, what's in a name?!</i><div><i><br /></i><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcw8HOr5fXJNOb6YyeIPxIK6RziJ4gPJWYnbJz1DDQD77TP-nJA44NGkPDDTJaXNpEs0kkb2Kd2kIJpaBain1mmK22apB3z5MTj8PdGAuoM2g0tb_ULmweHAfczCHLvinHfdPCtBUJM6qX/s1600/Photo+105.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcw8HOr5fXJNOb6YyeIPxIK6RziJ4gPJWYnbJz1DDQD77TP-nJA44NGkPDDTJaXNpEs0kkb2Kd2kIJpaBain1mmK22apB3z5MTj8PdGAuoM2g0tb_ULmweHAfczCHLvinHfdPCtBUJM6qX/s400/Photo+105.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5498786089948295362" /></a><br /><div>I came home from an unpaid (in terms of monetary value) sabbatical in the Homeland last night, and Misty has scarcely left my side since. She slept on my back last night, which was stifling, but also suffocatingly cute. Until it dawned on me, <i>Oh my God, have I become a cat lady?</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>I awoke late this morning to find Misty still curled on my perspiring back. I also awoke to a text from David, suggesting we get rid of the cat sooner rather than later. At first I looked at the ball of clumped fur beside me and was outraged, <i>Misty is a living being!</i> I though, <i>"You cannot just pawn a living thing onto someone else!" </i>until suddenly I realized how reasonable I was being and quickly changed views. <i>Of course we need to get rid of her! </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>It's not as if we're backing out of a pet because we can't stand her, we simply have come to learn that we are not the proper caretakers for a cat. For one, we travel too much to properly love Misty. Also, I can't actually stand the thought of consciously touching her for a prolonged space of time. </div><div><br /></div><div><b>SO, this is an advertisement!</b> If you live in the Boston metro area and want to acquire a loving, <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">beautiful</span> cat, please let me know and I'll arrange to drop Misty on your doorstep (or in your living room) at your earliest convenience. Misty is a <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">truly</span> gorgeous feline, though I think she may be in need of a new name as well as a new environment and maybe even a buzz cut. </div><div><br /></div><div>Well wishes, </div><div>Kate! </div><div><br /></div></div>Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06919624349500891677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4322540554306819126.post-59762382682415492262010-06-04T18:52:00.003-04:002010-06-04T18:57:21.936-04:00Rememberance<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2GfinvQwHc9iti83cSeajEchRJbwr2-OMe6mTLi7HSeZyVp2TyjYgYLA4GAKJLNhamGP95_p-7XYEKpdN2klysm6cN8wLYZMWlPhmMFFgT5SLUsRiCxGKRSABnZFrI17OlpsDByNLQTAx/s1600/n1328130317_30202376_2624.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 268px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2GfinvQwHc9iti83cSeajEchRJbwr2-OMe6mTLi7HSeZyVp2TyjYgYLA4GAKJLNhamGP95_p-7XYEKpdN2klysm6cN8wLYZMWlPhmMFFgT5SLUsRiCxGKRSABnZFrI17OlpsDByNLQTAx/s400/n1328130317_30202376_2624.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5479056207660258290" /></a><div style="text-align: center;">RIP <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Louise_Bourgeois">Louise Bourgeois</a></div>Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06919624349500891677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4322540554306819126.post-29530681872236194652010-05-25T09:02:00.006-04:002010-05-25T10:01:45.584-04:0015- Amour<div style="text-align: left;">And so begins another summer punctuated by tennis tournaments. For as long as I can afford to, I will arrange my schedule so I can watch my favorite players and be lulled into afternoon dozes (but only during the boring matches, of course) by John McEnroe's lazily authoritative commentating.</div><div><br /> <div><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 303px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIpTwwiRMxSqAjlQmrhBGHYdIZfyKEeiDTn5SH2BjJdJ6uoKJODiEhNcOkGPrbrV3Vjxa78hQP9H64kaM3P4Lz-wBauVZuY5Ll90GqUaJsiuOQ-yVsg1TxUrNuHTQMCmaYXgV5gPow5-Ry/s400/LonginesRolandGarros02.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5475198283768177298" /></div><div><a href="http://www.rolandgarros.com/en_FR/index.html">Roland Garros</a> is a true indication of summertime, just as a gin and tonic on the back patio and flicking june bugs off the screen door are. It's the beginning of something great, in which the outcome is unknown but the energy of expectation pulses like thunderstorms in the bloodstream. Tennis is simultaneously relaxing and straining, methodic and unpredictable, mental yet physical. It's a sport with a narrative not about a team, but about a single player, a character, a champion- and as such the experience between viewer and competitor is intimate like getting to know a new lover, and sometimes tumultuous. Rivalries run deep, and compassion arrests the heart at the most surprising moments as players forfeit their dreams of winning a championship over a mental melt-down or unplanned physical strain. </div><div><br /></div><div>It's a beautiful game, and I will enjoy watching the French, then Queens, Wimbledon, the US Open and whatever else comes in-between. And as I watch, I'll entertain thoughts of hitting a winning passing shot, of tensing, planting, then releasing and, with a burst of concentrated energy, moving a ball forward with the drive of perfection. </div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.globalgiants.com/archives/fotos/LonginesRolandGarros02.jpg">photo</a> </div><div><br /></div></div>Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06919624349500891677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4322540554306819126.post-47701455315819275792010-05-24T14:25:00.004-04:002010-05-24T16:00:18.495-04:00Karen & Jack<div>I've mentioned it once and I'll probably mention it again and again and again, for it's worth repeating: I adore Jack White. Begrudgingly (my disdain exists for no reason apart from the fact that she is his wife) I also adore Karen Elson. Ergo, I love this photo. It's intimate, voyeuristic and a little bit weird. They're so cool. </div><div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge_3ogPJlBK9THYDhmmAzCbdopF3-cT0iBE0jlSD3FyoVT8nBCuK5PB8WYI6t4u4iZFBeujmZsu7erbk-QqAreG0rea-2dfNkcvfkll8bY-LNnnX7lQe9PiJ43I5Fspo-K2GQGm1MVX0EQ/s1600/04v.jpg" style="text-decoration: none;"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 276px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge_3ogPJlBK9THYDhmmAzCbdopF3-cT0iBE0jlSD3FyoVT8nBCuK5PB8WYI6t4u4iZFBeujmZsu7erbk-QqAreG0rea-2dfNkcvfkll8bY-LNnnX7lQe9PiJ43I5Fspo-K2GQGm1MVX0EQ/s400/04v.