Soccer Ball and the City

It all started Thursday night when I uttered an embittered - "Oh, fuck me" - in the laundry room. I anticipated toasty clean clothes, but found only drenched ones. It dawned on me that after paying for the dryer an hour earlier, I had forgotten to hit the start button - hence the cursing.

I have absolutely no shame (reference my tattoo, that time I went to a singles event at Babeland in the name of journalism, etc.) and vented my pent up frustration in front of a fellow midnight laundry-doer. To my surprise, she asked me what was wrong. I told her. To my even greater surprise, she swiped her card and paid for my dryer. My astonishment left me to stutter out a thank you with a longer delay than a live TV appearance by Russell Brand.

I'm not the I've-always-relied-on-the-kindness-of-strangers type, but cynicism isn't necessarily preferable to naivety when it comes to an outlook on humanity. Downtown Manhattan certainly hammered that point home during a enchanted Friday afternoon. My new prescription for fighting big city blues in New York is to amble through supple West Village streets or loiter around divine parks with a soccer ball in hand or by foot. I promise, magical things will happen.

The afternoon started on a very isolated note. At East River Park, with my soccer ball, I took 17 penalties in a row - aiming for the right side netting of the goal every time. It was my way of disciplining myself for moments when nerves tend to get the better of me. A group of twenty-somethings borrowed my pump for their American football. I bantered with the man who made my lunch about the indifferent attitude Americans have towards the beautiful game. I played a pick-up game of soccer with some Mexican guys at the John Walker Park in the West Village, until a platoon of 9-year-old's ousted us with parents and permits. I watched on with delight as four middle school kids at Sugar Sweet Sunshine played cards and ate cupcakes. Bouncing the ball as I waited to cross Chrystie Street, a truck cruised by and the driver yelled out to me - "I'll play with you!" - I smiled and gave him a thumbs up. I played a passing game on the First Avenue sidewalk as I chatted to some eastern Europeans. Walking along the periphery of StuyTown, I saw a construction worker with an array of tools beside him and an open bottle of Yuengling.

All afternoon, as I roamed between 18th and Canal from the West Side Highway to the FDR Drive, people would shoot me a puzzled smile and ask, "Soccer ball?" as if I were holding a mystical creature previously thought to be extinct. I garnered many a longing gaze from the profusion of young children scampering out of schools.

I've always considered this city a playground, but in a strictly adult way. There is an anonymity about partying in New York that allows people to freely indulge in public intoxication, fornication and pupil dilation. But Friday afternoon's slice of spring showed me a softer side of New York that encouraged me to relax the guarded stance I've adopted as of late. How easily I found playmates made me feel like a small kid. No worries apart from the embarrassment of a miskick; no pain apart from sore legs; no fears apart from goal tending next. All this liberation because of a soccer ball.

That night, I stood on the deck of the Staten Island Ferry with two of my best friends as we drifted from the tip of Manhattan. The Statue of Liberty flanked us on the left, the Financial District illuminated our view ahead and ruffled water marked the path we'd taken. My mind shut out unpleasant thoughts and focused fully on the splendor in front of me. That's the way I hope it stays.

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.

Missing Words

From Black Sand Journal

Midterms week put this blog into a near fatal coma, so I better start the resuscitation now that spring break has finally arrived.

One morning (well, technically afternoon) this week, I woke up and glanced at my arm, saw that my tattoo was not there - yelped! - then realized once consciousness settled in that I was looking at the wrong arm. I've probably spent too much time gazing adoringly at my tattoo (you know, after figuring out left from right). My eyes are repeatedly seduced by the embossed lettering - an affect that will wear off once my skin fully heals. I think I've outdone myself with this subcultural narcissism.

I'm fairly certain not everyone who sees my tattoo will be as smitten with it. I just emailed my mother and I am nervously awaiting her reply. A few friends have expressed their reservations about the particularly exposed location. My tattoo is hard to hide, but that is kind of the point. This wasn't an act of rebellion; I got these 14 letters tattooed on the inside of my left forearm with only the intention of staying faithful to myself. My response to people who have a problem with who I choose to be will never involve conforming to their image of what is acceptable. To anyone who feels the urge to chastise me for my tattoo, my only reaction will be a slight shrug of my shoulders, a quick flash of my smile, and perhaps a subtle roll of my eyes.

Walking through Alphabet City yesterday afternoon, I felt compelled to lower my gaze to the ground and delightfully discovered the words "Obedience Is Not Patriotism" stenciled in black on the pavement. How resonantly true - obedience shouldn't be an element of identity in which anyone takes pride.

Then he said, "Welcome to the club."

Long time, I know. Lets recap an eventful week.

