My Week In Pursuit

Monday
Colombo is a city where information circulates by way of clandestine candle-lit dinners. Stories of corruption, abductions and arbitrary shootings are prefaced with a distancing "I've heard" or "They say" to avoid liability, not for false statements but dangerously accurate ones. There is no tangible truth here.

Tuesday
"Surekha, it's gone. I promise," he says in an effort to comfort me.

The branches invading our airspace ruffle and I see a bat briefly eclipse the moon. We're on a dirt driveway, standing around what looks like a boat with wheels. No doors, no windshield, no mirrors and a vacant space for a backseat that one has to share with a tool box. We're preparing for a joyride.

"Dude, there is no way I'm stepping into that vehicle till you catch that cockroach."

I lied. Ten minutes later we're roaming the empty Tuesday night roads of Colombo. The engine spits out sounds disapprovingly every time the gear changes. As we pick up speed he involuntarily groans, then belatedly tries to muffle it. He's in the seatless backseat with his legs braced and his arms clinging on to the metal frame of the car. I'm in the front seat, with my legs stretched out over where the left mirror should be, utterly at ease.

Wednesday
Now I'm stretched out in the back of a van listening to Elliott Smith on my iPod. Parked for the past hour in an obscure village slightly inland from the southern coast, waiting for the male reporters to return from interviewing a Sheik who does not tolerate the presence of women. For a while I entertain myself by watching a goat troll a cluster of roof tops in a shanty town, but now I'm growing restless with my exclusion from the action. The raw heat from the afternoon sun isn't exactly helping me keep a cool head. Elliott, of course, never fails.

I haven't eaten since dinner with him the night before, but after walking around that mangled Mosque I'm not hungry. The senior reporters briefed me on the assignment during our hour long trip from Colombo. Muslim sectarian violence in Sri Lanka manifested itself on Friday night in the form of arson and murder in a small village near a booming tourist town. We originally planned to attend the court proceedings - woah, I'm going to photograph killers! - but police postponed the case. Our van re-routed to the scene of the crime.

From Black Sand Journal

I never expected to be granted entry to the Mosque, especially in a t-shirt and without my head covered, but in the eyes of these Muslim men the testimony of my camera trumped my gender. I received a guided tour in English from a man with an entourage that carried 9mm pistols in their sarongs. With a crowd circling he showed me the atrium of the Mosque, every inch of it covered in shards of glass and charred furniture. I snapped away at soot-coated walls covered in fingered-graffiti along the lines of "Prepare 4 Jihad."

Then we walked to the area for ablutions, where the massacre took place. The noxious stench foreshadowed the actual scene. A large room of wall-to-wall white tiles stained with dried pools of blood and splatter. Discarded makeshift murder weapons - rakes, concrete slabs - littered the floor. The hacked wooden doors that lined the back of the room looked like something out of The Shining. Flies swarmed the scene, buzzing between the patches of gore, sometimes landing on my arms or feet in transit. Thank God I didn't have breakfast.

My guide wanted me to photograph a thick layer of blackened blood with a victim's name scribbled in Tamil on a piece of paper lying next to it . There is no way my editor is going to publish photos of this slaughter house. I ended up taking over a hundred shots to appease my guide; I figured my cooperation would earn his. He explained that his sect of Islam is more orthodox than that of the mob that attacked his Mosque. Tensions had been brewing since his Mosque was first built in 2002, primarily due to its proximity to the rival sect's Mosque. A Friday midday sermon that called members of the rival sect "unislamic" ignited hostilities. The attack occurred shortly after midnight prayer the same day, and lasted about an hour. Two men slayed, nine injured, every window shattered, the Mosque and adjacent library and medical clinic all incinerated. The sound of crashing glass echoed through the Mosque even as I took pictures four days after the incident. Clean-up operations had just begun when we arrived perhaps a few hours too early.

From Black Sand Journal

Back at the back of the van, I'm absorbing. It is only a matter of time till the villains and victims switch roles. I'm dreading editing those photos. The smell won't vacate my nostrils. I contemplate going vegetarian, because currently I cannot fathom eating anything that bleeds. The war is over, but Sri Lanka is by no means cured of conflict. Muslim sectarian violence isn't a mere glitch - it is a symptom of what allowed a civil war to rage for a quarter century. The substance of divisions - Sinhalese, Tamil, Muslim, Christian, etc. - is insignificant compared to the fact the divisions simply exist. In the absence of ethnicity or religion, I'm sure people would divide themselves as fiercely based on shoe size or favorite flavor of ice cream.