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5474926702225779026" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.vogue.com/feature/2010_June_Karen_Elson_Jack_White/?mbid=scrubbed_because_of_f33d_term_in_query_string">Photos by Annie Leibovitz for Vogue.</a> </div>Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06919624349500891677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4322540554306819126.post-54536556876977250642010-05-24T00:42:00.001-04:002010-05-24T00:45:06.999-04:00Brothers<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoCg6xpg-szzT6-Wo5mUji9-L_B0aImq7VNm3TrF9B4uo16m3mXY2a1cKScueP1dNZozIBmQQpKYkoFCKjHLw_1I51wnRwLXj1GoFsOthPv5vN99HOds8dmqRPha3S9S9OXS2UL65arILp/s1600/DSCF0113.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoCg6xpg-szzT6-Wo5mUji9-L_B0aImq7VNm3TrF9B4uo16m3mXY2a1cKScueP1dNZozIBmQQpKYkoFCKjHLw_1I51wnRwLXj1GoFsOthPv5vN99HOds8dmqRPha3S9S9OXS2UL65arILp/s400/DSCF0113.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5474692676256270818" /></a>Sometimes, I really miss my brothers. <div><br /></div><div><i>Neal is not pictured, which isn't to say he is any less loved! </i></div>Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06919624349500891677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4322540554306819126.post-84637856043173965142010-05-19T11:46:00.009-04:002010-05-19T12:34:32.919-04:00Second Careers Worth Noting<div style="text-align: left;">Perhaps we're more noncommittal now than decades before, or maybe a globalized culture has instilled in us a kind of career schizophrenia- whatever the reason, people these days seem to be juggling a handful of jobs, not out of necessity, but because they want to. Whether they're moonlighting as a freelance photographer while working a 9-5 in human resources, or tending bar while working mornings as a yoga instructor, I'm fascinated by the different ways in which people choose to make their money. Particularly, I'm interested in the seemingly divergent second career paths of the middle-aged. For instance: </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://newsimg.bbc.co.uk/media/images/42477000/jpg/_42477956_borg.jpg">Bjorn Borg</a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 288px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjocxkqKGehy3hTossy6Is8MVZZiwhGH-tbMrQSKPBsVTAYLpKwEW3HAX6U-O-pbop8kYzAdsxFLtxdu5mVrNo-6F68jsJJN4H1hyb0crDdZnvv3THeCSrzojFEQozx_jdc9mDWwt2Cvcix/s400/_42477956_borg.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5473012597493196306" /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>During my internet strolling this morning, I stumbled upon <a href="http://www.bjornborg.com/webapp/wcs/stores/servlet/HomeView?catalogId=10071&langId=-1&storeId=10054">Bjorn Borg's self-named fashion label</a>, something that until just now I've been completely oblivious to despite being a loyal tennis fan. On top of being a tennis icon/mastermind/superhuman, Borg is always one of the best dressed men in a tennis stadium and his hair... Oh! His hair is gorgeous! so his trajectory into fashion is not particularly surprising, though some of his underpants styles are: (<a href="http://www.bjornborg.com/webapp/wcs/stores/servlet/Product2_10054_10071_12008_-1_10132___ProductDisplayErrorView">ahem</a>). </div><div><br /></div><div><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 312px; height: 175px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiFdt76JIMs2vJYbAfia81E58wV9LgP9xKSyI6GrpBWC01YWZk-SNMsnNEAMb1YS4cUKlPfmb6HuCHZODvWzr6W9CiWxxBdkd4fDNonzBAnSAxGbDk0QT2bXWWe4uHxhb0vfwLkRhwYlr4/s400/ShopPushHER.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5473012374035898466" /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Meanwhile, I have yet to embark on my initial career path/way to earn a satisfactory income. As I consider how I progress, I'm continuously encouraged by people who do what they love and can still feed themselves, especially if they have a handful of tennis titles to boot. </div>Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06919624349500891677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4322540554306819126.post-35965066167797107992010-05-12T13:13:00.006-04:002010-05-12T13:38:21.096-04:00Things that remind me of birds, but aren't birds.<div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6pU1iijl6daLZWfL4Jj6qZAIfZdImp2DyHXLaZayK_ArWJva927vcZMKX96lbjb_HIk5bK5IwzqBA3d6TqPIvcOpZrR9jVRhT8xgP13XtfW-b1dZ2i6rPFVx-oU9gUxy5c7XCO-0sN-o-/s1600/Photo+117.jpg" style="text-decoration: none;"><img style="text-align: left;display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6pU1iijl6daLZWfL4Jj6qZAIfZdImp2DyHXLaZayK_ArWJva927vcZMKX96lbjb_HIk5bK5IwzqBA3d6TqPIvcOpZrR9jVRhT8xgP13XtfW-b1dZ2i6rPFVx-oU9gUxy5c7XCO-0sN-o-/s400/Photo+117.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5470433025819042818" /></a><br />These sunflowers in particular look like hungry baby birds in a nest, waiting for their mother to regurgitate food into their little beaks for lunch. <div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMs0NTkeFCuCKEN-M9CfavsWCATJrp0VcRoHzFtPbaBtFmeXUQ6zfn8Aou-nStjxTc_xAABwAyHZI0SF24Wb01A4s-wDksu1Lvhd-CJ_YJpVXkqHpYTtHUJGILs1O8JxdPWXHdW69QyJ_-/s400/bonfire.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5470433617013162482" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></div><div>Fire similarly reminds me of hungry baby birds chirping up at the sky from their nests, but bonfires structurally remind me of a nest. With the overlapping twigs, wood, and pieces of brush, they always remind me of an ignited nest/bird home. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrA2WFvJvNyVjsjLohyphenhyphenl40sNir5L03brr09PCGD3Pio1SkK4dzXK8pRLavtUFNo2PpsFFD4nE-mfMoAkkVdiRD_JEPtohkaP_HlxSw9APJSEgsDyfKFiYcP4nUdEfS0bucGIMLm5LSnQGd/s400/DSCF1601.