The Lies We Like To Believe Are True

I've dutifully contemplated, composed, reread and subsequently deleted many an incomplete post in the past week. So I'm back to fragments, though noticeably in larger chunks - paragraphs rather than sentences. Enjoy.

A shapeless intruder, that fragrance-cum-miasma redolent of a painful-once-pleasant memory. If we hold harrowing experiences like a revolver at our lips, then smell callously pulls the trigger. It is an unhappy coincidence of anatomy that our weakest sense is controlled by the part of our brain most closely associated with emotion. Too enamored by an aroma to question from where it emanated. Too easily other senses blunted, blinded and bound by romantic resignation to a mere scent. Too fleeting a visit, leaving in its wake unbearable sensory deprivation.

To stratify society in a developing tropical country, look no further than the way people keep themselves cool. An electricity imbibing air conditioner? A humming ceiling fan? The breeze running through the open windows of a home? Or lacking all of the above, how about the gust of wind generated by a speeding jeep? A zephyr imbued with asphyxiating exhaust fumes and the ruffled dust of a dirty street.

From Black Sand Journal

The fortunate eavesdropping of a conversation between two very intriguing women (no idea what their names were, but I guess I wouldn't publish them even if I did).
Veritas: It's not that I think I'll stop loving her. I just think I'll never stop being attracted to men. (Pause) And, you know, wanting dick. Not that sex with a woman isn't fantastic. I cant even say one's better than the other.
Nyx: If only being bisexual meant living parallel lives, a straight one fucking men and a gay one fucking women.
Veritas: Yeah I know, that would be awesome!
Nyx: Oh my God, we've become that loathed bisexual cliché - polygamists!
Veritas:(Laughs) Where is the harm? Who made up this "only one person for everyone" crap anyway?
Nyx: All the people who get jealous. (Pause) Which includes us.
Veritas: (Sighs) True.

A weak stream of pity trickles into her cupped hands. The worn palms converge and withered fingers straighten to smoothly transform the gesture of begging into one of prayer. In an unnecessary token of gratitude, she bows till her nose kisses her thumbs. An elegant expression of thanks disproportionate to the "charity" she received. Her routine continues unwaveringly, even as in the minds of passersby the memory of her existence expires with the minute of the day.

Casual Conversation

"You're the one," he sighed.

"You're all I could ever want," I replied.

"I'll love you forever," he said with vigor.

"I'll never leave you," I promised.

Under a thatched umbrella, we sat facing a sea with black waves. The moon surfaced sporadically from behind the sailing clouds, but we relied on candle light to pour our drinks. It could have been any night from the last three summers, except I refused to indulge in any alcohol (much to his dismay). I let the sand surround my feet and invade the gaps between my toes. My legs pushed downwards with increasing force till the damp grains began to make my ankles itch. This process preoccupied me as we spoke.

Amused by our embittering experiences, we were trading insults not sweet nothings. We found insincerely repeating to each other all the unfulfilled commitments we had suffered so simple. As simple as the liars, who once convinced us to fill our faith in those hollow words, must have found it.

"I need you," he added through muffled laughter.

"I'll never let you down," I recited - after a moment of hesitation - from a now distant memory.

Dislocation Blues

I lead a private existence on a strict schedule in Sri Lanka. My social interactions are limited to morning conversations with my personal trainer at the gym. Otherwise, I'm in my hotel-style room, reading political blogs or writing for my summer internship, with only the hum of the ceiling fan for company. Events in New York last semester contaminated me, so now I'm on a self-imposed quarantine in Sri Lanka to - in a sense - disinfect myself.

I'm seeing "results" - I guess. I've lost six pounds since my first day in Colombo, if weight is a metric of happiness. It usually isn't for me, but when my rational and empathetic values fail me, I revert back to the shallow basics. Less weight = better person is an easy formula to follow, but I hope a more sophisticated idea strikes me soon. I'm going to resist the urge to regurgitate feminist musings on weight and its negative correlation with a woman's sense of worth.

From Black Sand Journal

Here is a peculiar divergence from my normal pattern of behavior that I just observed. Anyone who knows me must know that I drink no nonsense black coffee. I like it brewed strong, I don't take any sugar (God help the barista who dares add 2% milk) and I enjoy multiple cups of the stuff at all hours of the night. BUT not only have I stopped drinking black coffee and switched to tea this summer, I have my tea with sweetener AND milk. [Okay, if you don't know me you are probably reading this and thinking, "what is the big deal?" but if you do know me then you're probably frantically searching the internet for the closest bunker because you recognize this as a sign of the apocalypse.]