Thursday
Edited the photos (before breakfast), wrote the article, visited Stefhan, ate sandwiches (yum!) and discussed this short anime (it is 5 minutes long - watch it!).



It walks the line of women-who-live-with-cats cliché, but I love what this film says about being single. I've never said "I hate being single." When a romance ends I am undeniably unsettled, not out of hostility towards the idea of being single, but because I miss that person in particular for a considerable length of time (oh, say a summer?).

But I enjoy my solitary morning routine. I enjoy my melangé à trois cereal experience while I read the news online. I enjoy yelling at messages in my inbox, then determinedly storming out on my computer. I enjoy the smell of CK One and FA Caribbean Lemon deodorant and St. Ives aloe vera cream. I enjoy only putting on my shirt 30 seconds before I walk out the door. I enjoy that last look in the mirror. And I do all that for myself. I do not need a lover to appreciate all those things for me to still enjoy them. I am the proud owner of an inner cat.

Friday
If the stakes are high I let my sense of duty guide me - even if it ends up leading me in the opposite direction of happiness. Applicable to journalism, applicable to my personal life. Maybe it was unfair of me to expect the you to take the same risk.

Hm, then again, maybe it wasn't at all.

No One Will Know

From Black Sand Journal

Though it can't guarantee no smoking, my zippo (more precisely, its engraving) promises no smalltalk. The aphorism comprehensively delineates what makes my friendship with Stefhan both compelling and durable, and it is the brazen model I'll adopt for this post.

Two weeks worth of private thought has woven together the bad patches of my past into a blanket personal philosophy. With some apprehension, I relived the moments that exposed my weaknesses, brought me to my knees, and left me feeling pathetic and worthless. Why I plummeted to such unbearable lows, I have recently learned, is intertwined with the fabric of my personality.

What makes me who I am? Let me start with what doesn't make me who I am. My nationality isn't obvious to me. Born in Vienna to Sri Lankan parents and the product of an international school education casts me as a cultural mongrel. My mélange accent is an apt testament to this. I am ethnically Sinhalese, but I can't even speak the language. Any attempt I make at pronouncing common words or phrases is often drowned out by laughter. My household has never been a religious one. My father raised me to be rational, not God-fearing. As for sexuality, I simply like people who challenge me. Ambiguity surrounds all the conventional characteristics of my identity. Because these traits don't narrow me down to a certain 'type' of person, they are about as useful as the thumb print on my pendant in describing who I am.

From Black Sand Journal

Who I am is wholly reflected in my personal choices. I don't hide myself behind labels. I do not identify with a religion to convert bigotry and homophobia into socially acceptable traditional values. I do not identify with a nationality or ethnicity to reclassify racism as a historical dispute. I do not identify with a sexual orientation to justify my behavior or dictate my social circles. I do not derive my 'wisdom' from a pool common to a community. I am accountable for my own opinions and actions.

But being exactly who I choose to be is both liberating and lonely. When I make a mistake, it is not a habit of my culture or religion or sexuality. It is just me. As my alcoholism began to bud with the flowers this spring, there was no way I could write it off as a part of the college lifestyle or my genetics. I made the decision not to drink this summer, supplemented with a wager with my brother-in-law. Now, whenever I decline to booze because of the bet to stay sober, someone always insists that "no one will know."

I am happy to say Dick Cheney is everything I am not. My mind could never follow a logic like: "3,000 Americans killed on 9/11 by Muslim extremists. I am American, therefore I am a victim and can authorize the use of torture on untried 'enemy non-combatants' with a clear consccience because it is all in the name of national security." Before Cheney tried to vindicate his sadistic orders, he acted like he never made any. Cheney vehemently opposed the disclosure of CIA memos that incriminated him (again, supposedly in the interest of national security). He carried out his most underhanded work as Vice-President assuming he would never be held responsible for abusing human rights. No fear of a guilty verdict, because no one was supposed to be aware of the crime.

