Music Box

The ballerina hangs in suspension,
exactly where you have left her,
caught in between your boisterous affection
that is too gaudy for the tender
spokes of love,
and the next girl
who is stronger and more graceful,
whom you can admit to loving
on a fine October day
when you have become a man,
leaves falling all around you.

She asks you in the darkness
because she knows you mustn't see her face.

And the extraordinary power that truth
has of lapsing around us
seems chase her as the waves crash
around her, lungs aching
as your body molds into hers,
night after night,
the curve her back pressing perfectly into your chest.

So let her whisper to you reluctantly under the bed covers
of late December because you must remember
to let her be brave when she needs to be.

And all you can do in response to her whispers
is bite the corner of her left earlobe and squeeze her tighter.

Speak

We become brittle as seasons pass,
the fissures on the sidewalk
split into wider gaps and i
reach to touch your arm,
but it is not there.

Yet we soften with words,
and i wonder if the honest look in your eyes
and your callused fingertips beg to say more
than the words you throw into this
space we share.

Say "Cheese!"

gum surgery. really? And it's not even laser treatment (what I originally thought was going to treat these bad boys) . It's ACTUAL surgery. Like...tools and drills or whatever they use. In my mouth. On my poor (infected, deep pocketed, extra-large, diseased) gums. They're going to get ripped apart. And the bone is going to be sawed away. And the tissue is going to be removed. I don't even want to think about the blood. And I'm going to cry because I'll be awake! The local anaesthesia better be strong. I don't want to feel ANY of it. Seeing it happen will be painful enough. And I thought I was one of the lucky ones because I didn't have to get my wisdom teeth pulled. Little did I know...

But at least i can finally say this:
BYE BYE GUMMY SMILE (that has plagued me my entire life...okay fine, maybe not my entire life, but at least my photographs)
BYE BYE GINGIVITIS (ew, I know)
HELLOO beautiful movie star smile! (hopefully) 
and healthy gums! 
and a quick hello ice cream, soup, and everything super soft that I will be living on for the next two weeks
I really hope this is worth the four grand the dentist says it is. Who knew a person's gums could break the bank? This would happen to me.

Dear Responsible Me,

Where have you gone? I'm exhausted. I'm restless. I'm tangled in my own thoughts. And most importantly, I can't bring myself to study.  I just won't study; I don't know what's wrong with me. I've been wasting time, day after day. I know I usually waste time, (queen-bee-procrastinator) but I won't even pretend to open my books these days. Every afternoon I say I'm going to go to bobst. Every afternoon I end up falling asleep on my bed. Every evening I say I'll start studying. Every evening I end up talking and laughing, putting it off a little bit longer until it's too late to start, but too early to convince myself to crawl under my covers and get some rest. What's most frustrating is that I wake up on no sleep, but I have no excuses because I haven't even stayed up late working.  And every weekend that I promise to do all the work I didn't do on the weekdays I end up telling myself, "there are only a few weekends left, have fun"
Excuses. I'm a pro.  Even now I'm procrastinating. Papers to edit, naps to be had, meals to be eaten and conversations to be finished before the endless summer nights. These days I find myself lying in bed, surrounding by song lyrics and facebook photos, ichat and my own lonely thoughts for hours upon end.
There are two weeks to go. I don't want school to end, but I've shut off already. MOTIVATION, I'm begging you, please come back to me.

(At least, until my economics final is over) 

"There are no limits to what you can accomplish when you are supposed to be doing something else"


With love (and frustration and stress),
Katie

Flood

I fell in love with your eyes; the rest came slowly. Deep oceans of blue, calculating my every move as a I clumsily try to maneuver my body against the rhythm of yours. Every step a melody in this story; 1,2,3, 1,2,3 as we tumble towards remembrance. I was never afraid to stare, desire and curiosity holding my gaze against yours for just a second too long. I remember brushing my fingertips upon the stitches on your wrist, the rigid scars of times you wanted to forget, times you wished we could have rewritten with the echos of our laughs against the sound of city. Fear eats at us on our worst days, gnawing at our stained memories and spoiled stories as we run away, footsteps pounding on pavement. It is broken glass on the empty stairwell, shimmering tauntingly as we stumble down the steps and cut our ankles, bruise our ribs. Revision is bittersweet, deleting and erasing until we are numb and washed clean of the grime.
It is raining on the observation deck of the Empire State building. Why are you so sad?

