"Honey, once you live in the South, it never leaves you..."

Am I the only fool who thinks that Southern is darn sexiest thing ever?

Bringing summers back…

Seven summers back I was in Charlottesville, having just moved to a tiny studio in a rundown building off of 29th. Having just escaped almost slave-like conditions that a five-star hotel has for its employees, this ghetto seemed nothing but heaven to me. I will always remember the experience of Charlottesville with bitterness; the misery, hostility and exhaustion of that entire summer will always be there to haunt me, and yet, out of the dark and strenuous experience The Tale of the Cities was born, a story that I wrote and rewrote and shaped and reshaped and cried and bled on paper without knowing that I would be living out that story one day. And despite every single hardship that I went through that summer, I will always be grateful for having found two of my most dearest people – the Bosnian girl who generously let me share her shoe box apartment, and the one who is the main reason why I am here in Richmond today.

Six summers back I was unhappy, depressed, torn by longing and overwhelmed with regret, feeling helpless and trapped in a city cursed by the sun, the city that only years later I was going to love and accept as home. I remember that long and hot summer of hell, living on ice-cream and tomato sandwiches day in day out, staying up night after night, dreaming, writing, writing the Tale, and when the pain of helplessness was too much to bear, I would cry myself to sleep, dreading the awakening the next morning, knowing that the new day would not bring any possible change. At the end of the summer, when the heat started to break, exhausted and jaded and dry after all the tears I'd shed, I sold my soul to the “devil” and got a full time job and fell in love, hard and fast, against all odds and every reason of rationality, the way you fall in love only when you’re twenty one, still young and stubborn, ignoring and trying to defy the reality with all might. Looking at it now, I realize that it was nothing but desperation – desperation that was to determine the next two years and everything that had to come afterwards.

Five summers back I graduated. And got my first apartment in downtown Yerevan. With five months’ rent I bought all the freedom and solitude I could ever ask for, realizing, for the first time, that I could live like that, alone, hidden in the heart of the downtown, happy in my solitude – a woman, alone, in a big city. And yet, before the summer came to end, I gave up the freedom and was married, without fully aware of any repercussions, waiting for a new life to start under a different sky.

Four summers back I was in Florida. Biding my time in timeless indolence. Hopeful, still in love, waiting for that long expected happiness to dawn, and thinking to myself that there must be something more to this thing that they call marriage.

Three summers back I was still in Florida. Surrounded by bliss of domesticity, slowly embracing what was coming to shape as complacent middleclassness, and desperately trying to grasp the finality of marriage. And yet, I’d often long for the woman I had left behind, the woman alone, in a big city… At the end of that summer Another Life was born, which, with its main theme of adultery, was nothing but the longing for all the other lives that I could have had, had I not made that one particular choice that I was slowly coming to regret.

Two summers back I was in Yerevan. Dazed and crazed by the heat and the sun, the cloudless skies, watered streets and freshly cut grass, happy, delirious, a butterfly on the sidewalk, intoxicated with my own freedom, testing its limits and daring it every way I could. Restless. Sleepless. In love – but this time it was the city I had fallen in love with, fast and hard. For the first time I felt that I was at home, finally at home in a place that I had so long hated and tried to defy. At the end of the summer I moved into my second apartment downtown and with another six months rent I bought the dream that I had so often longed for – the dream of a woman, alone, in a big city.

Last summer I was in Richmond – to come here, of all the places in the world, a decision so sudden and unexpected and yet looking back at it now – the only possible choice that I could have made wondering “whether this was a choice or an inevitable consequence of the past years that brought me here...”, realizing that I’m living out the end of the story that I once wrote and dreamed about night after night before I'd cry myself to sleep out of helplessness and desperation.

This summer it’s Richmond again. If they ask me what’s the best that I have had so far, I’ll tell them it’s Richmond – the year in Richmond. Looking back I realize how happy I have been and how much this entire year has changed me. Yet before the summer’s done, I will be gone, elsewhere, chasing winds and kaleidoscopic dreams… As restless as I am, as eager as I am, I have to make myself slow down, stop and enjoy what probably will be the last month of this quiet and uninterrupted stay.

