soul

I am calling you.
I am calling you.

I have an egg for you.
I have rice for you.
I have a chicken for you.
I have everything waiting for you.

Where are you?
Where have you gone?

Are you visiting your brother?
Are you visiting your sister?
Are you visiting your cousin?
Are you looking at a flower?
Are you in Laos?
Are you in Thailand?
Are you in the sky?
Have you gone to the sun?
Have you gone to the moon?

Come home to your house.
Come home to your mother.
Come home to your father.
Come home to your sisters.
Come home to your brother.

I am calling you!
I am calling you!

Come home through this door.
Come home to your family.

Come home.
Come home.
Come home.
Come home.
Come home.
Come home.
Come home.

- Cha Koua Lee, txiv neeb

It's a Wonderful Life

I open my eyes to a cacophony of sounds.

I pull my new iPhone from under the pillow where I’ve hidden it from the cat, blink my eyes at the time: 8:37 a.m.

I retreat further into my cloud bed; my time capsule of a room has kept me safe thus far WHAT THE HELL IS ALL OF THAT NOISE!?

There are seriously layers upon layers of sounds right outside of my bedroom door, with 2 of the layers INSIDE my room with me. 

My pillow engulfs my head as I identify them: 24 years of life – I expected these sounds.

I am quickly able to detect that my father is yes, vacuuming while the Roomba stumbles its’ way around our obstacle ridden house like a drunk man. By the sounds of it, the Roomba has trapped itself in my dad’s closet, doing its best to blindly capture years of animal hair while inadvertedly unearthing things probably best left alone.  The Roomba was a Christmas gift to my parents from my brother who probably rather wisely, decided not to come home this year. Samir the cat will not ride the Roomba, which renders it useless in my mind. But my parents now have 3 vacuum cleaners, and a twice-a-month house cleaner who goes by the name of Janey. I know one thing about Janey: she must not do a very good job because my parents still have 3 vacuum cleaners, and I think they are all in use At This Very Moment.

 My mother is in the kitchen. I don’t’ think either of us know what she is doing but she is non-stop. If she wore a pedometer, I believe it would tell her to sit down. The tv is on like, 50 decibels, because it needs to be heard over both vacuum cleaners plus the dishwasher, AND make it through 3 rooms so that I can hear it in my dreams. I try to decipher if it’s Sunday Morning on CBS. That would be worthy of getting up for right now. But it’s Saturday and I hear them say something about “titans” and I retreat further.

Strangely, within the walls of my time capsule and from under the cloud comforter on my bed, I can hear the tiny sighs of my dog Mattie, whom I’ve trapped in my room with me out of love. I am jealous of her old age deafness right now. She is sleeping VERY peacefully.

Outside, one of the 4 dogs that my parents have collected to replace my brother and me is lapping water out of the water bowl underneath my window. I do not blame my parents. Dogs are nice. They will love unconditionally, forgive anything. They are funny, and as soon as they aren’t, you can put them right back outside and deal with them later. This sounds ideal next to raising a human being.   

I go right back to debating what to do next. The irony is not lost on me: my apartment in NYC is much, much quieter than this. 4 women in their mid-20s will sleep past 8:30 on a Tuesday, and definitely on a Saturday.

I’m well aware that my parents are trying to tell me something. I believe it is something like this: You are home with us, and we want your attention. We will make so much noise that even your time capsule of a room cannot save you, and we decided to open your door and let Samir out of your room – your prisoner of love technique was making a terrible caterwauling sound, plus you get to be a part of our morning routine.

See, listen to the sound that this new Ninja you gave me for Christmas makes while I crush ice and other unknown variables for your breakfast smoothie!

I should have known better.

I make sure to acknowledge them as they walk past my room by moving a body part, so they know I’m paying attention. Dad has big heavy footsteps that indicates he is does not want to be the only person awake in this house. I think my mom has on slippers on that are too big, because she is doing a lot of shuffling, mixed in with quick steps that stop short – probably to rub at some spot on the floor.

I realize I have a problem and it’s called I slept in only my underwear at my parents house and I need to use the bathroom. My parent’s movements around the house seem unpredictable, which deems my first thought of dashing across the hall, unnoticed, to the bathroom in just my underwear an unsuccessful venture. I know from experience that a dog bed has been placed strategically outside my door, and it will trip me. I will be noticed, out of bed and in my underwear, sneaking to the bathroom.