I Remember

i know it's in there--once upon a time i was a forensics pro (speeches, poems, stories and the like)
and I am impromtu trophy-holder (that's right, a regional winner, WHATUP)
and if you're asking yourself, what in the world is impromtu, this is the official definition from the national forensics website.

"Each student shall not take more than seven minutes, divided as the contestant chooses betwen preparation, to deliver a scene based on one of three topics drawn at random. The scene may be delivered as a monologue or as a dialogue between multiple characters."

it was really fun. and i got really into it. 

anis, you would so be proud of me.
so would you, elizabeth, austin texas
the incredible poem you wrote about god,
we were so young.
indigo. the hilarious string of words,
the rap to the melody of our innocence
that we giggled over for hours upon hours
and when you read it at the group reading i might
have cried or died laughing on the spot.
the seriousness in your voice.
i envisioned it as i boarded the plane
and fell asleep next to a man who was nice enough
to save my dinner for me on the seat between us.

there were so many talented people.

and speaking of talent,
there was so much fervor tonight, so much passion and excitement and racing anticipations. but everybody else's words dried me clean of something raw.  and when i felt beauty and inspiration i was busy and the urge to create disappeared when exhaustion and frustration set in later in the night [morning].

and speaking of late-nights in hayden hall,
it's seeping in again. is it strange that a smell i detest so much has become a comfort these late nights, a sign of routine; normality as i lay here cursing the burners around me and pulling the covers over my nose? one night when i am surrounded i will think of freshman year.
my head is beginning to pound, ever so lightly. water pressure and dampness.

it would be nice to be inspired all the time. imagine if we were. if we all were inspired all the time.
creativity and knowledge literally bursting at the seems. i need a little bit of bursting right about now.

Freshman Year: How far we've come

It is going to be exceptionally difficult to write about my first year at NYU without being cliché. I’ve definitely grown up after eight months in the big city, and I’m going to tell my story as honestly and frankly as I can (without the cheesiness, if possible).  The realizations I’ve made this year about myself are the same realizations that medieval writers and artists made hundreds of years ago-they are observations about humanity we cannot ignore; observations that speak truth expressed through literature and art, verse and song. Man is not perfect; there is always room to grow, and the experiences and stories we share speak to that nature. Most importantly, our experiences and stories, both medieval and present day, emphasize that life is short, and as we get older and wiser we realize that we must make the most of every opportunity we are given, and open our hearts and minds to all who cross our path before it is too late.

            Unfortunately, I came to college with a set of expectations and a narrow mind. I had a clear idea of the kind of life I wanted to live, the types of friends I wanted to make, and the boys I wanted to date.  I envisioned fake IDs and late nights in heels on the weekends, a crowd too cool for school (because after all, we do go to NYU), and perfect grades through and through. I decided I wouldn’t find a boyfriend because “NYU doesn’t have boys” and I wouldn’t join a sorority because Greek Life was for suckers at state schools. I was going to be the quintessential sophisticated city girl dressed to the nines with perfectly straightened hair and crisp leather boots. When I found out my roommate was a beauty queen-the reining Miss Long Island Teen-no less, I thought we wouldn’t be close because I didn’t associate with “pageant girls”. When I found out she does not drink and had never kissed a boy before, I thought she would be boring and uptight. Similarly, when I found out the girl I sat next to in my high school senior year art history class would be going to NYU and coincidently living next door to me, I had instantaneously decided we wouldn’t be friends because we had drastically different groups of friends in high school, and “we were looking for very different experiences at college”. I had my life at NYU planned to the T before I even got there, and I was determined to live by it.

            Let’s just say, it was very clear, that even after I gradated, I was stuck in high school. I was narrow minded, judgmental, and more than anything, I cared exceedingly too much about what other people thought. I’m embarrassed to say I cared more about what my Facebook pictures represented than the actual experiences themselves. I was so worried about what I thought would make me happy at college that I forgot about the little things that actually do make me happy.  Of course, nobody I was close to really knew these secrets and fears. I was always Katie: bubbly and sweet, golden-hearted and down to earth. I was the girl people confided in, the girl who seemed to be above the drama and pettiness of high school.  But looking back on it, I was just as juvenile as everybody else.