I have no way of knowing what future holds for me. I have no way of foretelling where I’ll be this time next year. Come what may, happen what will, I know I will make the best of it, since I’ve outlived so many summers and have so many more to come… The only thing I can ask for, the only thing I can wish for, is to be back in Richmond, once again, without an urgency to leave, without an expiration date, a stay that will feel that I have found home, of all the homes I’ve had and have willingly left behind….

This Thing I Do

Once, early on during my recovery, I started making lists of every little thing that made me happy during the day. The list included every random, miscellaneous thing that would instantaneously lift my spirits and make me feel happy, humbled and grateful at the thought that it really didn’t take much, after all… There was so much satisfaction in simply writing those little lists, the process itself was so comforting and therapeutic. I would often go back to those lists, re-read, add more things to them, rewrite them all over, just for the sheer satisfaction of being reminded over and over again that

“when you come to think about it- it’s the simple everydayness that makes up for everything… it’s this everydayness that contributes to this overall happiness that I am feeling now… orange juice in the morning, apple and walnut crepes in the afternoon, late evening ride to downtown, watching the string of lights at night as the cab takes me home… going to bed tired yet knowing that the morning is going to bring yet another wonderful day and it’s all that matters…”

And that happiness itself was this ability of experiencing every single nuance of the day, the usual, the routine, the mundane, and still derive the greatest satisfaction from living it day after day, one beautiful moment at a time, instead of waiting for that abstract, big and wonderful thing that I used to picture happiness as, to never happen.

My list of entries were as random and miscellaneous as they could be, from “waking up” and “drinking orange juice in the morning” to

“smell of freshly baked bread, as I pass by the bakery on my way to work…to think about all the labor that goes into making it, from growing the wheat to grinding it to flour, to putting the dough in the oven, to make sure that there’s fresh bread on our tables every day…”

“This morning I made breakfast for him. Left his place with a smile on my face…”

“Oh the decadence, raspberries and truffles, overpriced bagels and apple walnut crepes, hours spent at my coffee shop, lazy afternoons as I sit and watch the city from above, slanted rays sliding over the rooftops… Late night outings, loud music and laughter, endless talk, and the rhythm of the day and night, day and night as I’m living every moment of a life that I once dreamed of and am watching now to turn into my reality…”

"It's amazing how you continue living your life day by day in a way you've always lived, doing the same things you ordinarily do and yet with the knowledge that every day is bringing you closer to whatever you've set to accomplish. It's a wonderful feeling..."

These days being happy has become my default state. How i got there from being constantly, chronically depressed and apathetic is next to a miracle. However, i wonder where i would be if i hadn't learned to appreciate these very little things, almost ridiculous in their simplicity, and yet making the bulk of this very everydayness that my younger and depressed self so desperately tried to escape.

• Waking up in the morning before the alarm clock, to the whistle of the train. Half asleep stumbling to the kitchen to get my daily dose of bliss and calcium that a glass of orange juice provides.

• Morning runs on Monument Avenue, as I look at those big houses and realize how truly beautiful they are and how different from where I grew up.

• Running downhill, wind blowing on my face, with a feeling that’s the closest that I’ve come to experience to flying.

• Strawberry jam and waffles on weekend mornings.

• Cooking a meal for something other than me.

• Pretty, colorful, summer dresses…

• Painting my toenails.

• Catching myself say “fiiiiiine” and “niiiiiiiiiiice” in a still slight Southern drawl.

• Dave Matthews’ “I love you oh so well, like a kid loves candy and first snow…”

• Haagen Dazs Vanilla Bean Ice Cream (not to be mistaken with plain Vanilla).

• Rain at the end of a hot, summer day.

• Those few minutes before falling asleep, as I feel like I’m sinking into a warm, soft pit, soothing and comforting and yet already impatient for the coming day that will dawn tomorrow and start everything all over anew.