I decide against sad humiliation and with clothes on, make it to the bathroom where Samir, even though he is mad at me for trapping him in my room with me climbs into my lap, begins to headbutt my face. We love each other. I sneeze; my mother hears me, “Bless you! Good morning!” followed by “Do you want coffee?” which means, you’ve been in bed too long and I’m throwing out all reserves – I’ll be happy to bring it you under the silent agreement that you begin your day, NOW. “How do you like it?”

Suddenly I’ve got a black coffee, with 2.5 teaspoons of sugar in it, as well as a fruit smoothie. I wave at my parents from my bed, a Saturday morning double-fister, from behind the pages of DRY, by Augusten Burroughs, whose life in rehab probably draws close parallels to my own life that I refuse to acknowledge right now. 

I find an uncrushed ice cube in my smoothie. 

My mother walks into my room – “I found these shoe inserts in my closet!” and places them on my bed. She has on exercise clothes. I see my father wandering around in the yard outside my window, like seriously wandering, and my mom smiles at me from the foot of my bed, “You ready?”

"Write it. I think you should write all of this down," she said over the phone, during our weekly Sunday evening phone call.

Freedom is a hot dog.

I wanted to call this posting I Am An Adult! because I have had *a lot* of adult situations recently that I wanted to recount.
Or not so recently - because sometimes I lose track of time, but either way, they've happened.
But these groundbreaking words came from one of my undereducated, excessively wise adult students when asked to provide an example of what freedom might be like in America and he comes up with "Freedom is a hot dog."
At the time, it was an under appreciated hyperbolic comment, not amusing whatsoever to my end of the day hungry/headachy/why don't we still understand the differences between similes and metaphors and the fact that we are talking about an IDEA, that has absolutely no concrete, overprocessed meat-like qualities at all, self.
But over a candle lit, dinner for two it became so outrageously funny, and amazing, and true.
It's an appropriate title for this post, because once you see it clearly enough, you too will understand that Freedom is a hot dog.

I bought a bison skull recently.
A friend sent me a Craigslist ad - he knew I was in the market.
Luckily the owner lived in my neighborhood. Agreeing to meet, I found him with a giant IKEA bag, my soon-to-be bison skull stuffed inside it, unceremoniously waiting in front of the Starbucks down the street.
A brief discussion ("yea... my girlfriend didn't like it... what?! this thing is amazing. you should be getting rid of her!") and brief awkward silence ("...") and I handed over $60 happily - I've been wanting this amazing conversational centerpiece for so long - I'm gonna be SO HIP.
My brain processes the easy math --> Allyn = quadruple win (close to home+cheapish+amazing hip skull that definitely looks like it came from Arizona...or Mexico+new IKEA/laundry bag) vs. boy from Craigslist = zero (squeamish girlfriend+loss of cool skull+carrying a bison skull in an IKEA bag waiting awkwardly in front of Starbucks) and what a steal! So easy!
My friend drilled the hole in the brick fireplace in the wall for my new skull (which I very ceremoniously call Beatrice and she is a strident feminist with no desire for gender restraints in her proud horns) as I tried to vacuum the brick dust straight out of the air (I can be very efficient, you see) and a few attempts in, Beatrice has a new home on my wall. Over my bed. Protruding into the center of my room.

I promptly took a picture and proudly sent the picture out, to like, everyone - look at my adult decorating skills! And I did it on the cheap! Who said Craigslist is for creeps?

My father's response: If I had known this was your current taste in home decorating, I would have shipped the dead deer carcass that Futar caught last week.
Mine: ...
Best man friend's response: That thing is going to scare the shit out of you.
Mine every single time I wake up at 3 am to use the bathroom: OMG what the!?

I am, clearly, an adult.

To be fair, I think the same thing when I see my reflection in the bathroom mirror at 3am. But that's just because we have poor lighting. That said, guess who doesn't bother turning on the bathroom light anymore? And in case you were wondering (unless you share the same 3am sentiment), yes.
3am guessing games are difficult.

It's kinda springish here... sometimes. And on a particularly spring-like day, I bought a pair of lovely, neutral, open-toed, extremely stylish boutique flats for my ugly dancer/runner feet for $60 so I could tromp around in sudden spring-time downpours, and tread carefully around the dirt and trash lining the subway tracks on my morning commute to my new adult job down on Wall St.