I've always been such an "all or nothing" person, this unfamiliar balance of tea AND sweetener AND skim milk frightens me more than an Alfred Hitchcock film. Maybe I am changing in ways more substantial than I am conscious of.

This post isn't about much, but I'd like to share a couple of newly acquired nuggets of knowledge. The first is if you are ever facing a crisis, take a moment to listen to Chris Whitley's album that is the namesake of this post. The second is a challenge to conventional wisdom. We are wired to chase our desires in all fields of life - that boy, this girl, those shoes, an iPhone, a slim waist line, the ideal job. Having goals and the ambition to accomplish them is commendable (and the sentiment behind my tattoo), but there are times when we are forced to grudgingly accept some of our aspirations will escape us. This realization is usually accompanied with a great deal of disappointment, and in some cases anger and resentment. But if we know that getting what we want does not necessarily make us happy, why can't we embrace the reverse as equally true? That we can still be happy, despite not getting what we want.

I think it's a powerful idea. Meditate on it.

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?

Summer VLog: Featuring Stefhan!

As promised, the new VLog entry features my best friend Stefhan! We recorded this in the living room (we were supposed to tape in Barefoot, but the Sunday jazz session would've drowned out our magnificent commentary on life). We tried doing one long take, but that didn't work out too well with my Dad hovering around ("helicopter parenting") and Stefhan's phone ringing. There aren't enough cautionary words in the English language for this video. We're immature, we make wildly inappropriate jokes, and half the time we're laughing at ourselves. How do I function without this boy around?

Summer VLog: First

Alright, here is my first vlog entry, which I recorded in bed. I must be in that lucid-sleep stage to be stupid enough to publish this post, but whatever. I'll deal with the backlash in the morning. Enjoy the rambling and incessant gum-chewing.

Back On The Island

From Black Sand Journal

Today, I decided to take a nap at 3 in the afternoon and I didn't wake up again till 10 at night. This does not bode well for the start of my 9am gym routine.

I wonder if Emirates reads my blog, because on the Dubai-Colombo leg of my marathon trip home I was cut some serious slack with a free upgraded to business class. I didn't ask anyone for it - the guy who rips the boarding passes just issued me a new one and I didn't realize I was in business till I was looking for my seat on the plane. They were offering freaking Möet before takeoff (of course, I couldn't accept because of a certain bet I have going this summer) and my food was served on a table cloth - A TABLE CLOTH! - oh, the luxuries of life.

Usually when I return to Sri Lanka, I (and those around me) suffer a week-long tantrum until I adjust to the fact I won't be in New York for X-amount of days. It takes time for me to accept I cannot walk everywhere and anywhere (thanks to the unforgiving sun and charming catcalls from men). It takes time for me to remove the words fuck, cunt and asshole from my vocabulary. It takes time to remember I cannot drink the tap water.

But this time round, my demeanor is eerily calm. I think it may have something to do with acknowledging I was in dire need of a 14 week break from New York to get back in touch with who I am (free of certain "stresses"). 14 weeks of sobriety, working out and meditation (yes, that means I'm going to temple...).

Exciting news - as of my next post I'll be vlogging instead of blogging. I really shouldn't be, because every time I post a video on someone's facebook wall I tend to come off as clinically insane. No matter.

Summer in Sri Lanka To Do List

From Black Sand Journal

1. Intern at a newspaper...
2. ... Not die in the process.
3. Photograph what the government doesn't advertise in brochures...
4. ... Not die in the process.
5. Volunteer for Equal-Ground...
6. ... Not die in the process.
7. Gym 5 days a week...
8. ... Not die in the process.
9. Live with my parents for 14 weeks...
10. ... Not die in the process.

To summarize, staying alive is the low bar I'm setting for a successful summer.

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 Thermals at Bowery Ballroom

From Black Sand Journal

I will feel as free as Kathy looks in this photo on Tuesday night.

Patrick Wolf at Le Poisson Rouge

From Black Sand Journal

I love bouncers who can't do math. Approximately 12 hours before my politics final, I stood in line outside Le Poisson Rouge to receive my wristband for the Patrick Wolf show. I showed my real ID, but entered without underage X's marring my hands. I took it as a sign, and walked straight to the bar to order a pint of Red Fish Ale.