Starting with the bad - what the fuck is wrong with South Asia? Seriously - terrorists hijacking Mumbai hotels, air striking downtown Colombo, and now shooting up the cricketers in Lahore. The news has not sunk in. For the love of God - they are sportsmen. Not soldiers or politicians or anybody who carries clout beyond the boundary ropes. Targeting them was cowardly - like all terrorist acts - but the fact the attack was so naively unexpected makes it all the more embittering. David Hopps wrote an immensely moving article that was published in the Guardian today.

From Black Sand Journal

Now, the good - actually, the dazzling. My sister got married over the weekend. Coincidentally, all the bottles in the picture above mysteriously disappeared. I may have been responsible, but honestly I did not commit much to memory that night.

As always, my flight back to New York was delayed. When I eventually made it to the city I came home to this wonderful view. Strangely enough, I haven't found the freezing temperatures or snow all that inconvenient, though that may be because I used both as an excuse to skip all my classes that don't take attendance.

From Black Sand Journal

All the snow-allotted free time gave me the opportunity to finally go through with something I've wanted for the past two years. The first two months of 2009, amidst all the unexpected and at times disturbing occurrences, have instilled in me the common sense not to deny any aspect of myself - which is why I got a tattoo.

I sat calmly in the waiting area of an Alphabet City tattoo parlor, with a man who no superlative could ever live up to. He was jittery. In anticipation of getting inked, I didn't think about the pain or the needles or the possibility of future regret. The tattoo became a part of me in the moment that I decided what, where and why I wanted it. While we lingered, inhaling that oddly satisfying sterile scent, I knew the tattoo was already done - I was merely going through the motions and time to arrive at a place I had reached long before. The real surprise lay in my sudden hankering for an avocado as I looked at the ink seeped into my skin for the very first time.

From Black Sand Journal

FYI: Week from hell coming up, so sadly bye-for-a-while again.

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.

Let It Die

From Black Sand Journal

From Black Sand Journal

From Black Sand Journal

Runaway ~ Too Late

Lately, as you may have noticed from reading my blog, I have found it difficult to synthesize my thoughts. My attempts at writing posts worth publishing leave me with a knot of loaded statements that linger for a moment longer than they are welcome.

I had a dramatic week. While in the past I have never been averse to chasing thrills, my rationale could not console me on Friday. Desperate words danced frantically through my mind and down to the tip of my tongue, but nothing could convey how I felt better than the regretful look in my eyes - something I had absolutely no control over.

So, in light of my rather humbling experience, I have decided to temporarily give up on words as medium of expression and stick to photography. Just until I stabilize.

From Black Sand Journal

Tasting Thoughts

From Black Sand Journal

Sweet: When we make pinky-promises, she has me wrapped around her little finger in more ways than one.

Bitter: Holding the Bird in my hands helped me realize my deepest fear is that I'll always be too independent.

From Black Sand Journal

Sour: Throwing out, albeit grudgingly, my five-year old pair of torn jeans will hopefully restore the morality I lacked while wearing them.

Salty: Receiving a very hands-on assessment of my looks from an absolute flamer did not leave me feeling the least bit violated.

From Black Sand Journal

Bittersweet: Waking up to his mistimed text messages on rare mornings makes me momentarily wish I was waking up next to him.

Symptoms of Sorrow

From Black Sand Journal

I cannot sleep for longer than two hours at a stretch. I work out for three hours and do not feel tired. I kick trash instead of picking it up. I am more narcissistic than usual. I write people long messages, then click delete instead of send. I stay away from my phone. I do my homework between the hours of one and four in the morning. I listen to the same album on repeat, every hour of the day. I take walks at night around the areas of the city that I should probably avoid. I have the power to cheer myself up, but I am waiting in the hope someone else will.

Slow Recovery

Through monochrome eyes I stare at my perfectly made bed from across the dimly lit room. The sheets - pulled taut and tucked in tightly - are deathly still, but my unwise musical palette paints the blank canvas with strokes of life and color.

The flashbacks - triggered by anything ranging from a phrase, item of clothing, street corner, lyric, smirk or beer - unsettle me the most. I leave my current reality to relive a moment in its bittersweet entirety, and when I return I find myself disoriented and disappointed. It is the combination of those two loathsome feelings that propel the sledge hammer towards my hollowed-out heart - fantasy about what my life right now would have been if -

Which isn't at all fair to the phenomenal people still in my life today, who did not leave me and I believe never will. I see a handful of them on a weekly (or so) basis, but for others it has been months, even years. In the spirit of my "Fragments" post from earlier in the week, here are somethings that spark spells of reminiscing:

Disney's Aladdin , the 1992 BMW occasionally parked on 3rd and 17th (sadly it's gray, not green), Yatzi, the score from Grease (especially 'Summer Nights'), item no.88 on any menu, knitting stores (there are a surprising number in New York), fingerless gloves (bonus if they are striped, too), Karate (I still have your brown belt), heavy metal band t-shirts, the smell of cashew nuts, the pink Dunhill packs, Swiss Army knives, Kanye West (because you couldn't stop raving about his new album in December), badly assembled tents (oh, those aborted outdoor sleepovers), Irish pubs (that will never live up to Flanagan's), and Oxford commas (which originated from your university press).