            Flash forward six months. I’m home for spring break, catching up with my best friends from high school. Everybody is giggling, throwing out stories about ridiculous nights, crazy professors, and the brilliance of college life. I smile and laugh, but overall, I’m pretty quiet. “Tell us about NYU, City Girl!” they beg me and I don’t know what to say. I don’t even know where to start. So I begin with the words… “NYU is not at all what I expected, but it’s been the best time of my life.”

            I’m best friends with my roommate, Miss Long Island, and every night we laugh and bond over our days, going into the trivial little details of our mornings and afternoons. When I need a pick me up we’ll have dance parties in our room and I’ll wear her sash and crown as we laugh and prance. She’s hilarious and outgoing, fun and loving. Together, we make a dynamic duo. When she needs a friend, I’m there to listen, and when I need to talk she gives the greatest advice. I’ve grown to respect and have great appreciation for her life choices, and even though our life styles are different, we get along phenomenally. She’s organized and dedicated, in bed by ten every night. I admit I’m a little messier, and have a bad habit of staying up until two writing papers and poetry, listening to music and chatting with friends. I don’t think twice about her choice not to drink or date anymore, and we often laugh about how worried I used to be. She’s shown me that I do not need to drink to have fun, and now I only pull out the fake ID occasionally, and I hardly ever wear heels on the weekends.

            I’m also best friends with Lauren, the girl I went to high school with who coincidently shares a wall with me on the 8^th floor of Hayden Hall.  Our high school friends are always amused by this story, and often ask us how our friendship came about. “Katie and Lauren?” they ask quizzically. Lauren and I shrug our shoulders and laugh, and admit living next door to each other must of have been fate. Even she assumed we would not associate in college, and our communication would be limited to friendly hellos in the elevators. These days, we live in each other’s rooms, bonding over silly high school memories and musing over our newer college memories. She accompanied me on my Cloisters trip this past weekend, snapping photos as we browsed the gardens. My friendship with Lauren sometimes makes me sad because I realize in high school I closed myself off to so many people I didn’t bother to get to know. Sometimes I think about all of the missed friendships and people I didn’t befriend for stupid reasons.

            Likewise, my boyfriend, who Lauren happened to introduce me to, is far from the type I imagined dating. In fact, if Christian and I went to high school together, I doubt we would have been friends at all. A tall blonde with innocent blue eyes and a welcoming smile, he’s a little bit shy and lacks confidence because he didn’t have the most memorable high school experience. He was always the cute kid in the back of the room with straight A’s who you didn’t bother to get to know because he was too busy studying or fencing. However, he happens to be one of the sweetest, kindest, most loving individuals I’ve ever met. When I told him I didn’t care about his reputation in high school, and there was no reason to be ashamed of his past or be afraid to talk about it, he praised me for being so genuine and open-minded. I don’t think he realizes that he has helped me become an open-minded person. It is through individuals like him that I realize how much of the world I used to shut out.

            A common theme that runs through my experiences this year and medieval art and literature is the fragility of life and the importance of keeping an open mind.  Nothing is more important than life itself, and if freshman year has taught me one thing, it’s that life passes fast and it is important to experience everything to the fullest while there is still time. As I was walking through the Cloisters, I stumbled upon a tapestry that exemplified my feelings towards what I’ve learned. Entitled, “The Hunt of the Frail Stag” the tapestry depicts the murder of a stag. A woman and her hunting dogs chase the stag through a lake, and it is clear the stag’s death is near. The stag represents man, and the piece laments the importance of living life before it is too late. Inscribed on the top right corner of the tapestry reads:

"Then Old Age mounts an all-out assault


That drives him from the lake


unleashes upon him Pain and Doubt,


Cold and Heat, and thus brings on


Care and Trouble to seize him


And Age with wrinkled flesh


And Heaviness make him flee


Toward Sickness, the dreaded one."