• Still, after all I’ve been through and all I will be going through, after all tentative planning and consideration, being able to look at future “as if I were in a brilliantly lit haze, shifting and flickering according to my changing desires…” (Doris Lessing).

Speaking of Ordinary -

here are a few excerpts from Encyclopedia of an Ordinary Life by Amy Krouse Rosenthal, a cute little book that i've read and reread many many times, her Alphabetized Existence from A to Z reminding me time and again how wonderful, amazing, funny and extraordinary an ordinary life can be...

"As"
As self-conscious as rearranging what's on your coffee table before guests arrive - putting Art Forum and Milan Kundera's latest novel on top of People magazine and The Berenstain Bears Potty Book.
As specific as a mosquito bite on a pinky toe knuckle.
As startling as coming home from vacation and seeing yourself in your own bathroom mirror and only then realizing just how tan you really are.
As out of place as a heap of snow that remains by a street lamp on a sunny April day long after all the other snow has melted.

"Butterfly"
Once you learn how to draw a butterfly, you just want to keep doing it. There is something calming and satisfying about drawing them. Maybe it has to do with the symmetry, and the curves of the wings.

"Doing Something"
It is so much easier to not do something than to do something. Even the smallest tasks, like filling out a Scholastic Books order form or putting away the butter, requires time, focus, and follow-through. It's astounding, actually, that anything gets done at all, by anyone.

But then, let's say you finally are prepared and determined to do that thing, whatever it is, but you wake up to find that your basement has flooded and you must spend your day making phone calls to the contractor, plumber, and carpet people. Or not that but something else - perhaps you must stand before a committee for approval, a committee that neither grasps your intent nor appreciates your ingenuity, and anyway, they are in a bit of hurry to break for lunch.

Yet. Still. Somehow. I am encouraged to see that despite the colossal effort, despite the odds against one, despite the mere constraints of time and schedules and sore throats, houses do get built, pottery gets glazed, e-mails get sent, trees get planted, shoes get reheeled, manifestos get Xeroxed, films get shot, highways get repaved, cakes get frosted, stories get told.

"Rainbows"
If rainbows did not exists and someone said wouldn't it be cool to paint enormous stripes of color across the sky you'd say yes that would be very cool - impossible, but very cool. Children are totally tuned in to the miracle of rainbows - that's why they are forever drawing them. [...] It would be nice to have some universal ritual connected with rainbows, along the lines of stray penny equals good luck, and car with one headlight equals, say, piddiddle/make a wish. Maybe: See a rainbow, eat a sugar cube. Or see a rainbow, put a dollar in a jar: then when you leave home at eighteen, your mother sends you off with your rainbow money...

"Toast"
I cannot stress this enough: One second your toast is fine, golden brown; the next second it is black.

"Sunny Day"
I stepped outside. It was bright, very bright and sunny. There was a long patch of yellow flowers across the street. The flowers were in full bloom, so alertly yellow, as if plugged in. I felt like I was in a Claritin commercial.

For more excerpts read here.

Wonderful everydayness

"Going to a grocery, getting up in the morning. . . seeing that our clothes have buttons--are aspects of everyday feeling; but seen from the viewpoint of existence as a whole, they are strange and wonderful. That people should feel warmly familiar, routinely intimate, unsurprisingly comfortable. . . from the viewpoint of time as a whole. . . existence straight--is a grandly amazing state of affairs."

Eli Siegel
in his definition of "Everydayness," from
Definitions and Comment, Being a Description of the World.
(a link to the work itself i was unable to find, however, i ran across this, this and this which might be more than you want to know on Aesthetic Realism.)