Fragments of a Week

From Black Sand Journal

New Jersey is somewhat redeemable when you see it from across the Hudson. No matter the direction I'm walking in, the snow always slaps me across the face. There is something about her presence that reminds me of Cheshire cat. Looking at a broken mirror gives the most honest reflection of myself. I will not buy a cupcake. Vile temptress of a cupcake. Yum. He top scored with 66 runs. I wonder if my mother wants to hang me for treason? If I had refilled my zippo I could have offered him a light. If I had a cigarette I could have asked him for a light. It should be illegal for tall men to wear frayed baseball caps after sunset. My foot is throbbing after kicking a lamp post on the corner of SoHo park. He cuts the right wire just before I'm about to detonate. I felt complete at midnight in Alphabet Town.

Mission Statement

Recursion has an innately haunting nature. In Sri Lanka, rumors of back-alley kidnappings and muffled massacres resonate like white noise - hard to ignore, but at the same time completely incomprehensible. Two weeks ago assailants on motorcycles killed the editor of the Sunday Leader. In an almost identical attack on Friday, Upali Tennakoon, the editor of another independent newspaper, and his wife were stabbed multiple times. Higher powers asphyxiate the truth with little tact, but they have no need to be discreet.

From Black Sand Journal

The overdose of corruption and unbridled tyranny that causes Sri Lanka to froth at the mouth is what first inspired me to pursue journalism. But New York is proving to be quite the distraction. The city has the unique capacity to feel like home to an abundantly diverse group of individuals. Lion Beer readily available at a store a few blocks away, I've fallen in love with cheap Greek food in Astoria, I find the 24 hour subway system unbelievably convenient (granted, sometimes the late night 6 is a grimy bitch), jazz clubs and secluded bars are not in short supply, and my eyes still widen at the sight of an illuminated Empire State Building.

The philosophy of "I want to dedicate my life to people, but I don't have the strength to devote myself to a single person," doesn't fall at all in line with my strong affection for New York or my tendency to develop deeply personal (often emotionally dependent, and sometimes inappropriate) friendships. These inclinations aren't ideal for someone who wants to be an objective reporter in the lawless, war-torn regions of the world. News from Sri Lanka still upsets me - it is why I am writing this post - but the fuss is so far away from my Manhattan apartment. The poverty and exploitation that led me to study journalism in New York starkly juxtapose the happiness I've experienced while doing so. I don't think it is possible to reconcile the two, which leaves me with an unpleasant ultimatum.

I would like to end this haphazard post with a question to current or former non-resident Sri Lankans. How do you feel about what is going on back home when you aren't at the heart of it? By choosing not to live on the island do you feel as though you've given up on our country? Please comment and let me know what you think. It doesn't matter if I know you or not, or whether this is the first time you've stumbled upon my blog. I would really value some insight.

Bluffs

I play plenty of poker. My style of betting is considered very unconventional - I am not at all risk-averse. I play for pride, not money. If the player across from me is tossing black and green chips like salad, I'll match till one of us is forced to bite the.... carrot (sorry, wanted to avoid mixed metaphors). I play to seed self-doubt in the minds of my opponents. The cards I'm dealt don't matter - if I'm feeling particularly adventurous, I won't even look at them. I love to bluff, because it falls in line with my belief that confidence is everything. There is nothing more entertaining than winning on an Ace high, knowing my opponent gave up the pot on three Queens.

From Black Sand Journal

But I believe I have met my match. Someone who doesn't even try to mimic my style - a person who understands you can't fight fire with fire. Someone who knows my tell and can play out my bluffs to the point of my humiliation. Even when I've got all the cards, this particular individual knows the moment to walk away from the table, and I'm left with no pride to cash in. It vexes me. Now I'm not sure how to approach the game. Should I compromise my style, or not bother playing at all?

A common aphorism in poker is "you play the player, not the cards." I have always held that to be true, but I'm beginning to reconsider the extent to which it is. Ultimately my goal should be to take home the most money, not fuck with everyone's head. But winning on a phenomenal hand doesn't satisfy me because I'm not interested in luck. I rather be what is phenomenal, not the cards. I rather be good than lucky any day of the week.

But those are not the laws that govern poker, I am just able to manipulate people into playing my variation of the game instead. Now I've met someone who isn't fooled, who sees the real prize and realizes that the path I coax people into following only leads them further away from it. It doesn't make a difference if I go all in on this bluff or not, I've already lost.