            Essentially, the poem depicts that sooner or later pain, sickness, and trouble will lead to our demise, and we will not live forever. I see it as a reminder to live life to the fullest with an open mind.

            This theme of fragility is also emphasized in a variety of medieval stories. One notable example is the “ The Knight’s Tale”, a short story in Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales. In this story, two knights, Palamon and Arcite, best of friends, end up falling in love with the same woman. The two knights decide to duke it out, the winner receiving Emelye, the princess. Palamon and Arcite stage a friendly battle put on by Emelye’s father, and Arcite wins the battle and Emelye’s hand in marriage. However, immediately after Arcite’s victory, his horse throws him into the air and crushes his body. Arcite is fatally wounded, and dies almost instantly. Mortified, Palamon, Emelye, and the whole city of Athens mourn the brave knight’s death for days. The unexpected freak-accident reiterates that death can spring at any time, even after a great victory. Chaucer warns readers to be grateful of life, and to live fully and passionately because it can disappear in a flash.  Life is too short to be small minded and judgmental. 

            Finally, the beloved Islamic medieval love story, Layla and Majnun tells a sad story that speaks to the detriment of holding judgments. In this tale, the respected and handsome Prince Qays falls madly in love with Layla, a beautiful princess of another kingdom. It is love at first site, and the two lovers, who meet as children, quickly realize that they are soul mates. Qays, however, becomes so madly in love with Layla that he devotes his entire life and existence to her. He is named “Majnun”, which literally translates to “madman” because he is so insanely in love with Layla. Unfortunately, his love for Layla is seen as strange and as an embarrassment to the community. He is known through out the lands as a crazed fool; therefore, Layla’s parents forbid their marriage. This breaks Layla’s heart, as she is deeply in love with Majnun and now must spend her life hiding her true feelings.

            Ironically, Majnun’s demise is a consequence of loving Layla too deeply, too passionately. Although his love for Layla is not a flaw, he is looked down upon and ridiculed endlessly. Although he is a peaceful poet, Majnun is viewed as a raging, violent lunatic and Layla’s parents would rather have their daughter killed than have her marry him. Layla’s family is so concerned with the kingdom’s reputation that they forget about their daughter’s happiness, and forget that Majnun would be an ideal husband if given the chance. Layla’s father did not even bother to get to know Majnun and has little understanding of his admirable commitment and deep love for Layla. Unfortunately, it is not until Majnun’s death that the kingdom comprehends the tragedy of his story. Touched by Majnun’s pure devotion to Layla, the two lovers are buried together.  However, it is too late to change the wrongs committed, and the petty judgments and worries about reputation prove shallow and vain compared to the couple’s divine love and tragic demise.

            Coming into college, I set standards and expectations for myself. I don’t know whom I was trying to impress, or what I was trying to prove, but I’m so happy that things turned out differently than I imagined they would. Life is too short to keep a narrow mind; it’s too short to judge people on first impressions. These medieval stories and art pieces speak to this important value. It’s important not to get caught up in the trivial worries of reputation and vanity because we only live life once. When people ask me about my friends and experiences at NYU, I’m at a loss for words, but I get the biggest grin on my face. Where do I begin? I can proudly say I have tons friends in every school of NYU with a variety of interests and passions. I can proudly say I’ve joined a sorority-and love it-even though I promised myself I’d never be a “sorority girl”. I can proudly say that I can’t put a label on my friends at NYU because we’re all so different. Some of us are beauty queens; others are moviemakers. Some are champion fencers while others are writers and fashionistas. Some hit the bars while others hit the pillow. We only have a few years to live, so why limit ourselves?  My freshman year has been one of the greatest years of my life, and I’m not afraid to say that I’ve changed for the better, and I’m the happiest I’ve ever been.

the buzz of a city as we settle in it's majesty

Night Shine 

I've fallen.

I've fallen and hit the ground,

soft dirt and lemon grass.

I've crashed through the floor

of our flimsy intentions

only to be softly awoken by

the scent of honeysuckle  

in the springtime,

and your breath on my neck,

dew in the early mornings.

Lately I have been wandering the gardens

to watch the carnations dance 

with the roses under the moonlight.