Tired. I am so tired. Drained. Exhausted by the heat. Suffocating in this humidity that feels like hot bath water the minute you step outside. Yet, it’s beautiful, the summer in Richmond. Lush and green. Alive. If you listen close enough early in the morning, you can almost hear the earth moving beneath your feet with all kinds of living, breathing things…

I am running out of time. Missing out on summer. There’s work. There’s always work that I can hardly bring myself to do. I don’t want to do any more of it. No more closings. Back to back closings, one after another. I’ve become so proficient that hardly have to put any effort. I’m merely biding my time. Wishing I was elsewhere. I’m tired and burnt out beyond all acceptable limits. The rush of adrenaline that kept me going for the whole past year is sizzling down, and all I seem to want to do these days is stay in, sleep in, go for runs, take naps in the afternoons, go to Shakoe Bottom and hang out at Café Gutenberg. Write. Read. Find the Doris Lessing passage. Sort through my illegible notebook scribbling. Simply sit there and breathe… There’s never enough of that quiet time. Breathing time. When you simply shut out all the noise and let yourself be. Present and aware in every passing moment…

I will be working until the very last day. I wanted it this way, although now I wish I hadn’t. I thought that if I keep myself busy until the very last moment, distract myself with work that soon will no longer matter, I will keep the sad and overwhelming feelings at bay… I gave myself only a day to pack, a day to travel, another day to get settled until school starts. I thought it’s better that way anyway. Now I wish I had given myself a little more time. To simply rest. And breathe. And marvel at the thought of just how happy I am at this point regardless all the sad and overwhelming feelings.

A reoccuring theme of social ineptitude or as it turns out, I'm a closeted dog person...

Sometimes there are moments that make me seriously question my social skills. Despite the fact that I have been known to be selectively antisocial on certain occasions, thus giving an impression of being stuck-up and stand-offish, up to this day I consider myself rather outgoing and friendly, friendly in a way that even boyfriend notices with certain dismay that I’ll start a conversation with anyone who’d stop to talk to me (today’s encounter on my way to grocery store serving as an example). If I were to describe my personal skills, shy would be the last attribute I’d apply to myself, keeping in mind that the last time I said, half-mockingly, to a shocked by some previous statement Peace Corps volunteer that “I’m just shy”, I received a roaring laughter in response.

Yet in the last year or so my social skills with a particular group of people have been greatly challenged and have left me wondering whether I’m really, seriously, socially handicapped. I’m not sure what it is about this particular “click” (and these people have known each other since high school, some even longer than that), that makes me feel not only extremely bored, but uncomfortable, inadequate and tongue tied. I have to admit though that I have to sit tight and watch myself closely so that i do not accidentally blurt out some of my typical “you’re such a dear, bitch” comments that have previously given me a reputation of “stay away from her, she stings.”

I realize that I may not be the easiest person to decipher. And perhaps it takes a lot to get “in” with a group as exclusive as this one, where my “foreignness” has been long established to explain why I don’t like football or share an enthusiasm for certain movies, “don’t hate me for being a communist, since I’m not, hate me for being a flaming liberal” has been agreed upon, and I have patiently explained to one of the crew that foreign does not necessarily translate to vegetarian and answered “thanks, I’ll take the burger, like everyone else” to “we thought you did not eat red meat.” As a side note - I wonder if there’s something about people who choose not to eat meat that gives them away, and whether I look like one (I take my steak bloody, thank you very much).

I have, on several occasions, tried to be more “open,” and “social”, and “nice” and yet, time and again when hanging out with this particular group I have to ask myself what it is about them or myself that makes me feel so uncomfortable, whereas I’ve been a whole lot more comfortable with a lot more exclusive, more stuck up and out of my league people.

“You’re comfortable when you’re in your element…”

Considering my past encounters, my element seems to include a potpourri of drunken Kentucky miners, snobbish government officials, gay bartenders, random cab drivers, Russian sailors, US marines, college professors, my mother’s friends, my brother’s younger friends, retired grandmas, nearly bankrupt farmers, lawyers, real estate moguls, corporate pricks and republicans my grandfather’s age who usually end up finding my “liberal” ideas at such tender age nothing but endearing. I am, after all, irresistibly charming and plain adorable, even when I’m the dear bitch. So what gives?