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5470436864590178770" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></span></div><div>Koi/fish in general. Probably it's because they congregate like sparrows and pigeons and eat a lot of shit that humans throw at them. But also, when swimming, fish fluidly move as one, much like birds in flight. </div><div><br /></div><div>So, those are my thoughts for Wednesday. Not all of them, mind you, but some. </div></div>Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06919624349500891677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4322540554306819126.post-62542479425398623672010-05-10T10:08:00.004-04:002010-05-10T12:12:53.029-04:00Need<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC7oUp7AHF1GhFJDjoqzCDZibo2kv_XeCUM6C9CbAkzo9yT38L0wZr-18anegcppU5YqmuYSR_UogIYN1R856KhF7kJ5C7eSiD2u2wDGyI8HF2owuAVayHqv8mCaiqbal5pnIz2c-L9QaP/s1600/Pet-D31382_A.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC7oUp7AHF1GhFJDjoqzCDZibo2kv_XeCUM6C9CbAkzo9yT38L0wZr-18anegcppU5YqmuYSR_UogIYN1R856KhF7kJ5C7eSiD2u2wDGyI8HF2owuAVayHqv8mCaiqbal5pnIz2c-L9QaP/s400/Pet-D31382_A.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5469643206504976882" /></a><div>These <a href="http://www.colehaan.com/colehaan/home.jsp">Cole Haan</a> shoes would complete me. </div>Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06919624349500891677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4322540554306819126.post-46515008151333265042010-05-04T22:23:00.005-04:002010-05-04T22:52:50.223-04:00Things you shouldn't lickWhen I was a freshman in college, I watched a news segment as it was broadcast in the dining hall; it was very unappetizing and all about how filthy handbags are. The newscaster said something along the lines of: "<i>It would be safer to drink out of a toilet at Disney Land than let your handbag, and its millions of germs, come into contact with body orifices or open wounds</i>." <div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Of course, being a frequent user of public transportation, this was not news to me, but it did make me think a little more seriously about the following: </div><div><ul><li>Putting luggage/handbags on beds, countertops, tabletops, and yoga mats.</li><li>Putting luggage/handbags on floors in restaurants, trains, bathrooms, school, and essentially everywhere else. And,</li><li>How frequently I wash my hands after handling a handbag. </li></ul><div>It is for this reason that I find it completely warranted that I just said to my roommate, as he looped one of my handbags over where I have my towel hanging, "<i>Ohmygosh, remove that immediately! Do not put a handbag on something that I use to dry my vagina</i>!" </div><div><br /></div><div>He looked appalled. We both did, actually. But I'd just washed that towel! </div><div><br /></div><div>P.S. You can substitute the word "cat" for "handbag" throughout this post and the sentiments in no way change. </div></div>Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06919624349500891677noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4322540554306819126.post-6699923544875299542010-05-03T18:25:00.006-04:002010-05-03T19:44:11.288-04:00Mirage...I'm at David's. He's out of town and made the mistake of giving me access to his keys, suggesting I could use his car and apartment whenever/if ever I wanted. Of course I took the opportunity to go all teenager on him and take over his entire space. Later tonight I have fifteen people coming for a kegger. It'll be great. <div><br /></div><div>Actually, I'm just doing laundry, drinking some white wine (it's hot outside! It's humid and 88 degrees! It's white wine season! Also, due to the water ban, I am forced to only drink alcoholic beverages. More on that later...), and am trying to research different avenues that I would like to follow as my life to progresses. I'm feeling pretty good about everything, especially seeing as I'm in a temperature controlled environment. </div><div><br /></div><div>So, the WATER CRISIS! I haven't been too caught up in the excitement of the crisis (think Y2K-esque hysterics + bottled water storage), and all the information I've collected on the issue has been texted to me by caring friends. From what I understand, for the past 48 hours everyone in the city of Boston has been forced to boil their water like they're on some Oregon Trail expedition, or drink exclusively from bottles so as not to ingest any of the contaminated water that has infiltrated the water supply after some reservoir leaked, or something (if you want to know what <i>really </i>happened, just <a href="http://www.google.com/search?client=safari&rls=en&q=boston+water+crisis&ie=UTF-8&oe=UTF-8">google</a> it). Anyway, I celebrated the news of the leak/crisis/contamination as an excuse to solely drink delicious summer cocktails/beverages until the situation has been remedied. </div><div><br /></div><div>I don't run for trains and I don't stand in line at grocery stores cradling my weight in bottled liquid. So, bottoms up, Boston! Here's to you and to hoping that I didn't accidentally kill myself while brushing my teeth last night with the tap! </div>Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06919624349500891677noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4322540554306819126.post-59189502441854942892010-05-01T20:46:00.002-04:002010-05-01T20:48:37.239-04:00Happy May Day<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; border-collapse: collapse; ">When I was young, my mother would celebrate May Day by sitting with my brothers and I and crafting coned baskets out of construction paper and filling them with cut flowers. We'd decorate these baskets with special messages and pictures. Once we finished putting them together we'd canvas the neighborhood, hanging baskets on the doors of our neighbors, ringing their doorbells, and then darting behind the nearest boulder or idle car to watch as the door was opened, the flowers found, and our neighbors looked about for the silly people that disturbed them. It was bizarrely charming. </span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, sans-serif;font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-size: 13px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, sans-serif;font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-size: 13px;">I wish I had some construction paper. </span></span></div>Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06919624349500891677noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4322540554306819126.post-89979821238146243002010-04-20T09:33:00.005-04:002010-04-20T09:58:03.854-04:00Putting it out there<div style="text-align: left;">I've always admired people who create something and unabashedly put it out there for others to see and critique. Whether it be a painting, a film, a poem or a hand-carved wooden chair, the fact that the craftsman behind it took the steps to produce and then showcase the piece is worthy of recognition and respect, even if it's complete shit. Especially if it's complete shit.