The sweet air is intoxicating,

and we are still,

gracefully following

the quickened

two-step with our silent eyes.

Do you remember to kiss the

moon before you drop her hand

each night?

She waits for you always,

dancing in her lonesome skies.

In other news..

So a while ago I did a "you know your life sucks when...."
Well, today, in honor of my happy spirits and the warm weather I'm officially starting the

You Know Your Life is Awesome When...

1) it's warm enough to wear a summer dress (unfortunately you do not realize it is a little bit see through and the streets are extra windy...oops)
2) you know everything (and more) about the renaissance artists your professor lectures about in class [you feel more enlightened than the rest of your peers, even if it's just for the hour]
3) you are exactly one week away from being reunited with one of your favorite people [and reliving the epic sleepovers that happened every weekend second semester senior year]
4) you spend three hours in the park people-watching and listening to a 1920's band that sort of reminds you of an epic Great Gatsby party.
5) your eyes are graced with an extra large dose of cute dogs and cute babies (you consider snatching one...or two..)
6) you eat a salad for dinner (and LIKE it)
7) you then journey to the most fantastic little popsicle place where they dip the frozen treats in any flavor chocolate...
8) you end your night with a midnight mac-and-cheese run that's just the right amount gooey and just the right amount crispy and you remember why you love living on MacDougal Street
9) you don't feel too bad about spending money because it's to cure your hunger pains craves...that's a perfectly good excuse...
10) you can go to bed with the windows open and hear the sounds of summer all night long

Sweet Disposition

[yes, i know it's the name of a song]
Actually, quite a good song from one of my favorite movies, 500 Days of Summer
Anyway, let me begin with this:
Dear blog,
I'm really sorry. It's been almost an entire month. I know I've been bad. I cant even lie. Forgive me? I think it was the sixty-million papers I've had to write this semester that have dried up my brain and left me too lazy to write for fun. I know, that's no excuse.
In other news, the goo goo dolls pandora station is more than amazing. I also need to find a dress before friday, join another writing club, start reading my economics textbook again, eat more vegetables, and clean my desk.

Also, I am happy.


Rain sputters on the windowsill
like the teardrops of sweet farewells
that stick on our cheeks
like our silly mistakes.
And I wish we knew
we could have lit up the sky
with the touch of our fingertips.
We were a fire
in the middle of summer,
the little lights dancing
on the mountain tops
twinkling brighter
than the new england stars.
Sometimes I wake up
to mornings that last all afternoon
and I remember the day the
sun set on your heart.
I had tied the strings of what
wasn't ours to take to the
gusty winds and we set sail,
drifting in the wrong
direction until it was right.

This is not a poem

So.... 
originally I had started a blog to "explore different genres of writing in order to facilitate my growth as a writer" e.g. stream of conscious, short stories, personal reflection, etc.
basically, I wanted to write something a little more concrete than my usual run-of-the-mill poetry that I always fall back on. I thought a blog would be a healthy space to explore and play with words in a new way. It would also force me to write more often.
I was looking for a type of writing that was casual: "diary-esque" reader-friendly, something that I could look back on with a quick glance and say,"oh I remember that day perfectly" or "wow, I wrote a great essay about that on January 4th"
Essentially, I was trying to create a writing space that was not poetry related. I don't have a problem with poetry. It's just
...all I do. all the time
 I wanted to branch out. understandable, right? I'm a nineteen-year-old girl that calls herself a writer (kind-of) but the only thing she knows how to do is write is love poems. I'm either a hopeless romantic or a shitty writer who doesn't know how to be versatile.  please don't answer that
In the beginning, blogging started off quite well. I thought poetry was too personal to put on a blog. I thought blogs were about recording the "daily happenings". I wrote a few paragraphs, touched on how I was feeling on that particular day, and moved on to new topics. I was even thinking about posting pretty photographs or recipes or fun fashion tips to spice things up....
But lo and behold...
sooner or later I fell back into comfortable patterns,
and I started to write poems again.
For some reason I always need to put how I feel into stanzas with metaphors and pretty images. It's as if I don't know how to write like a normal person when I have a lot on my mind so I'll bust out a line of figurative language instead. I'm scared to be flat, honest, and truthful when conveying my emotions so I hide behind flowery words and poetic license [aka you have no idea what I'm talking about, but that's fine because it's all in the name of creativity] However, truthfully, I keep it general and ambiguous because I'm scared. I don't how to speak directly. I always write about "you" but I never know who this mysterious "you" is.  I don't want to open up so I just write a poem where you or I could be anyone or anywhere in any situation. "You" must be very important my life because I write about you all the time. Seriously, I've been writing about "you" since the 9th grade.
I don't know how to talk about my feelings if it's not in a poem. I don't know how to address people and situations head-on. I don't really know how to do anything except string some nouns and adjectives together. [how am i an intended journalism major?]
It sucks.
I don't want to be an amateur poet who's just a kid who didn't make it. I want to be a writer.