In my head, I look glamorous.
There I am, in my expensive adult wear (neutrals, classy peep toes, red blazer that screams grandma/hip Brooklynite) emerging, bright eyed and bushy tailed, coffee in hand, onto Wall St., the sun bouncing off of the ever-growing Freedom Towers into my eyes, highlighting the yellow brick road to my meaningful adult job in the non-profit human rights sector...
I can look glamorous in your eyes, too, if you imagine me as the urban version of Fraulein Maria in The Sound of the Music, running up the subway stairs singing "Thank goddddd I'm aliiiive, I hate all those peeeeeeople." because once again, I've barely survived my morning commute to the Financial District as I've tried to drink my coffee, read a book on feminism, listen to music, and wield an unruly umbrella like a crazy woman fighting off invisible bats.

And honestly, when someone figures out how the modern woman is supposed to gracefully hold her coffee, while digging in her oversized bag that contains her lunch, her yoga pants, and seven tubes of chapstick for her wallet that holds her metrocard without holding up an impatient line of New Yorkers - ya let me know, ok?
And if you don't have the answer, do not judge me for slurping the spilled locally brewed coffee like an anteater from the fine ridges of my 15,000x recycled, organic coffee cup.
I can see your eyes giving me the once-over in the reflection of the subway car windows and I do not like the judgement that I see.
I paid for it. I'm gonna drink it.

See? I am an Adult.

I think it's this fiestyness that has deemed me fit for bed rest for a few days.
Between the never ending lament for life clarity while working 2 jobs, attempts at successfully attending advanced modern dance classes, yoga certification training, hill repeats and long runs for 1/2 and marathon training, teaching ESL, this bizarre sinus drainage that results in a smoker-like hacking cough when I start laughing, and the kidney stone that tried to kill me a few nights ago - I'm still living the dream... of obtaining my grad degree, taking off a few years for the Peace Corps, starting a dance company, becoming a successful ethnographer with no qualms about never coming back from research, and having a night out with the roommates that always ends in the good kind of sleepover where you definitely get brunch the next day, with both bagels and home fries. 
Adulthood - you wear me out!

All in all, I'm still dealing with a bunch of nouns.
All the Persons.
All the Places.
All the Things.
All the Unexplainable/Unattainable Ideas.

Sometimes I think - Ain't Nobody Got Time For That.
Partly because it's fun.
Like exclaiming Ha! when your roommate says something absolutely mindblowingly ridiculous regarding... her lunch for the day, as she tries to squeeze it into a baggie.
Ha! She told that sandwich.
And partly because it's true.
Ain't Nobody Got Time For All That.

Ain't Nobody Even Like Over-Processed, Meat-Like Substances. 

I've had a full house. It has been a tight squeeze in my Brooklyn apartment, between all of the happy faces that were moving back and forth between the kitchen and living room, spilling into the backyard for a few deep breaths of crisp winter air, knees touching on the couch.

And after the voices and the glitter and the slow mornings followed by fast evenings, we're back in a routine that somewhat resembles the daily life of a bunch of... girls... living in Brooklyn in their 20s. So really, not much has changed - we still have the occasional full house, exchanging exhausted "heys" and flustered "see you tonight" comments in the hallway, copious amounts of glitter on the floor that WILL NOT GO AWAY and the fridge is suspiciously empty of food, but the sink is always full of dishes which is just confusing. I'm convinced someone is playing a joke on me.

The new year came quickly, unbelievable quickly. So much can happen, did happen, in a year.
The resolves aren't the same as last year, but my life isn't what it was a year ago.
(And if you are looking for an amusing, insightful, touching article on new year resolutions, click here).

Either way, 365 days make remembering everything that happened in the past year really difficult.

I'll tell you what I do know (which is all I can do anyways):

Last year was many things. It was a dance, and it was a story made of many. There were many characters (so many, I lose track). There were blinding lights and foggy thoughts, rampant emotions and lots of cheese. Last year was loss, and tears and some obviously inexplicable faith. Last year was phone calls and letters that stopped me in my tracks, and made me shake uncontrollably. Implosion seemed likely and just because it didn't happen doesn't mean it isn't possible.
Last year was the relentless effort to pay attention, to respect, to love.

Last year was many hands, for high fives and handshakes and support.