</div><div><br /></div><div>I have stacks of paper, both physical and virtual, that I keep hidden and never intend for anyone to see. To an extent, I'm very careful about the things I let others view so as to craft my public persona. I'm not editing my interests and expression to become something I'm not, but the whole of my being is layered and complex, and much of the work I do- my writing, specifically- is not in a place where I feel I can share it. Sometimes this is because I'm afraid of hurting people, or of shocking them. Sometimes it's because I know it's not very good.</div><div><br /></div><div>I was sitting in a cafe last week and was working on a self-promotional advertising piece for my portfolio. As I played with fonts and the way certain elements of the piece came together, I was painfully aware of the young man beside me, catching glimpses of my work out of the corner of his eye as he tried to read some terribly boring looking financial spreadsheets on his computer (I too was catching glimpses at his work). There were moments when I wanted to turn to him and say, "<i>Look, it's not done yet, okay. It's not ready, so don't judge it</i>," which is silly seeing as I spy on other people constantly. I try to read the scribblings of fellow train passengers, whether they be writing notes for their novel or their grocery list, I watch girls in the library retouch photos from their weekend out with friends, I watch boys in school draw cartoons alongside their notes in class. I admire these people for just doing it, for exposing their talents and letting others view their work while it's still in the process of being completed, even if it does just get shut up in a notebook never to be seen again. </div><div><br /></div><div>I've always known, but have been loath to admit, that I am afraid of being bad at something. It is for this reason that I never learned to tap dance, play an instrument or seriously take up skiing. When I start something, I want to be good straight away, and fear or failing, or of not being spectacular right off the bat, has held me back. It's time that I start sharing my creativity, I think, and stand behind my work knowing that it's not the best, but it's at least a gallant effort.</div><div><br /></div><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 318px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZJvTnDR8xO-KCkGY3YTdjjxT5C2xEIrQHbFiBTFn49RKREFVhl57h_zAhdP_qR7KF2J7WRBMY1lCT1NxfNH-g5A1uyP_h8LYqlLtyiT7t_t7XcO9bL76SxCl8RFSCGNK8HQATlvdVO62K/s400/365E71EC577E49FB8E5EB28F072A9F24-3.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5462217259072463986" /><div style="text-align: center;"><i>And just for the hell of it, here's a picture of Ernest Hemingway in a bathtub. How's that for inspiration? </i></div>Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06919624349500891677noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4322540554306819126.post-81765851667535659402010-04-19T10:38:00.006-04:002010-04-19T14:24:10.010-04:00A Marvelous Day for a MarathonAfter sending off one of my beautiful friends who was here for a terrific weekend visit, I find myself relaxed and solitary on this Patriot's Day. A few blocks away, incredibly fit men and women are running the Boston Marathon, an event I usually celebrate with a beer. As they pant and sweat and lose feeling in their legs (I refuse to believe in runner's high), I sit in my sun-filled living room and contemplate the types of marathons in which I am willing to actually participate.<div><ul><li><a href="http://www.mylifetime.com/shows/project-runway">Project Runway</a> Marathons- I will gladly watch any and all episodes from any season with the exception of this past one in which the Kardashian look-alike won, because that season sucked. </li><li><a href="http://www.moviecitynews.com/arrays/images/2003/cold_mountain/tintype_white.jpg">Jack White</a>'s Projects Marathon- Night or day, rain or shine, I will happily listen to and watch the myriad of projects Mr. White has contributed to over the course of his career without ever tiring of his greatness. (New <a href="http://www.thedeadweather.com/">Dead Weather</a> album out May 10/11- thanks for the heads up, <a href="http://thebrainhole.tumblr.com/#about">Eric</a>!) </li><li>Mad Men Marathon- Speaking of which, have you seen <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2010/04/18/christina-hendricks-in-es_n_541955.html">Christina Hendricks</a> on the cover of <a href="http://www.esquire.com/">Esquire</a>?! Like, okay: in my humble opinion the photo's a little too retouched, but she's still one of the most attractive women roaming the planet. And yes, I'm totally dyking out right now, sorry.</li><li>Book Reading Marathon- I just finished <a href="http://search.barnesandnoble.com/The-House-of-Sleep/Jonathan-Coe/e/9780375700880/?itm=4&USRI=house+of+sleep">The House of Sleep</a> by Jonathan Coe. It was such a gripping story that I lost all sense of myself whilst reading and at one point even got on the wrong bus, found myself not at the Logan Airport (my desired destination) but rather an industrial park off the waterfront, and had the pleasure of being the only passenger for about ten minutes as the bus circled back on its route and took me to familiar territory. It was awkward, but I was enjoying my reading and didn't mind being stupidly lost so long as I had the book. </li></ul><div>Now that I have successfully made myself out to sound like a terribly lazy person, I will go and do something productive with my day, like eat a hamburger as I cheer on the real marathoners! BYE!