Child

You told me that I would sparkle like the
sunset on Ocean Avenue one day,
fading in and out between the clouds
of conversation and silence,
between the spinning suns
and our whimsical desires.
There was always something
about the darkness we hated,
the empty street cars
and burned out lampposts.
We would litter the streets with
our tiny footsteps,
kick pine cones all the way home
on muggy August evenings.
We were desperately running from
what we couldn't see,
as if the unknown would
break the moon in half,
shatter the thin wall of space
between us and expose
shards of light
too raw to touch.
Your hand is coarse in mind,
but the Forsythia still blooms.

Dear Rumi,

I'll carry you on the subway-
a flimsy collection of words
in my back pocket.
I'll stare at you aimlessly
as you speak of shamas
and true love.
You are often much
greater company than
the people i see as i ride
the silent trains,
the silent passages ways
to unknown destinations
and places.
Thousands of bodies,
jostling here and there,
unaware of the mass
of hearts beating in
unison around them.
They don't smile,
so I stop looking for answers
in their tired eyes.
As of late I keep to myself,
grip the railing and
look down or into the distance,
making eyes with no one but
my reflection in the dirty door mirror.

Today you confirmed the existence of soul mates,
tickled my ears with whispers
I have yet to understand.

Who is your God, Rumi?

I try to walk down West Fourth
with a bounce in my step,
as if i have just come from
a rendezvous with destiny.
I want you to tell me your stories again.
Slower, more carefully.
Don't go without me. 
I'll finger the pages until they
are worn and and dirty,
I'll ride the subway
to a hundred and sixteenth
street and back.

Fast Car

I was recently reminded of an old song. Thanks, Tracy Chapman, you're more than brilliant.

So i'll dance and be your sunflower
in mid winter and smile at you
as you watch me with those pretty eyes,
those pretty lies.
And later i'll meet you for a drink
and we'll sit and talk philosophy
to avoid the space between us.
And i'll tell you where i've been
and what i've become-
and you'll laugh and then
we'll become quiet,
as all lovers do.
And i'll intertwine our fingers,
my tiny palm in
your rough hands,
and we'll say we'll love forever
right on cue,
but we were always
the actors that never
quite fit the part,
always missing the margins
by a fraction,
chasing something that
didn't belong.
It's all for the ride,
don't you want to be someone?
but i dont know if i believe you-
no, I don't know if i believe me.
I remember
driving in your car,
speeding down the freeway
and closing my eyes
as if trust would suddenly fail me,
but it hasn't yet,
 I'm only a child.
What does hurt feel like?
And i remember
those nights I'd write poetry
in the dark-
because there was always more to say
when i couldn't see myself.
And I'd hide behind the language,
it was all too sophisticated,
we were all too planned.
And I won't know how to tell you that I
used to want to buy a big house and live in the suburbs,
and I used to want to go to the beach on the weekends
and find love in paradise.
But now I'll take a ticket to anywhere,
I'll unbuckle my seatbelt,
run my finger down the map,
down your spine.
Don't look back,
cross the freeway.
And you'll whisper,
Don't you want to belong?
And I do,
I always have,
so we'll keep on driving.