Last year had chapters of seemingly convoluted pages, and there are recounts of long runs with shoelaces coming undone, last year gasped for air. Last year had waiting rooms and coffee houses, hospital rooms and youtube videos. And there were coloring pencils and hair fascinators, too. Last year was full of goodness, of keeping the laughter, keeping the strength, keeping the lights on.
Last year was the accumulation of things, of all the things. Last year was about letting go, too.
Last year was a story that left me with lingering concerns about lasting impressions.
Because last year made me think about the world beneath our feet, about giving and taking, lines drawn and lines crossed.
Last year's storyline was a process of taking two steps forward, one (or two or three or four steps) back and I often doubted the story but mostly, I doubted the storyteller.
But last year's story includes thankfulness for the process, and the meaningful practicality of a book of stamps my mother sent in the mail. Last year sought and found some sort of forgiveness among its painful character development, interconnected underlying themes, and thick plot line.

Here's to the New Year.

It's been the kind of summer that I only thought existed in well written nostalgia novels and that blog my friend Olivia keeps.
The kind of summer where I was constantly marveling at the things I was doing - had the chance to do, to experience.

There has just been something special about this summer.

It was the summer of being completely without obligation except to the present moment, and to personal happiness.

The spontaneity of rooftop sunset wine tasting sessions, to shirking chores to haul upstate for some good early trail runs. A weekly (daily?) meeting of the musicians in my life led to great friendships, great music, and more than a few deceivingly fun, great soundin' all-nighters. And the dancing never stopped: waltzes written just for my pleasure, and blues dancing in the middle of a street in Bushwick, to impromptu dance gatherings in Central Park, and modern classes with some of the best companies and independent dance artists around. Summer Friday was everyday, apparent in the presence of watermelon, sun drenched naps in the park, and good books finished over the past few months. Brunch became the most important day of the week, because with it entailed laughter, copious amounts of food, trips to the farmer's market just for local flowers and a very hipster bike ride to the water, just to feel the breeze, see the sun glimmer on the water. The backyard became a fixture in my life again, with new roommates and housemates gathered around a party light lit community table, with a genius outdoor movie screen for movie marathon nights with the boys upstairs who happen to be CofC alumni as well, and reminiscing over candles and Star Wars felt good. I was introduced to real cocktails and the art of hailing a cab at 5am, to making it work on 3 hours of sleep.

It was a summer worthy of documentation, of snapping pictures and creating keepsake boxes and filling up page after page in notebooks.

It was the summer of being completely in the moment.

And now the thick, long days are shortening, the sun lingers less and less. Meanwhile my sleeves and hemlines lengthen out and watermelon is replaced by warm soup and sun drenched naps by afternoons browsing in bookshops. The evenings are content again, windows glow while bodies wind down, and a schedule is settling in. Fulfillment can be found at the library, where I have discovered a whole new world, where I have been spending a good deal of time lately.
 
I have been given the opportunity to share my love of knowledge and people.
And I'm thrilled it found me.

I am teaching reading and writing to adult immigrants twice a week, the most humbling of experiences full of struggle and triumph, of laughter and constant confusion. Misunderstandings lead to frustration, but perseverance produces the most beautiful smiles and dreams of possibility.

The daughter of a middle-class, well educated family, full of journalists and writers, teachers and thinkers, of explorers and scientists, sharing my love and knowledge of the English language and knowledge - this is what I have to share.

The stories I've heard are amazing. Inspiring, committed, brave individuals. There are goals of citizenship, helping with homework, writing letters to sons in Afghanistan. Mostly though, of employment and independence, confidence and a sense of accomplishment.

And there are so many times I don't understand. I am far removed from that life, a life with a loss for words, a compromised life. It's a new adventure, and we all know all I want is one good adventure after another, and I just hope that I can open their eyes and provide as much for these awe-inspiring human beings as they do for me.

I hope they look forward to Monday's and Wednesdays as much as I do - these intelligent, capable individuals willing to do what it takes to make it work. It's amazing the thought of spending 4 hours a week with them - the thought of what might be accomplished is daunting, and full of unrelenting respect. It demands discipline from all us and this is my responsibility I have taken on.

I'm scared.
I'm so scared of Mondays and Wednesdays.
I'm constantly scared of not being prepared, or focused, or relate-able.
And I'm scared that they will walk out, feeling like they have wasted their time, their efforts futile.

But in a few months we will have a series of celebrations - celebrating reading, writing, knowledge, and learning. And I'm already looking forward to it. Because everyone has a story to tell, one word at a time.

And I'm privileged to hear these stories unfold.


And here is a song, because sometimes when things (anythings) get rough (frustrating, humiliating, tiresome, etc. etc. right?) sometimes you just have to learn to shake it out.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7azjmmd3YyI

Shake it out, shake it off.
 