</div></div>Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06919624349500891677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4322540554306819126.post-51521121162927390362010-04-15T23:55:00.004-04:002010-04-16T00:06:20.761-04:00One Day, Perhaps<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWJAidLNFHRoeKqnQhE1_KsEWjlh8vro9ZIjdMukIxFqarPyDb2Z512sA84E0HYfynLoxLGiQO1uNYuwK83JFnO_C5VC_jdPiV1fax43e82IBDC4inYR4sNLEH9y5zCIfVcq5Yw0ixqPRz/s1600/mg16763,1151484046,Albino_Peacock.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 299px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWJAidLNFHRoeKqnQhE1_KsEWjlh8vro9ZIjdMukIxFqarPyDb2Z512sA84E0HYfynLoxLGiQO1uNYuwK83JFnO_C5VC_jdPiV1fax43e82IBDC4inYR4sNLEH9y5zCIfVcq5Yw0ixqPRz/s400/mg16763,1151484046,Albino_Peacock.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5460579826932031618" /></a><br /><div>On days when I'm feeling brave, I tell myself that I'll move to Nashville, Tennessee and have a peacock farm. I'll write books, smoke cigars, and admire the flamboyant prancing of the peafowl- the rare albinos like snowflakes, and the standard peacocks colored like toxic puddles of fuel and water, or bubbles floating in a summer breeze. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06919624349500891677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4322540554306819126.post-7096935015682000362010-04-14T09:30:00.005-04:002010-04-14T09:39:01.301-04:00One of my favorites<span class="Apple-style-span" style=" border-collapse: collapse; font-family:arial, sans-serif;font-size:13px;"><b>The Canonization</b></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" border-collapse: collapse; font-family:arial, sans-serif;font-size:13px;"><b><br /></b>F<span style="font-size:-1;">OR</span> God's sake hold your tongue, and let me love,<br /> Or chide my palsy, or my gout,<br /> My five gray hairs, or ruin'd fortune flout,<br />With wealth your state, your mind with arts improve,<br /> Take you a course, get you a place,<br /> Observe his Honour, or his Grace,<br />Or the king's real, or his stamp'd face<br /> Contemplate; what you will, approve,<br /> So you will let me love.<br /><br />Alas, alas, who's injured by my love?<br /> What merchant's ships have my sighs drown'd?<br /> Who says my tears have overflow'd his ground?<br />When did my colds a forward spring remove?<br /> When did the heats which my veins fill<br /> Add one more to the plaguy bill?<br />Soldiers find wars, and lawyers find out still<br /> Litigious men, which quarrels move,<br /> Though she and I do love.<br /><br />Call's what you will, we are made such by love;<br /> Call her one, me another fly,<br /> We're tapers too, and at our own cost die,<br />And we in us find th' eagle and the dove.<br />The phoenix riddle hath more wit<br /> By us; we two being one, are it;<br />So, to one neutral thing both sexes fit.<br /> We die and rise the same, and prove<br /> Mysterious by this love.<br /><br />We can die by it, if not live by love,<br /> And if unfit for tomb or hearse<br /> Our legend be, it will be fit for verse;<br />And if no piece of chronicle we prove,<br /> We'll build in sonnets pretty rooms;<br /> As well a well-wrought urn becomes<br />The greatest ashes, as half-acre tombs,<br /> And by these hymns, all shall approve<br /> Us canonized for love;<br /><br />And thus invoke us; "You, whom reverend love<br /> Made one another's hermitage;<br /> You, to whom love was peace, that now is rage;<br />Who did the whole world's soul contract, and drove<br /> Into the glasses of your eyes;<br /> (So made such mirrors, and such spies,<br />That they did all to you epitomize,)<br /> Countries, Towns, Courts: Beg from above<br /> A pattern of your love."<br /></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, sans-serif;font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-size:13px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, sans-serif;font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-size:13px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>- John Donne </span></span></div></div>Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06919624349500891677noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4322540554306819126.post-47110882914229999052010-04-08T20:12:00.002-04:002010-04-08T20:14:48.172-04:00Somethin' like a Terminator<div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" white-space: pre;font-size:12px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 12px; "><object width="560" height="340"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube-nocookie.com/v/pwnefUaKCbc&hl=en_US&fs=1&hd=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube-nocookie.com/v/pwnefUaKCbc&hl=en_US&fs=1&hd=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="560" height="340"></embed></object></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" white-space: pre;font-size:12px;">She is so thoroughly cool. And the typewriter at the end is gorgeous. </span></span></div>Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06919624349500891677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4322540554306819126.post-53433692627573489342010-04-05T13:49:00.005-04:002010-04-05T16:13:48.606-04:00Strangers are StrangeThe lease for my wonderful Brookline apartment is over come June. This means a myriad of strangers have walked through my apartment and seen my dirty laundry (literally), typewriter, bookshelves, and the contents of my closets. Some have undoubtedly noticed the dust under the couch, the dishes piled in the sink, or the way my bedspread isn't perfectly smooth. <div><br /></div><div>Out of curiosity, I would love to ask prospective renters to write a paragraph about the kind of person they think I am based on the contents of my apartment. Snap-judgements are rarely indicative of anything more than the viewer's own biases and values and I bet I could learn a lot about the people viewing my apartment just by reading their interpretation of me and my home. If only I could- I'd find reading the responses hugely