But I fear my own recognition guilt. I do not know how to escape it, but the unyielding urge to neutralize guilt often foments the moments that expose my weaknesses, bring me to my knees, et cetera. I overcompensate or I realize later that the reasons for which I felt guilty were fabricated by people who act with no remorse. If vaccinating myself against guilt by disregarding my conscience is the only way to avoid revisiting those lows, then I rather be harmed than cause harm to others. I never want to share common ground with Dick Cheney.

Returning to why I still refuse liquor when confronted with that airtight "no one will know" argument? Well, I don't consider myself "no one."

From Black Sand Journal

Couldn't Help Myself

Apologies - I need to write. The vlogging stuff is fun (reference last one with Stef), but much of what I'm compelled to say sounds awkward when, well, said. I'm returning to my favorite medium to reflect on my day in Unawatuna.

From Black Sand Journal

The sea expanded endlessly before me from where I sat atop the hillock in Unawatuna. My grandfather owned this land before gifting to the temple. As a kid, I wondered why he hadn't kept this beautiful place to build some elaborate holiday home. If he had to, surely he could have given away the estate in Ambaghawatta - with its wild cattle and overgrown vegetation - to the temple instead.

Beneath the sun-baked rock, my feet burned. My eyes must have looked blue as I studied the clear skies and open ocean - the boundary between the two ambiguous at best. The sound of the waves and the wind ricocheted in my ears, drowning out all thought. My tongue tasted the salt that landed on my lips, carried by the gentle sea spray. Now a little wiser at twenty, I'm glad this sensory explosion is shared by more than just my family.

Just when I felt my metaphysical self departing, the thunderous noise of fighter jets drew me back to reality. Victory parade today, right. In the morning, the waiters at the hole-in-the-wall restaurant where I had stopped on the drive down watched coverage of the celebrations in Colombo on a TV that predated my birth. My breakfast background noise was translated into three different languages. When I did glance at the aging television, I saw the familiar face of the president. I say familiar because in the south his image is plastered on as many as eight billboards at any given roundabout; overkill, don't you think? (No pun intended). Mahinda's mug is second only to the number of AK-47s on my list of the most frequent sights in Sri Lanka. I see at least twenty cops or soldiers cradling their weapons whenever I leave my home. The closest I came to a gun in New York was standing behind a cop in line at Dunkin' Donuts.

From Black Sand Journal

Before I found myself upon the charming rock, I visited two schools in Unawatuna. Both were tsunami schools, the first funded by people in London. My Dad sent me to take photos of the makeshift kitchen, which was literally a small hut with a campfire, to help raise money in England for a new one. The children, seeing my big camera, attempted to draw my attention by repeatedly screaming "hi, hi" through their grins and waving furiously. Adorable, and not much unlike my behavior in front of cameras as a kid. The boys were flying kites and the girls crowded onto the swings and slides. The hi's seamlessly switched to bye's as I turned my back on them after taking a few photos.

The second school was in a temple and the children there were considerably more mellow. I wanted to photograph them playing, but when I drew near they put down their toys, stopped talking, and stood in a line in front of me. I can't speak Sinhalese and they nor their teacher spoke English. After a few failed gestures to convey that they should continue playing, I left.

Around the back of the school, I found a priest who thankfully did speak English. He told me to explore the temple with "little monk" as my guide. The "little monk" was a child of no more than eight. He didn't know English, but his demeanor spoke volumes. He silently escorted me up the steps to the temple and places of worship. I wondered what this child - this monk - thought of me with my expensive camera and sunglasses and my impossible to mask bad vibes. I felt distinctly ashamed while I snapped away in his presence.

From Black Sand Journal

On the drive home, I tried to locate the source of my shame. In the day since I got back, I've come to the conclusion that my restlessness sickens me. It is no secret that I've spent a good chunk of the last two months feeling unhappy. To put it simply, I didn't get what I wanted or felt I deserved. I tried to constrict the expression of my displeasure, but I inevitably threw tantrums while intoxicated. No wound strikes deeper than love that is turned to hate, Sophocles wrote in one of his Theban plays. I've quoted that line at least once a year since 16. I'm now in that mindset (perfect for working out, actually) where I am so consumed by hate that spite alone propels me to move on and distinguish myself from the girl who foolishly let her heart break. I have to become a worse person before I can become a better one, and that fact shames me.

Maybe I should go fly a kite?

Somebody That I Used To Know - Elliott Smith

From Black Sand Journal

I listened to the namesake of this post on repeat all of last night.