As things go, I met up with a long lost friend recently. The kind of friend where it never feels like you missed years of their life, and among dances and drinks, pictures and hours of straight up talking, we happened upon the idea of reinventing oneself.
Not an easy task but often times a necessary one.
At once liberating and extremely stressful.

So one has to ask, after all the bridges have been burned, what's the first thing to be done?

As you can maybe see, I’m attempting to revamp my blog into something more than just  a collection of random ramblings. And although I’m not sure how far I’ll get with that concept, I’m trying to consider this my new personal website - not just a way of communicating through writing and pictures what I cannot say out loud or through movement, but to develop and establish myself as both an artist and a scholar... A more professional way of presenting myself and the things that affect me personally and in turn, the topics I choose to pursue and the work I produce. But as I make changes and sadly, change my blog title, I wanted to give to you the poem that really changed the way I looked at life and the catalyst for how I now live my life.

It was because of this poem that I decided to no longer “measure out my life with coffee spoons,” and to truly understand that yes, there will is time.
There is time for you and time for me, time to make a hundred indecisions, a hundred visions and revisions - but that for me to live the life I want to live, I do not have the time.
I do not have the time to continue asking,
“And should I then presume? And how should I begin?”
Because in short, I do not want my fears of what I do not know, what I cannot presume to know, to stop me from discovering all that is out there.
Because what I do know, what I absolutely know, is that it is definitely worth it.
It is always worth it.

A Love Song for J. Alfred Prufrock
    a poem by T.S. Eliot

LET us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent To lead you to an overwhelming question….
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.  

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.  

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes.
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap, 
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.  

And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—
(They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”)
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—
(They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”)
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all:
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
    So how should I presume?

And I have known the eyes already, known them all—
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
    And how should I presume?

And I have known the arms already, known them all—
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
(But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!)
Is it perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.  
    And should I then presume?
    And how should I begin?

Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?

I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.

And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep … tired … or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
    Should say: “That is not what I meant at all;  
    That is not it, at all.”  

And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
    “That is not it at all,  
    That is not what I meant, at all.”

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.  

I grow old … I grow old …
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.  

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.
 
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

A few words on change

It's that time of year again: a sneeze accompanies you on the walk through the backyard to the blooming cherry trees, the house is really starting to look like it could for sure, definitely, absolutely needs another coat of paint, puppies are born and flowers turn their colorful faces towards the sky. Desk jockeys push aside their Ion Light Therapy lamps in favor of open windows and students take to doing their homework on the lawn, ankles and shoulders peeking, and thanks to Franklin (Ben Franklin & Franklin D. Roosevelt) we have that extra magic hour where the sun lingers behind the buildings, over the water, beyond the mountains.

All of these changes heralding the arrival of the new season, a time of change.
A change of clothes, a change in sustenance, a change in mood - the change of seasons.


So significant is the change in seasons, and in turn, the change in our natural patterns that it has long been documented across cultures and mediums. Vivaldi's Four Seasons... the Greeks on Demeter, Hades and Persephone...The Chinese on Pangu... multiple Native Americans creation myths.

And despite the varied explanations on the patterns of the seasons, one thing is inevitable - change will come, and it is often for the better. Our very cyclical existence is predictable, for we know the sun will rise and set again tomorrow, but it's everything in between the rise and fall of the sun that makes the day, that makes us who we are, whether we welcome the change of the seasons and of crops and of afternoon activities or continue on as if life as we know it is the same as it has always been, and always should be.


As an advocate for creation myths, personal therapy, and living a constantly turmoil-filled life, I accept change. And certainly not one to resist such exciting things as mood swings, uncertainty, and constant personal fulfillment searches, I'm allowing changes, seeing as they were bound to happen anyways.

It seems strangely lucky then, that I work in an eclectic restaurant where we give fortune cookies with our ice cream desserts that provide me with oddly reassuring words of wisdom, such as this one, encouraging life as it presents itself, sunshine or not.

Ohhhh Arvo.
How?

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B8qg_0P9L6c


Here's to you, young violinist under Union Square off of the L train.

Thank you, young man, for putting feeling back into my life.
For reminding me how to feel joyous and heartbroken at the same time, protective yet vulnerable. If I could tell you of the world's past, present, future, of my past, present, and future in that moment, that moment you were playing for me because nobody else existed for all else had disappeared, and I wish, I wish I hadn't gotten on the train and left you behind because I'll never find you again and you, You were beautiful, You are beautiful, everything was, everything is.
Thank you.