The thing is, when I look at each member of this group separately, I actually like them for the most part, and would probably have quite entertaining conversations with them had I met them say in a bar, or a coffee shop, out in the street or a grocery store, where the “nice talk” was not required and I could find some common grounds beyond the usual “cocktail” questions. And yet, considering that the likelihood of running into them separately in aforementioned settings would be very very slim, I am limited to a few “nice” phrases of exchange when having to spend time with them, thus giving up the hope that I’ll ever be anything but a tag-along girlfriend who’s shy and does not speak.

So once I realized that I am more or less denied of “group love” from people that separately are more or less ok, and even quite likable, I simply stopped trying and/or looking at those situations as uncomfortable. I’ll be selectively antisocial if that means that I can go an entire evening without having to utter as much as a peep. And this weekend I had a great, “quiet” time amids the group noise, truly enjoyed the stay at the lake with the boat ride in the setting sun while watching fireworks, and when alpha male arrogance and bloated ego became too much to bear, I simply retrieved to play with the dogs, discovering, to my surprise, that dogs, of all sizes and shapes, actually like me and that I have, indeed, been a closeted dog person all this time without even knowing it.

What I Hide Behind My Bed...

Or what i will miss most, when I leave my current job.

“What’s this?” asked the Boyfriend, pulling out from behind my bed what turned out to be the latest of Martha Stewart Living Special Entertainment Issue featuring Fourth of July star spangled cake, and further tips on summer outdoor entertaining, fancy recipes, arts and crafts and gardening.

“I have to tell you, most people hide porn and Playboy behind their bed, you hide Martha Stewart?”

“Ummm. Oops. Patricia gave it to me when I was complaining to her about how bored I’ve become with food lately. She thought this might cheer me up a bit. Like I'd be caught dead reading this thing, when I have Playboy sitting out there in the open on my nightstand? Or do you actually see me as a homemaker, or outdoor entertainer?”

“Your cooking is pretty decent, but your outdoor entertaining would be something like ‘Come over and share the stoop with me on my back porch,’ if even that… ”

“…'And I’d be happy to let you leaf through one of the older Playboy issues that I scored at work.' Like there's something more entertaining than that. What am I going to do without them when I leave work?”

As ridiculous as it sounds, I do bring Playboys home with me from work. And sadly, this is what I will miss most about this establishment, this, and the wonderful people in the office, with who I share my love for such vain and shallow magazine.

A very happy, tall and skinny birthday

My most favorite person in the whole entire world recently returned from the army, having served his mandatory military “duty” to his county, which really is a regrettable and unrecoverable waste of perhaps the best two years of any young man’s life just out of college.

This favorite person, who is one of the cutest geeks and a rabid fan of soccer (think Juventus), speaks Italian and dreams of living in Italy one day, calls me “ma piccolo bambina ” – my little one, despite being the youngest of the two of us – this favorite person happens to be my brother, who just turned twenty two. The idea that my baby brother is already twenty two is a little scary – having the older sister syndrome, I will always see him as the baby of the family. Although the baby has all the smarts of the genius who will invent the next brilliant invention of mankind, that is, if he decides to finally give up slacking and get off his butt to put his brains to work.

Although as kids we were very close, we sort of drifted apart after I hit a certain age – blame the age gap and the fact that I was often absent for long periods of time and busy with one thing or another. One of my biggest regrets is that I didn’t spend enough time with him when I could and missed out on being there to watch him become who he is today – one of the greatest, smartest, funniest, kindest and tallest people that I know. But despite all the time that we’ve been apart, despite the fact that being from the same family, we are, after all, product of two drastically different environments, we have the strongest bond and an unspoken understanding with each other that only grows stronger as we grow older. We read each others' thoughts, finish each others' sentences, understand each others' gestures, laugh at each others' jokes before they're even told and team up against our mom, making fun of her in a most endearing way that always makes her laugh.

Happy birthday, my little tall and skinny genius. I miss you more than anything else. And since we’re already too old to wish each other jars of mayonnaise and jelly on our birthdays, I wish you a bottle of bourbon, since last time i checked, you were still the smartass who had not stopped drinking bourbon early in the mornings.