Mike and I were taking a tea and coffee break yesterday afternoon at Irving between helping our friends move out of dorms. He'd been listening to this Elliott Smith song and said that it reminded him of my current predicament. "That first line, what was it?" he said before pausing for a tense moment to think. "Oh yeah, it goes - I had tender feelings that you made hard. But it's your heart, not mine, that's scarred."

I can't emphasize enough how horribly apt an articulation the song is of my entire year, so just listen to it.

From Black Sand Journal

Sophomore year is over. I'll be leaving the city in eight days and won't be back for fourteen weeks. People in Sri Lanka will ask, "So, what went on over the last few months?" - and what the fuck am I going to say? I should just link them to my blog and tell them to figure the whole mess out.

But here are a few shards. I never feel more alive than I do immediately after a concert. Photography is therapeutic. The most unexpected people read my blog. My perfect vision probably dulls my other senses. It's worth jumping fences after midnight for certain people. As a 20 year old, I don't take my good health for granted. The same two figures have alternated casting a shadow over the other in my life - while in the presence of one, all I could feel was the absence of the other.

The End of Poetry

From Black Sand Journal

It is the eve of finals and I know things are bad when my mind subconsciously turns to religion. Not to worry - my real Holy Trinity is Elliott Smith, Feist and Wilco. Since life is a mere exercise in citation, my final swing at poetic writing will be the splicing together of lyrics from my three saviors.

I met a girl, a snowball in hell, she was hard and as cracked as the Liberty Bell. Baby I can't figure it out, your kisses taste like honey. Forget the implications, infatuations end. This very secret that you're trying to conceal is the very same one that you're dying to reveal. You once talked to me about love, and you painted pictures of a never never land, and I could have gone to that place, but I didn't understand. The hope I had in a notebook full of white, dry pages was all I tried to save. It was hard to tell how I felt to not recognize myself. A sleepy kisser, a pretty war, with feelings hid, she begs me not to miss her. You beat up on yourself 'cause there ain't no one else, who feels quite as good to put straight through hell. All my lies are only wishes. You beat it in me that part of you, but I'm going to split us back in two. I thought you'd ask me not to leave. I'm never going to know you now, but I'm going to love you anyhow.

Do You Discriminate Against The Mentally Ill?

If I were to reveal to you that I am mentally ill, would you be less inclined to hire me? Less inclined to date me? Less inclined to trust me? Less inclined to even associate with me?

The issue came up in a class of mine this week, when my professor contended that people with mental illness are considered unreliable sources. In fairness, I did not quiz him on his views after class, but I think it's worth discussing the misconceptions about mental illness that have led to discrimination based on it to become a well accepted practice.

Mental illness is an umbrella term - it includes everything from schizophrenia to anorexia to depression to Alzheimer's. Simply describing somebody as mentally ill is just as useful as saying someone suffers from a physical ailment - are we talking paraplegia or influenza? The extent to which a mental illness can/should be considered a disability is highly contingent on its specific type.

Mental illness is by no means rare - it affects 1 in 4 adults, which is roughly 57 million Americans - but its prevalence and nature are not immediately apparent from its frame of reference in mainstream news. 25 percent of the adult population are neither inept nor dangerous, but more often than not you will find the term 'mentally ill' in the company of criminals, the homeless and drug addicts.

Sensational stories that characterize the mentally ill as violent misfits scare not only the general public, but also the mentally ill themselves. Given its low standing in the public imagination, it's no wonder that people who experience a mental illness are reluctant to associate themselves with the term. The poor reputation of mental illness may prompt a person to hide his or her condition instead of deal with it openly, and those who do not seek help are more likely to suffer explosive breakdowns, which in turn supplements the poor reputation. The fear of being classified as mentally ill can manifest itself into the denial that creates this vicious, self-perpetuating cycle.

Thankfully, there are organization working to demystify mental illness. In its mission statement, The Icarus Project maintains that "we have mad gifts to be cultivated and taken care of, rather than diseases or disorders to be suppressed or eliminated." Mental illness should not be a source of shame and viewing it as condition to prosper from and not merely cope with is a powerful shift in emphasis that I strongly support.

I implore you to seek help if you think you may be experiencing a mental illness. If you are in college, counseling is usually free and confidential. I also hope reading this post has forced you to reconsider dismissing a person's worth based solely on his or her history of mental health. There are darker sides to the diseases, but it's unfair and unnecessary to relegate people to the shadows for having the courage to manage their mental illnesses in the public light.