Call it irresponsible, call it badass - I value my education, but I don't skim on thrilling life experiences. It doesn't get much better than witnessing Patrick Wolf - the omnisexual demigod - perform a live acoustic show at a club on Bleeker Street.

Befitting the musical tone, the scene at Le Poisson Rouge was quite subdued. Fans obediently occupied tables, while those of us who came late lined the walls. Patrick shared the stage with a violinist, but played more instruments than I've heard of throughout the show.

Patrick emerged from his dressing room in a fitting black jacket and elaborate neck piece - both of which he had stripped off by the second song. I had never been all that attracted to him, but when an inebriated woman in the audience yelled, "C'mon Patrick - Get yer kit off," I found myself nodding in silent agreement.

His onstage banter is second to none. He spoke at length about his family, and what playing in New York means to him. His childhood fascination with Bleeker Street while growing up in a small town near Sussex certainly resonated with me. "I imagined a street full of cafés with fabulous musicians, but instead I got an American Apparel," he joked (I think, I hope).

He didn't have a fixed set list, and pretty much took requests from audience members all night. We sang happy birthday to his cousin Natalie, he asked whether anyone knew of a good line-dancing class for his Aunt Brenda. The show felt so homely.

He sang a bare bones version of Vulture for his encore. Not nearly as hot as the music video, but it was worth hearing just for his costume change. My jaw almost dropped when he said he'd finally found "the Yoko Ono to my John Lenon." I would have envisioned Patrick as Yoko.

Of course, it was pouring rain after the show. It was nearly 1AM and I hadn't eaten since lunch, but Lauren and I decided to run in the direction of the library. On the way she yelled "CART" and we ducked under its awning to order me some lamb over rice, before continuing our jovial scamper back to Bobst. I don't think I've ever shoveled food into my mouth so quickly. If you want to see more photos of the Patrick Wolf show, or just some stunning photography in general, check out Lauren's flickr site.

I ended up going to bed at 5AM, waking up two hours later to sit my final, and now blogging about the show. I haven't even had time to collect my thoughts on the phenomenal New Yorker Summit, but I will say that Ana Marie Cox (a.k.a. Wonkette, frequent guest on The Rachel Maddow Show and writer for the Daily Beast) tapped me on the shoulder to ask why I was twittering about her. Most bumbling, star-struck moment of my entire life. Movie stars? Who cares. Journalists? I'm weak at the knees.

One last thing - Patrick Wolf did an acoustic version of The Magic Position. The sneaky bastard let it creep up on me by blending it into the end of another song. Before I could prepare myself, the chords were booming out of his grand piano and he sultrily whispered the song title into the microphone. It wouldn't be a Black Sand Journal entry without some sort of revelation - and mine came as Patrick sang:

"Out of all the people I've known, the places I've been,
The songs that I have sung, the wonders I've seen,
Now that the dreams are all coming true,
Who is the one that leads me on through?"

It's (still) you.

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.

Motorcycle Fetish

Just too fucking hot. Now that summer is slowly settling in, I see motorcycles parked everywhere and taking photos of them is fast becoming my artistic afternoon delight. Enjoy.

From Black Sand Journal

From Black Sand Journal

From Black Sand Journal

Climate Incongruent To My Current Condition

From Black Sand Journal

From Black Sand Journal

From Black Sand Journal

From Black Sand Journal

From Black Sand Journal

A Self-Fulfilling Prophecy

From Black Sand Journal

When I am confronted with an unbearable situation, I make unfeasible promises to myself as a way of coping. I will not let my guard down, again. No one will ever reduce me to tears, again. My heart - now cast in steel - will not feel so much as a scratch, again.

I spent months directing masses of anger towards the world for building barriers that I hesitated to tear down. The walls were too formidable and too familiar, and I felt too frail to fell them. Once the debris began to tumble and the dust clouded my judgment, the last thing I should have been feelings was safe.

All that honeyed anticipation - conceived in a single beautiful, terrifying and utterly forgettable moment - has rotted instead of ripened. My anguish seems thoroughly unjustified. How do I tell people I lost something that I never really had and never said I wanted?

This illegitimate love, it haunts me.