entertaining! </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div> </div>Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06919624349500891677noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4322540554306819126.post-48521330826675784832010-03-31T08:33:00.006-04:002010-03-31T10:35:04.490-04:00Sunny<div style="text-align: left;">In the past couple days, I've made it a point to feel bright and sunshiney despite the depressing New England grey that's engulfed Boston. In combating the oppressive rain and cold, I've:</div><div><ul><li>painted my nails a ridiculous shade of bright pink. Think Rollerblading Barbie circa 1995. </li><li>wore limey-green tights</li><li>bought a bouquet of daisies for <a href="http://davidjoncox.blogspot.com/">David</a>, who needed a little something to cheer up his window sill</li><li>purchased rain shoes</li></ul><div>The last initiative was completely spontaneous and was actually done out of necessity. For as I walked out of my apartment yesterday afternoon, I quickly realized that wearing my suede boots had been a horrendous decision and after a few short blocks, my feet were soggy and cold. With the promise of an afternoon at work still ahead, I made a quick decision to duck into <a href="http://www.lordandtaylor.com/store.cfm?&ckey=US&lang=eng">Lord and Taylor</a> (a store I very rarely visit and whose font I find incredibly distressing) and went right up to the shoe department where a profoundly awkward salesman watched as I picked a pair of rain shoes off the display, slipped them on and said that I'd like to buy them and wear them out of the store.</div><div><br /></div><div><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 260px; height: 260px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimuPvSU8ymEjENoHAaOTF7SwInlSoROdRCQ73x2MP2KdO6psuGWrB5mrxS7a_hTixnrCUrvq4Q6_HUnYI7FTNb3MpChxwtrBJMTGDlBavrPzcwofu15_T8K_IqiGvEzwbLi_XNpi1yjvyH/s400/LDS11448.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5454777927015214978" /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I'd actually been meaning to buy these shoes for a long time but had been putting it off, hoping the weather wouldn't necessitate that I actually go out of my way to get them. But the rain stops for no one, and now that I have my new shoes I am very happy (that's not to say I wasn't happy before). </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I once told a professor that a new pair of shoes can drastically alter the way in which one thinks about life- for when one has something attractive and solid on which to stand, one is more apt to feel and behave like a more confident, alluring and secure individual. In my rainshoes I feel adorable. And now I don't care if it rains for the rest of spring, so long as I have them on my feet. </div></div>Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06919624349500891677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4322540554306819126.post-28850488582082824682010-03-29T14:38:00.004-04:002010-03-29T15:42:11.796-04:00ParchedFor a hot sec. yesterday, I went to <a href="http://maps.google.com/maps?client=safari&rls=en&q=rockport,+ma&oe=UTF-8&um=1&ie=UTF-8&hq=&hnear=Rockport,+MA&gl=us&ei=6vuwS6qVBYP-8AaXwqC9DA&sa=X&oi=geocode_result&ct=image&resnum=1&ved=0CA4Q8gEwAA">Rockport, MA</a> for a healthy dose of ocean air. It's a picturesque town, to be sure, and like most tourist towns it has an array of candy/fudge/cupcake shops, sweatshirt stores, and art galleries that are situated on seagull-infested stoney bluffs that overlook the sea, which is all very good. But nice as it is, there is no way I'd be able to stay in Rockport for any space of time longer than 48 hours, or want to stay there for any more than five. Why? Because it's a dry town. <div><br /></div><div>If ever there was a setting for a sticky, cozy bar with an ocean view and good beer, it would be Rockport. The fact that it's lacking in such amenities seems like an incredible tragedy. </div><div><br /></div><div>Brent told me that Rockport is dry because, once upon a time the fishermens' wives got upset with their husbands always being drunk, so they took blunt objects and broke every bottle, cask and barrel of alcohol in the town. As we all know, women can be very scary when they want to be (though usually they are soft and kind and smell exclusively of roses). In this particular instance, the men of the town were too afraid to reintroduce alcohol to the locale and now it's banned by law (though I'm sure you can bring it in from, uh, wet towns and enjoy libations inside one's own dwelling). I don't know how true this story is- but it sounds about right. </div><div><br /></div><div>Until this law changes, I will not go back to Rockport. Unless, of course, I really want some fudge and shellfish jewelry. </div>Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06919624349500891677noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4322540554306819126.post-62833451947006807742010-03-23T22:34:00.005-04:002010-03-25T09:21:19.500-04:00HitchedLast night, I went to a debate between <a href="http://www.vanityfair.com/culture/features/2007/10/hitchens_slideshow200710#slide=1">Christopher ("Not Chris") Hitchens</a> and <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/David_Wolpe">Rabbi David Wolpe</a>. It was put on by the <a href="http://www.newcenterboston.org/">New Center for Arts & Culture</a> and was mediated by <a href="http://www.onpointradio.org/">On Point</a>'s <a href="http://media.vcstar.com/media/img/photos/2009/11/05/20091105-092609-pic-382496202_t607.jpg">Tom Ashbrook</a> who is taller and more attractive than I thought he'd be (it's always so fun to see radio personalities in person. And the picture doesn't do him justice...) The topic, of course, was religion. <div><br /></div><div>Being neither an atheist nor a Jew, but rather one who subscribs to the Christian faith, it was hugely interesting to hear the arguments (granted desciphering Hitchens' mumbling at times was difficult) of the two men and then think how their ideas interact with my own life philosophy, religion, and beliefs. </div><div><br /></div><div>Here are some notes from the evening: </div><div><ul><li>The audience for this event was the strangest