From Black Sand Journal

A Blossom Fell

From Black Sand Journal

I felt nostalgic this morning. I put on some Nat King Cole to cheer myself up after three measly hours of sleep. Until the age of four, my Dad used to slow dance to Nat King Cole in the living room as I slipped into sleep on his shoulder. It is tragically appropriate that the song 'A Blossom Fell' conjures up the most vivid memories of those early childhood nights.

From Black Sand Journal

I don't have the right to reveal too many details about my family's checkered past, but when my insecurities get the best of me I wonder to what extent my relationships are doomed by the fact I grew up without role models who completed or complimented each other. I'm not quite sure I know any better than to be an ostensibly strong individual, who can do little more than paper over gaps in the relationships I have been involved with that too often have not been mine own.

From Black Sand Journal

Feminstinct

From Black Sand Journal

I should have stolen this moped. I imagine a woman parked it at the steps of Gould Plaza after absconding from the 1950s. My guess is she took full advantage of modern day America by purchasing a metro card, throwing on a pair of jeans and letting herself loose at some sapphic bar in the West Village.

Or at least that's what I hope she did. My man-hate as of late has hardly been covert. Not that I actually hate men - off the top of my head I can name eight that I consider my closest friends, two of whom I've dated. Though they broke my heart last weekend, the men who pull on the red shirt of Manchester United will always command my love and respect.

But my entire life I've found myself frustrated with gender roles and what people label as 'ladylike'. Long before I could even conceptualize sexuality, I was a tomboy. I liked the ninja turtles and played soccer religiously. I never liked pink or wore anything remotely girly, and those habits stayed with me throughout adolescence. I like vintage Adidas trainers, not Nine West high heels (though I own a delightful 3.75" pair that I wear when I'm feeling masochistic). I love my button-downs, jeans and new blazer more than I ever could a dress. My androgynous style is what I am comfortable with, but it hasn't always garnered the most respect. As a soccer-playing and foul-mouthed 16 year-old, how to attract boys became a huge source of anxiety.

Instead of trying rebuke the unnecessary expectations heaped on me to look and act 'ladylike' (really, wtf does that mean? Cooking? Cleaning? Nodding enthusiastically in silent agreement with whatever my boyfriend just said?), I conformed - kinda. I think I was still myself on the inside - outspoken and unrelenting - but I just looked more like what people wanted on the outside. Ears pierced, hair straight, short skirts, make-up done. This new expression of my femininity was for the sole purpose of attracting men.

These insecurities about my perceived sexuality held me back from embracing something that should have come naturally to me - feminism. In fact, I think my short-lived burst of femininity was innately anti-feminist. Why was I aspiring to be something that made me feel uneasy and awkward? Why did I believe confining myself to mainstream femininity was a prerequisite for male affection? Of course, being feminine is perfectly fine... when it is what you want to be.

Honestly, the misandry is misdirected hate. I got more criticism from girls while growing up than I did from boys, but boys were what I was after. Oddly enough, now that I'm in college and the years of high school restlessness and fake-femininity are behind me, I am the most narcissistic son-of-a-bitch you are ever likely to meet. I wear what I want and choose the way I behave regardless of whatever gender-rules people of either sex may think I'm violating. That is feminism. This all comes back to the reasons I got my tattoo; I fucking wanted it - end of story.

One small but significant caveat to an otherwise liberating story. All this misplaced misandry is inspired by probably the only man I've been involved with who relished the real and raw me. Gotta love the irony.

The Wise Words of Wilco

You could accurately tell the story of my year by splicing together lyrics from an assortment of Wilco songs, but you'd have to include this one in full - We're Just Friends.

Lessons From Last Week

Writing is one addiction I cannot abnegate for life. Last week turned out to be monumental, and it would be remiss if I did not reflect on all that I learned here.

From Black Sand Journal

On Wednesday night, a radical student group called "Take Back NYU!" barricaded itself inside the cafeteria of the NYU student center with a list of 13 demands. What started out as some wholesome dancing and poster painting turned into a highly contentious debate on influence and effects of student protest by the time day broke on Thursday. Property was damaged, a security guard suffered injuries, two female sophomores walked around topless in the middle of the day and at night two males were arrested as NYPD cops and cars lined the outside of the occupied building.

