And it just hit me like a ton of bricks, again.
My god: We've all gotten so old.
My god: We've all gotten so old.
amazedLeave a comment
So I Go, and I Will Not Be Back There Again
Celebrating Life Through Small Joys
10 October 2008 @ 02:37 am
Millennials
09 October 2008 @ 07:14 pm
My Boys.
And we did a photoshoot which was silly, and I made them a layout which is not:
full07 October 2008 @ 03:27 pm
Identity as Spirituality
"The first music you really fall in love with is more than just music. it is something that clicks in you beyond the song, it's a message or image that causes you to jump in and not let go."
I stole that quote from the Facebook of ![[info]](http://p-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif)
xlilgroupiex
xlilgroupiex"And I'll take a visit to your landmark. It's my Abbey Road."
I stole that from Jade, and I love it so much that if that boy ever keeps up on his side of his promise, that's what I'm getting on my wrist: "It's my Abbey Road."
I agree with those quotes, with the idea that when a certain music speaks to you so deeply that it becomes a glowing kernel of light inside you that quietly shines, hidden deep beneath all of the muscle and tissue, humming a tune, a melody, that is so ingrained that you no longer notice that it is the rhythm of your steps... it is more than just music. It's your soul, your virtues and beliefs and the way that you approach the world. Me? I'm starving to find the truth, and I've always believed in you. I'll always be your fan, even when you've gone away.
I agree with those quotes, with the idea that when a certain music speaks to you so deeply that it becomes a glowing kernel of light inside you that quietly shines, hidden deep beneath all of the muscle and tissue, humming a tune, a melody, that is so ingrained that you no longer notice that it is the rhythm of your steps... it is more than just music. It's your soul, your virtues and beliefs and the way that you approach the world. Me? I'm starving to find the truth, and I've always believed in you. I'll always be your fan, even when you've gone away.
Jade's quote transcends to the marrow for me: Abbey Road is mecca... but we all have our own pilgrimage. A dirty club in Chicago for her; a muddy music festival in Bethlehem for me. There was a commercial a few months ago for people to win trips to the clubs and diners where Clapton, Bon Jovi, or James Taylor got their start, and they drove the point home, cracking the bone and showing that sliver of shining golden belief that lines their core: A place may be just four walls to someone, run-down, delapidated, condemned, pre-fabricated, cliched, too small, too dark, too forgettable... but to someone, it is the holy land. It's where their soul began.
It may sound silly, and I may regret this post later. But my favorite part about New York is that I moved into a community of women that feel the same way I do, and I don't need to lay my life experiences bare for them to know me because we have that soul in common. We share that song that when we hear it on the radio? It makes us think of the last time we were dancing and the deejay played it all night long. They may be new friends, but I feel like they understand me, and I love them for it: the mirrors in their eyes shine me my best reflection. Something in the same silly love song jumped into all of us and has refused to let go... and maybe that's naive or misguided or ridiculous, but I'd rather be a circus freak than some silly stuck-up pompous geek.
Thank you, girls. You don't even understand.
...That one wasn't supposed to be a pun. I did it on accident.
It may sound silly, and I may regret this post later. But my favorite part about New York is that I moved into a community of women that feel the same way I do, and I don't need to lay my life experiences bare for them to know me because we have that soul in common. We share that song that when we hear it on the radio? It makes us think of the last time we were dancing and the deejay played it all night long. They may be new friends, but I feel like they understand me, and I love them for it: the mirrors in their eyes shine me my best reflection. Something in the same silly love song jumped into all of us and has refused to let go... and maybe that's naive or misguided or ridiculous, but I'd rather be a circus freak than some silly stuck-up pompous geek.
Thank you, girls. You don't even understand.
...That one wasn't supposed to be a pun. I did it on accident.
Current Location: Brooklyn, NY
Current Mood: 
contemplative
contemplative05 October 2008 @ 01:50 am
Beatle Encounters!
I met Yoko Ono this morning.
We had a conversation over breakfast.
We had a conversation over breakfast.
YOKO: What is that you ordered?
ME: Um. Eggs benedict chorizo.
YOKO: Do you think they could make it without meat?
ME: Um. Probably. I mean. The meat is only on the side.
ME: Um. Eggs benedict chorizo.
YOKO: Do you think they could make it without meat?
ME: Um. Probably. I mean. The meat is only on the side.
She married a Beatle. She knows Pattie.
tired27 September 2008 @ 03:05 pm
New York City
I intended to write this post several times, and I've had a hard time actually getting the words out...
I have lived in New York City for seventeen days, and the old adage is true that this place is like nowhere else in the world. Every minute here has been a rollercoaster that makes me reexamine all of the facets of my personality and weigh what I thought were my strengths against what I thought were my weaknesses, and realize that neither were as concrete as I had thought.
Every day here feels like three days, three acts: morning, afternoon, night.
Mornings I slip onto the Uptown subway with the maids and Estee Lauder girls in their pearl earrings and black lace headbands on our way to the Upper East Side for work, the posters on the train in the morning read in Polish and Chinese: I can read the term for "On 9/11" in Chinese now. There are ads on the trains that advertise 9/11 healthcare for those without health insurance. I deboard the train into a whitewashed world where everyone drinks $7 cups of coffee and slips their uniformed dogwalker a $20 to take purebred Muffy all the way to Central Park. I've had a $7 cup of coffee. It tastes the same as a $2.95 cup, only the caramel tastes like it's real. I'm the only person who enters my office without designer clothes or platinum jewelry.