I've ever encountered. Weirder than an amusement park line, stranger than a comic book convention, more bizarre than an Emerson College orientation weekend. There were a lot of old Jewish people, a lot of old Jewish atheists, a lot of young angry atheists, and a lot of Christopher Hitchens infatuates- including one woman who brought a bottle of Jonny Walker Black Label to give to Hitchens as a token of goodwill and affection, or something. Also, there was a staggering number of severely unattractive people (not that it matters). </li><li>There was an awful lot of disapproving tutting/head shaking/inappropriate clapping going on. If you show up to an event hosted by a Jewish organization that is about open ideas and acceptence, please try to be accepting. You came to hear ideas, philosophy and, essentially, two men disagreeing. I don't need to know every time you disagree, as well. </li><li>What many people struggle with when accepting a religion is the antiquity of the teaching. It's easy to think that religious texts lack a forward progression, rendering them obsolete on certain issues that our society has since moved past (such as putting homosexuals to death- Leviticus 20:13). From what I gathered from Rabbi Wolpe, Judaism is more of a community than religion in many ways- as one Jewish audience member said, "I love my religion but I do not accept the idea of a God"- and it is in community with one another that the religion takes on modern day challenges and becomes currently viable. This is true of many religions. They need to be applicable to today, not just to the past. I'm not saying that, like the audience member in question, modernity necessitates the loss of faith in God, just that such ideas need to be discussed while the religious community stays intact. It's also important to contextualize what is written, and to understand it from different angles, including a modern one, so as to sustain the cultivation of new ideas. </li><li>Before the event started, my roommate and I stood in line near the front doors and tried to bundle up our dripping umbrellas and get warm. Lo and behold, standing just outside in the shelter of the marquee stood Christopher Hitchens, smoking a cigarette and drinking what appeared to be water from a wine glass. Brent thought this behavior was pompous, and while it was perhaps a little ass-like, it also seemed quintessentially Hitchens- frumpy suit and all! </li><li>The only moment of agreement came in the form of the golden rule, which is commanded by God but is also widely endorsed by [rational] mankind: love your neighbor. If everyone really does this- regardless of ideaology- I think we'll have a pretty level middle ground. </li></ul></div>Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06919624349500891677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4322540554306819126.post-33581912158197070092010-03-22T09:36:00.006-04:002010-03-23T23:35:44.292-04:00Won't you be my neighbor?<div style="text-align: left;">Found this over at <a href="http://andrewsullivan.theatlantic.com/">The Daily Dish </a> and thought it was really cool. My younger brother (the future Governor of Minnesota) once made an argument like this which I found compelling. The American population could sustainably live in a space-efficient, small area. We do not have a population problem in this country. That's not to say we couldn't manage our land, resources, and waste-disposal more wisely, just that we're not yet in crisis. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">But let's be honest, who really wants to live in such close quarters with all our American brothers and sisters... </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 288px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-Pp-KgabyNBDxxB1BTqJJ-qgdYM743MqjIjb1UmkO380fqIQBYvyjNsUTWkGkHkmTtSZ-T5oQXgQbE5rtD1TWEIp8EfkydsHbPYKCJvptcGVm43P1kNMmUzwiiKMff3dtahqJy8xT8NOs/s400/6a00d83451c45669e20120a95679e3970b-800wi.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5451452090502663666" border="0" /></div><div><br /></div>Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06919624349500891677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4322540554306819126.post-28680893353836998892010-03-21T17:15:00.006-04:002010-03-21T17:30:44.719-04:00One Day<div style="text-align: left;">I've never been a horse person, yet for some reason I have a major desire to one day witness wild horses galloping across an expanse of depressed land. I want to see their matted hair struggle in the wind and their muscles ripple in wild animal ecstasy.</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">And perhaps it is for this reason that I love this: </div><div><br /></div><div><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfD5zXy7AQcIrp8LlQGA5idKfYsZYFFZ9qqqfLJuUts2jyVf0LnXXXxHTs8KL3rRvkFYXKuGexNACRNFPuwx-UVSXlYOLc0TshOkxeF52lOXq7BwtQu1lgmSQXMIdz5VFIgUb0JG7D_u_R/s400/EmergenceConv3s.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5451199788302925618" /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Listen to: Ray Lamontagne's <i>All The Wild Horses</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;">Image/Sculpture by <span class="Apple-style-span" style=" color: rgb(255, 255, 255); font-weight: bold; line-height: 20px; font-family:Arial-BoldMT, Arial, sans-serif;font-size:15px;"><a href="http://www.sayakaganz.com/Home.html">Sayaka Kajita Ganz</a></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /></i></div>Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06919624349500891677noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4322540554306819126.post-36060531808817567812010-03-20T00:16:00.008-04:002010-03-20T01:03:18.127-04:00The boy was placed on suicide watch after an afternoon visit to the counseling center where, with glassy eyes, he told a woman in a cardigan that he was thinking that he just didn't want to live anymore.