From Black Sand Journal

And I got to cover it all for NYU Local, a student run blog I've been writing for since the start of the semester. My section editor had the forethought and enterprise to place himself inside the barricaded area with a camcorder and laptop to document the entire occupation from the inside, and update his coverage on the NYU Local site every few minutes. NYU students, faculty and administrators followed NYU Local to get a clue about what was going on. The rest of us ran around taking/acquiring photos, interviewing people, and publishing all the information we could with as short as a two hour turn over. We blew the "official" school news source out of the fucking water. You can read my summary of the ordeal here.

From Black Sand Journal

Of course, TBYNU! decided to gift me the most significant journalism experience of my life thus far the day before an economics midterm. I cabbed it home from the student center at 2AM - roughly 9 hours before my exam - with ice blocks for hands and a feeling of utter exhilaration. I found out later NYU Local received half a million page views over the course of the occupation and our coverage was linked by The New York Times, Gothamist, The Village Voice, Gawker and New York Magazine. It blew my fucking mind to be a part of something so exceptional - something that so many people followed.

From Black Sand Journal

I had a moment of clarity. I want to be a journalist because it makes me feel alive. I absolutely loved working with the rest of the NYU Local staff, who are a group of incredibly witty and talented writers. I was able to push all my personal tribulations to the back of my mind in order to get the story out as quickly as I could. Paradoxically, this restless journalism gave me the patience I required to properly comprehend the more unpleasant issues I'm currently facing.

I can report on the circumstances, but I cannot rectify them. I'm a much happier person for acknowledging and accepting my situation than I would be hopelessly trying to alter it. I know which causes are worth the fight, but I'm not about to needlessly barricade myself in regret.

Edit: Just wanted to add, despite the fact somebody in the comments section of my TBNYU! summary called me an "illiterate douchebag," I have never felt more at ease with who I am, as a journalist and a person.

Twenty

Note: I apologize for the way this entry is going to sway between description and meandering thought.

My birthday has always been a highly convoluted affair, and yesterday was no exception.

The anticipation starts mounting from New Years day. I plan an elaborate celebration with a band of my best friends. I make reservations. I bake brownies. I stock every shelf of my fridge with beer. An adult formula for fun.

I had planned to be up the Empire State Building at midnight on my birthday, but the fates conspired to close the observatory deck because it was freezing (where is global warming when you need it?). Plan B brought me to the Brooklyn Promenade after midnight. I crossed the threshold out of my teens and into my twenties not admiring the view of my city from the top of its most stunning creation. Instead, I found myself on a subway platform waiting for the C and counting rats. Glorious.

I woke up later that day, but it was still early. Overnight I had morphed into that ungrateful, snarky anti-socialite I usually am on my birthday. I decided to take a long walk to prepare myself for all the people I'd have to greet with an artificial smile plastered across my face. Those damn bastards who want to commemorate my day of birth, how dare they!

I didn't carry my phone or wear my watch. The snow bludgeoned down and coated the parts of my hair that my overwhelmed hoodie could not cover. I walked west on 23rd to the Flatiron building, where I got a clear view of the beautiful building that had rejected me 7 hours ago. I'm living in a tourist's snow globe - of course he picked today to give it a shake and fuck everything up.

My legs led me to the unlit shop window of children's bookstore I had stumbled upon a couple of weeks ago on a cupcake-run.

From Black Sand Journal

On that day, I sat on a bench in the back and reread the book above. It is my favorite kids story because it deals with anger. Max is pissed off and envisions himself king of an island inhabited by monstrous figments of his raging imagination. I cope with my flurries of fury in a similar fashion. I will obliterate whoever I am annoyed at with my vitriolic rhetoric in a make-believe argument. I save all my malice and caustic remarks for these unreal arenas; I imagine my opponent sniveling in shame and wincing with indignation. I always feel better, and I rarely let any of that venom seep into the real-world counterparts.

I walked downtown on Broadway. For all the unhappy events that punctuated my childhood, I cannot deny the delight with which I read books, played football, and watched cartoons. I've spent my entire life wanting to be older, but now that I'm there I suddenly want to be younger. I associated age with the ability to abscond and be independent of everything - not true. All that changes is who you want to escape. Still a caged bird, the keys have just passed hands to new owners.