Ordinary Words

I've pretty much had no work for the longest time, yet every night this week I've been up late. I'm not even sure what I do with my time. Certainly, it's nothing of much significance. I must admit though, this semester has been pretty stress-free. Partly because I really do love my professors and I have an awesome schedule. Monday-Thursday, 11:00 to 1:45, and that's it!The earliest I wake up on a weekday is 10:15. I'm hardly ever in class, and my weekends last forever. It's positively wonderful.
Today my culture foundations professor assigned our first paper topics, and I'm so relived.  I was thinking analytical writing, research, a lot of time spent in bobst, and a heavy discussion of difficult epics that I didn't read. But instead, I have options like... a photo essay taking pictures of gothic and romanesque architecture in New York City compared to modern structures that have gothic elements. Or, a discussion of Dante's hell juxtaposed with a creative description of how I would design hell. Needless to say, I was pretty happy.
 Economics is getting slightly challenging though. It's not hard, per-say, but I just need to take the time to really study the text book and understand the graphs.  I can't let myself get behind because I'll need to have an understanding of the basic analytical principles to move forward. But, it's hard to sit and stare at the graphs and try to make sense of them on my own. I get frustrated. It's a lot easier when someone explains it to me and makes it interactive. I don't know why I have trouble understanding graphs, but I do. They're not even that difficult.  My professor is a sweetheart, and I swear I get it when she explains it, but then she moves on quickly to another topic and I forget what she's just taught. I used to have the same problem with math. This weekend I  need to dedicate sometime to Krugman and his corny textbook examples and explanations because I have some catching up to do.  Side note: I've come to the realization that economics is all psychology and the entire subject is predicting what people will do with their money.
My social foundation professor intimidates me. I'm not really sure why, but he does. He's the young, Williamsburg hippster professor with gelled curly hair and probably grades essays while he's high. His jeans are too tight and his chest hair sprawls out of his shirts. He stands leaning slightly to the left, and stares at the class looking for answers like "What is truth?". He gets really philosophical really fast, and sometimes I feel like my brain wants to combust when I'm sitting in his class. But, I guess he's an interesting teacher and medieval political theory and religion is good stuff. I mean, it is good stuff. I really do love the subject. After all, I am a political science major.
Writing is writing. I don't participate as much this semester, but my professor still loves me. I have to finish writing a pretty long paper this weekend. It'll get done. It always does.
Tomorrow I have to go to NYU's all university games. Basically, the different schools of the university verse each other in sporting events. I'm not participating in any events, but I have to be there for student council. Unfortunately, I volunteered myself to bring the free t-shirts that we're giving out over to the gym, so I have to lug this huge box of shirts five or six blocks up. I don't really know what I'm going to do. I tried to bring the box across the park the last night and had to stop and take a break three times. Not to mention, I woke up with my arms sore. And, I have to wait with the shirts for an hour until everyone else gets to the gym. I hate how unorganized we are sometimes.
But, in other news, I'm going on a date tomorrow. It's been a while. I don't often date boys, just kiss them. That sounds perfectly awful, let me rephrase: It's not that I don't want to date boys, I just haven't found the right boys to date. But, I'm excited about tomorrow. It should be fun. It's casual.

Now that I've ranted for the past half an hour, I feel satisfied and sleepy enough to go to bed. Tomorrow will be busy, but the weekend is only hours away...

You and Your Pretty Eyes

Sometimes I wish this was a diary.

Animals

You're yelling at me,

"write something, 

anything"

But I have nothing to say.

I'm trying. 

So I'll tell you about the time I bungee-jumped off a bridge in the Amazon, or the day I realized I'm too afraid to drive a car.

But even the most entertaining of anecdotes don't know how to fill this void, or rather, this heavy cement  block.

And even the few words I have bring me to a dead end. Thought cuts you off when you least expect it. 

"Writer's Block is for the Weak" used to be a motto of mine when I thought I was invincible with a pencil.

And then one day I had nothing left to say so I threw out that motto and wrote a new one.

"Do it for the Readers" I scribbled into my notebook, and then when I realized that the only readers I had were my friends, [and only because I asked them to] I decided I needed a change.

"Do it for Yourself," was my inspirational line. But nobody likes cliches, especially me. 

Then I finally asked myself, do I need a motto to legitimize what I do? 

So I threw out the notebook all together. 