<div><br /><div> <div>"What is prompting you to think this way," she asked as she played with a pen cap in her left hand. </div><div><br /></div><div>"I just don't want to be here anymore. It's always the same. I have the same conversations with the same people every day. Sometimes I don't think it would be so bad if I got hit by a bus while jaywalking." </div><div><br /></div><div>She listened as he continued to talk. She asked about his plans, his goals. His sentences were disconnected and his eyebrows were bunched together. He had an inflamed pimple on his left temple and his cuticles were ragged and scabbed. After twenty minutes, she led him to the door and told him to come back if he wanted to talk later. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>The RD called T that evening, told her there was a resident on the ninth floor who needed to be checked on periodically. Suicide prevention was above her pay-grade (not that she got paid to RA), but she went to the ninth floor anyway, knocked on the door to 9-13 and asked to see him. Like any other boy, he was on his computer when she came in . She introduced herself, gave him a limp handshake. "I just came to check-in, to see how you're doing," she said, unsure and hoping not to offend him. He nodded and looked at the floor. "There are a lot of people who are worried about you," she offered. </div><div><br /></div><div>This prompted a response. He looked up quickly, scared, "Have you told my parents?"</div><div><br /></div><div>"No, should we?" He shook his head. "You sure?" </div><div><br /></div><div>"Yeah. Don't. My mom, she'd freak out. She'd start crying and wouldn't leave me alone. And my dad, he's a good man. He's busy. He'd get worried and distracted. I won't bother them. Don't bother them." </div><div><br /></div><div>"But do you think they should know?"</div><div><br /></div><div>"They'll know if I do it. But I probably won't. Not now, anyway. So what's the point?" </div><div><br /></div><div>"Is there anyone you think we should tell? A sibling, a friend? Is there someone you know who could help you deal with your, uh, your emotions right now?" </div><div><br /></div><div>"Oh, there are people I could call. But it's a Friday night. I don't want to bother them." </div><div><br /></div><div>T stood next to his unmade bed, looked at his dirty clothes piled in the corner, his muddy shoes, the curling edges of his Weezer poster. If she were to kill herself, she wouldn't leave a mess. </div><div><br /></div><div>"Do you have any plans for the evening?" she asked, remembering back to her training. Always ask a suicidal person if they have plans. If they don't, get them help (but wasn't that what she was doing- helping?). </div><div><br /></div><div>"I'll probably do some laundry," he said, "Maybe get some pizza." He didn't look up again for almost an entire minute. "You can go. You don't have to just sit and watch me."</div><div><br /></div><div>"I'll be back in an hour," she said on her way out. </div><div><br /></div><div>"Don't worry if I'm gone." He turned back to his computer and she closed the door. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>She was afraid he actually would be gone when she knocked on the door an hour later. What would she do if a boy she'd hardly just met killed himself on her watch? </div><div><br /></div><div>He opened the door after the third knock, his laundry was still on the floor. "Surprise," he said, "I'm alive." But with no one for him to reach out to, she hardly believed it. </div></div></div>Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06919624349500891677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4322540554306819126.post-84013559006242983872010-03-18T09:12:00.008-04:002010-03-18T13:54:05.278-04:00Tax SeasonIt's strange to think of life in terms of being taxed, but living is fundamentally a taxing process. It's a matter of finding a balance between what we give and what we take, what we're emotionally, physically and monetarily able to afford, and how we choose to spend our excess. We are given a lump sum of happiness and distribute it in ways that bring some people pain and others joy. We are a burdened species. <div><br /><div>As the struggles of our political system suggest, this world is not black and white. There are marshes of grey matter that we must wade through continuously as we navigate through our personal challenges and ultimately find a way to a place we call Contentment, Happiness, Peace. For me, I can't imagine going to sleep at night without knowing there is a God in heaven who loves me enough to give me free will. A God who controls the will of his people-whether it be for good or bad- is a dictator. Time and again I am thankful for the pain, creativity, love and joy around me because God is not a dictator. He can advise and impact my decisions, but he has no more control over them than anyone else. In everything, I must take full responsibility. </div><div><br /></div><div>I've always been taken by stories of struggle and redemption, of temptation and acceptance- of ultimate love. In <i><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/East_of_Eden_(novel)">East of Eden</a>,</i> <a href="http://rohrbachlibrary.files.wordpress.com/2009/02/steinbeck1.jpg">John Steinbeck</a> has a beautiful passage on free will and the word <i>Timshel, </i>which is Hebrew for <i>though</i><i> mayest</i>, which God used to give man full autonomy over his actions. It's important we live informed lives, make informed decisions, understand the complications of our actions. Sometimes, those decisions go against our better judgment, will be seen as compromises of various ideals, but sometimes those same decisions will work to inform the way we live later in our lives. A wonderful friend recently emailed me some information on human brain development that explores the way in which the adult mind is constantly developing. We never stop learning (unless, I suppose, we want to), and each day, each struggle, is another detail in our individual human case study. </div><div><br /></div><div>"There's more beauty in the truth even if it is dreadful beauty." - <i>East of Eden</i></div><div><br /></div><div>Like with all things that operate on a polarized scale, often the hardest place to be is in the middle. I asked a friend via text, "Over-thinking: Detrimental or imperative to living a fulfilled life?" I firmly believe it's imperative, but wouldn't it be great sometimes if it weren't? </div></div>Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06919624349500891677noreply@blogger.com2