Self-doubt accompanied me as I headed east on 18th. I want to dedicate my life to people, but I don't have the strength to devote myself to a person. Did I mean that? Why am I planning a night of alcohol-induced merriment to celebrate my birthday if I previously decided that I'm more concerned with the aggregate amount of human happiness because my personal supply is so unsatisfying? As that disturbing notion occurred to me, I began to rue the fact I left my notebook and pen at home. If I can't remember these thoughts by the time I get home, how important are they really?

I sauntered down Irving Place. I keep telling a friend that I would do unspeakable things to live in particular neighborhoods of New York, and the area surrounding Gramercy Park is certainly one them. Her advice to me was to start sleeping with residents of the areas of town I admire (no elaborations on that point on this blog).

I dusted the snow off That Black Jacket before heading inside. In an unexpected twist, the rest of my day ended up being amazing. I think it's because I made hummus from scratch - the tahini that I add always does something kooky to me. I was bouncing off the walls at dinner, there was no need to indulge in the bottle (oh, but I did). I had not felt such sheer elation in a very, very, long time. To see some of the people I care for the most all together with me on my birthday engraved a real smile across my face. It must have been the hummus.

The night (kind of) ended at the front desk with my head spinning as I watched YouTube videos of the security guard a.k.a Mamba King. While I patiently stared at this man dancing Salsa on the offending computer screen, my body shivered and convulsed uncontrollably because about five minutes earlier I decided to bask in the brisk winter night wearing slippers and That Black Jacket, unzipped. The (appropriately dressed) person with whom I stood in the cold had made some complimentary remark regarding my intellect earlier in the night. She should reconsider.

The intervening hours between the consumption of hummus and the gyrating security guard were fun for reasons I do not quite understand yet. I stopped thinking for an evening. Many of my emotional preoccupations vanished last night, as did some other self-imposed limits. I have made mountains of thought today to make up for it, much of which I'm not ready to publish yet. Till then, please listen to Elliott Smith's "Say Yes," and revel in (or reflect fondly on) your twenties.

From Black Sand Journal

Edit

"I dream of rejecting all the apologies I know will never come."

- Submitted to Post Secret (and read by me before I knew what it truly meant)

From Black Sand Journal

I'm rewriting the post I published yesterday because I didn't think it clearly conveyed what New York City means to me or what New York City gives me that nothing else has.

If I've called anywhere "home" in the past it was predominantly for a select group of individuals who lived there at the time rather than the place itself. I stopped referring to Sri Lanka as home as soon as I started living there, and I have to admit with most of my friends now at English universities Vienna feels much less like home than it did when I first moved away.

Intimacy is awkwardly entangled with disappointment - people and places lose their shine with the wear and tear of daily interaction. The epigraph to this post has applied all too often to me in in the past. I've struggled with people who haven't met my expectations. Either they have to start trying harder or I have to set the bar lower - I obviously only have the power to influence the latter option.

I've been guilty of trying to extend beautiful moments beyond their expiration date. I've tried to recreate memories that I reminisce about by simply putting the same people in the same place, but the whole situation only ends up feeling artificial - an imitation that is an insult to the original.

So, how does New York City defy my previous experience with places I've lived? Yes, much of my love for the City is inspired by people, but not necessarily just the ones I know. I think New York feels like home for all the people I have the potential to love as much as it does for all the people I do already. The streets are flooded with hope and opportunity. An argument with one friend, one relation, one lover just doesn't pack the same punch it did before. If 2008 taught me anything it is that I want to dedicate my life to people, but I don't have the strength to devote myself to a person (yet). Now when things go up in flames, I feel more phoenix than forlorn.

Toast to a New Year

In more ways than one, 2009 is the first year I've begun not hung over from the last. The sun that crept between my blinds did not burn my eyes, my head did not feel magnetically attached to my pillow. I got out of bed without stumbling, looked myself in the mirror without grimacing. My clothes are neither stained, nor torn, nor lost. I can remember last night without the aid of my digital camera. The kitchen table is cluttered with corks and six empty champagne bottles - but my Advil one still rattles.

Yes, 2009 already seems very different from 2008.

From Black Sand Journal

By the way, I traded my 'Happy New Year' tiara for this hat with a woman in a fur coat on East 4th Street. Around 2.30am, the hat flew across 6th Avenue and was run over by two cabs. Rob heroically retrieved it, and then we all got hot dogs.