Sing to me muse

Although work was the predominant focus of my day day, I found myself overwhelmingly artistic compared to normal. In desperate search for extra money, I have been stalking craigslist for interesting writing opportunities. I sat at my computer, musing over how to make all of the information for the Unicorn III fund fit on only two pages, my thoughts meandered towards the topic of divorce, a subject someone on craigslist was searching for pieces about. Finding myself at a computer, I pushed aside my work to spew my thoughts out as quickly as possible, my fingers flying in an attempt to ride myself of my thoughts and ideas before my boss noticed I was no longer working on Unicorn (Unicorn, despite being named after a mythological, beautiful creature, is my own person hell right now).

Released from my work prison, I proceeded home after throwing a hissy fit to get a $10 refund from Nine West (please see below post "Life of a New Yorker: Poor"). Despite my desire to save money, after chatting with my mom and Rachel, walking the dog, making dinner, and painting my nails for my Halloween costumer, I could not resist the appeal of iTunes. I turned on my slow computer and muddled through the process of persuading my ancient beast of a machine to function. Instead of buying the Old 97s, as was my original plan, I spontaneously grabbed up a Gogol Bordello cd, which I had been meaning to do for some time, as well as a few songs off Ingrid Michaelson's new release. Commencing with the songs of Miss Michaelson, I was stunned to hear a song ripped from my past. A song that truly began my foray into music review. Recorded at Webster Hall, this recording was created at my first concert I reviewed. Nothing ever sounds the same, yet it always sounds the same. Hearing the song again outside the concert environment is unnerving and leaves me feeling displaced and nostalgic.

Ironically, the song that immediately followed Michaelson's "The Chain" was GoGol Bordello's "Ultimate".

"There were never any good ol' days; they are today, they are tomorrow"

Evidently nostalgia isn't worth my time.

The Life of a New Yorker: Poor

Admittedly, I was naive and idealistic when coming to New York. Thoughts of cocktail parties, fancy dresses, high paying salaries requiring little to no work flitted through my head as, stepping on board my plane for New York, I envisioned my future "Sex and the City" lifestyle. Even the people who "struggled" in their poor accommodations always went out to dinners, drinks, and eventually revamped their apartments (which, by the way, are always huge) in the movies. So imagine me arriving to discover work is required for the little pay I receive, apartments take over 50% of my monthly salary, and in order to afford my "rock and roll lifestyle" of living under a roof in Manhattan with 3 other people, I couldn't go out to dinner or drinks let alone buy decent food to cook at home.

After one year I am still in debt from moving into Manhattan and I've decided enough is enough. I've finally started my 401K because unless someone is taking the money out of my hands, I will find some way to spend it. This way it's not even close to my tempted little fingers. In addition to attempting to save for my future, I've decided the easiest thing to cut is food. Frankly, I can't afford booze, I can't afford to buy new clothes, and I really can't afford food. So after cutting out clothes and alcohol, all I have left to cut it food. Well, what's cheaper than oatmeal, cereal, yogurt, and apple crisp (made with apples from work)? Not a whole lot. This is my life as a New Yorkers. Poor, sober, hungry, crowded, and antisocial.

I really think I ought to move...

Tears, Fears and Everlasting Hope

It's well and easy to claim you know yourself until an event comes that makes you question everything. This weekend's occurrence was one such occasion. A long proclaimed cynic, I swear off men on a regular basis due to my deep-seeded belief that there are few "good guys" out there. Every once in a while I shirk these reservations and give a guy a chance only to be yet again disappointed. So cynic I am and cynic I will remain.

Or so I thought. I adore, above none else, a cheeky romantic comedy, yet I think I love it purely for the fantastical nature of the thing. Swept into a world where men are gentlemen and love is easily come-by, I can release my cynicism for a brief moment in time. However, as soon as the film is over, reality crashes back and love is no longer something easily found or easily kept.

So this weekend when I attended a wedding, I hardly expected to be overwhelmed by emotion. As happy as I am for the couple, I pondered at the ability of any relationship to endure. Hand in hand with my cynical nature, I entered the church. Bets were made on when each woman would cry. Maria didn't even last until the wedding started. After being asked to wear a corsage, the water works started. As the wedding commenced, I watched first the men and then the women walk in. But the minute I saw the bride, I knew I was a lost cause.

Escorted by Beck and Rick, Tori entered the church. Seeing mother, father and daughter, I could not help but tear. A mere few months ago this seemed impossible. First breast cancer and then leukemia stomped on this family. Quite easily someone could not have made it to this day. To see everyone together at such a joyous time and knowing it very nearly wasn't, I couldn't hide from my emotions.

This weekend I began a cynic overwhelmed by fears, turned into a sop with barely controlled emotions, and changed into an optimist with a hope for the future. I've been told I'm a cynical optimist. Quite accurate, I suppose.

Love Will Never End?

Does the love sung of exist or is it merely the hopeful visions of idealists? Every invention stems from reality. Where does that leave us?  

It all started with one simple thought

Walking to work today, my ipod buds in ears, I suddenly was swept to September at the Mercury Lounge as the beat thrummed in my ears and body, rocketing me to the past. But was it really the past? Since initially hearing and liking the Bloodsugars' song Cinderella, I have listened to the song continuously, my adoration growing. When I hear the song now, I instantly think of the first time I heard it, that time being the most memorable. But this memory encompasses not only all the emotions of that experience but, too, all other experiences relating to that song. How is it that I reduce everything down to one experience? And by reducing it to one experience am I creating an unrealistic event that can never be duplicated? Do we prevent ourselves from embracing the present by over zealously creating an untoppable nostalgia?