It's interesting to be in a real newsroom. I see: A figurine of the Kung-Fu panda, a phone I don't know how to use, expensive water, and the cast of Gossip Girl waiting around in the corner to speak to someone. I hear: Six-figure salary writers debating how to spell "they're." Even here.
In the afternoon I haunt Manhattan: the Village, SoHo. The first time I went to SoHo... I have never felt envy like that. It was a bright, hot, heavy, all-consuming cloud that bound my lungs and forced ice into my stomach, my eyes welling up with dark pressure in the back of my head, I have never been so jealous of anything or wanted anything so badly as that misty afternoon in half-light in SoHo. In the Village everyone is young and thin and cool, and it reminds me of Knox in a way, only with less of a need to overdo and prove itself. And everyone has a keffiyeh and a puppy.
Nighttimes I tend to go to midtown, Herald Square, Times Square... there are no squares in the Squares. There's never really nighttime in Times Square; it never gets dark, only gray, and the sidewalks are always wet and shining and steam rises off the street. We skulk in the gleaming streaks of light beneath four-story faces of Shia or Joe and Nick and Kevin or Rihanna in our Argentinean scarves and Carmen Sandiego trench coats, Shiseido makeup from the counters at Sephora as we creep to the backstage doors to meet Daniel Radcliffe and Ed Westwick.
I try not to look up at the sky too much at night in the Squares, but I can't help it. Everyone in New York is bigger than themselves. Everyone in New York is bigger than me.
I have lived in New York City for seventeen days, and the old adage is true that this place is like nowhere else in the world. Every minute here has been a rollercoaster that makes me reexamine all of the facets of my personality and weigh what I thought were my strengths against what I thought were my weaknesses, and realize that neither were as concrete as I had thought.
Every day here feels like three days, three acts: morning, afternoon, night.
Mornings I slip onto the Uptown subway with the maids and Estee Lauder girls in their pearl earrings and black lace headbands on our way to the Upper East Side for work, the posters on the train in the morning read in Polish and Chinese: I can read the term for "On 9/11" in Chinese now. There are ads on the trains that advertise 9/11 healthcare for those without health insurance. I deboard the train into a whitewashed world where everyone drinks $7 cups of coffee and slips their uniformed dogwalker a $20 to take purebred Muffy all the way to Central Park. I've had a $7 cup of coffee. It tastes the same as a $2.95 cup, only the caramel tastes like it's real. I'm the only person who enters my office without designer clothes or platinum jewelry.
It's interesting to be in a real newsroom. I see: A figurine of the Kung-Fu panda, a phone I don't know how to use, expensive water, and the cast of Gossip Girl waiting around in the corner to speak to someone. I hear: Six-figure salary writers debating how to spell "they're." Even here.
In the afternoon I haunt Manhattan: the Village, SoHo. The first time I went to SoHo... I have never felt envy like that. It was a bright, hot, heavy, all-consuming cloud that bound my lungs and forced ice into my stomach, my eyes welling up with dark pressure in the back of my head, I have never been so jealous of anything or wanted anything so badly as that misty afternoon in half-light in SoHo. In the Village everyone is young and thin and cool, and it reminds me of Knox in a way, only with less of a need to overdo and prove itself. And everyone has a keffiyeh and a puppy.
Nighttimes I tend to go to midtown, Herald Square, Times Square... there are no squares in the Squares. There's never really nighttime in Times Square; it never gets dark, only gray, and the sidewalks are always wet and shining and steam rises off the street. We skulk in the gleaming streaks of light beneath four-story faces of Shia or Joe and Nick and Kevin or Rihanna in our Argentinean scarves and Carmen Sandiego trench coats, Shiseido makeup from the counters at Sephora as we creep to the backstage doors to meet Daniel Radcliffe and Ed Westwick.
I try not to look up at the sky too much at night in the Squares, but I can't help it. Everyone in New York is bigger than themselves. Everyone in New York is bigger than me.
complacent25 September 2008 @ 06:47 pm
"Every Summer Has A Song"
Since I can't ever publish the magazine piece that I wrote about Greg back in April, since I work for/with him and ethically, I can't publish anything about him that isn't a 'memoir,' I figured I would post it here... I'd love comments. In my opinion, it's the best thing I've ever written... and the most honest.
( Every Summer Has A Song )
( Every Summer Has A Song )
listless21 September 2008 @ 01:48 am
My people... <3
What a crazy 36 hours of RAPOSO.
"What if we die??"
"You aren't allowed to die."
"Will you come to our funerals?"
"No. I don't do funerals."
"WHAT? We come to ALL of your shows, and you won't come to ONE of our get-togethers??"
"I'd visit your graves! I'd bring you flowers! You could haunt me; we'd hang out."
"5AM... damn you, Greg!!"
"Can I just say... that I love... that this night is ending with 'Every Summer'?"
Sweetest boys ever. Most talented band ever. Craziest night ever. It was a pilgrimage: my first New York City Greg show. And ohhhh, what an adventure it was...
"If you had told me five years ago that I'd be sleeping on a couch with Chrissy, Stef -- who I thought hated us! -- and Hayley from Unofficial Dream Street Fans! And that later we'd be hanging out in a Chili's on Staten Island... I'm writing on Greg's wall: 'Eff your life, Greg.'"
Deep conversations, inapprope conversations, frivolous conversations... trains, traipsing, and ferries... Sex, Weddings, and Funerals: Life, featuring Greg Raposo.
happy