The day I realized I would probably never be writing for a profession led me to wonder why I often stay up all night laboriously hacking away on Microsoft Word.

And I can't help but ask, does everything you do have to relate to your professional goals?

Should I be sleeping right now in order to stay awake in class in order get good grades in order to graduate with honors and receive a high paying job?

Am I looking for an end result with this?

Is everything we do about a final product?

In order to avoid questions that make my head spin I've come up with a simple conclusion:

This is a need.

And we are humans,

We fulfill our needs.

Pinch me, I Must be Dreaming

you know when you have those awesome weeks and you ask yourself, "is this real life?"

last night my roommate and i decided to have a dance party at midnight, [some old school brittany spears] apparently we could be heard through the walls, but i don't care. we had so. much. fun. [it's like we were 9 again]
today i was accepted to a summer internship program at the museum of natural history. (spending a summer with the dinosaurs has got to be an experience of a life time)
tomorrow night i'm going to one of the nicest restaurants in all of new york, (it's restaurant week!),  called Le Cirque, a $125/person french restaurant for only $35 dollars. it's a steal. a 3 course meal. [we're getting our heels on for this one]
i'm then proceeding try a new bar with some friends that goes by the name Kettle, where my friend lauren is a frequent.
friday will be a work day, but at night i'm off to see a movie i would never pay to go see, but my friend just happened to win two free tickets...[no strings attached]
saturday, the mother and aunt are coming in and have extra tickets to a show, the importance of being earnest. I'm going, why not?
sunday, well, sunday is sunday. chapter. more work. but  the superbowl is on. I guess that'll be interesting, something has to be going on somewhere.
the only thing tainting my weekend is the massive amount of work that must get done. especially economics. 

but, all in all, i love my life, i really do. 

Statues

The follow creative writing prompt was given to me today: you will be given three words and you will start your piece with these three words and write for three minutes. Then you will be given three more words and you will continue to write for another three minutes....this went on for about twenty minutes. Everyone in the room started to write rapidly, as if the world would end if they didn't.

The following piece of work is...
(raw, complicated, unedited, naked, wordy and awkward)
but i guess that's what writing is about..
playing around with ugly sentences until they feel beautiful.


Statues suffer like ruins,
age hanging off
their cool, supple limbs.
I yearn to touch him,
awaken him from his slumber.
But i realize that I am alone. Powerless.
Ruin me.

I trace my finger on your arm, frozen.
Your eyes, the black marbles, cool.
They stare at me,
not lifting their gaze as I stare up at
you in bewilderment. [where did you go?]
Marbles facing marbles,
eyes facing eyes.

The darkness of coffins has a way
of silencing a young girl.
I learned this long ago when
I was not afraid to stare at
things i knew would disappear.
I am afraid of death,
and other things I cannot touch.
Touch me.

It was your glass of water that crashed on the ground
and evaporated into something terrible.
I guess it was then that i knew we were beginning to fall
in all the wrong ways,
love in all the right ways.

I awoke to find you trapped,
a statue at the Louvre,
so beautiful and valiant,
so alone.
I began to cry because I had nothing
left to give you.
I squeeze you as if you could feel me.

My Sincere Apologies

I guess I should have a little faith in the system sometimes...
thanks for the snow day mother nature.

White

The sky is painted red as hundreds of overjoyed college freshmen throw snowballs in washington square park.

Every so often, the fun is disrupted and the honks go off, the sirens ring, and the quiet white blanket of snow is interrupted by the usual traffic of the bustling city. (and then i recall I am not home, and even the snowiest of nights are loud here)

"the snowball fight of the year"---the statuses are already taking over my facebook mini feed, my memory, this moment.
The joyous yells.
I'm not out there (although part of me wishes i was)
I cant help but think, "when else will I be able to run rampant at 2 AM frolicking in fresh snow under the glorious arch?"
But then I think about my bed,
how cozy I am,
my hair,
how straight it is, [i know it sounds silly, but it took me an hour to do]
the 11:00 AM class I have tomorrow,
how fast asleep some of my [more sane] nyu companions are,
and decide,
it's best to stay in
with the promise that if we have a snow day tomorrow,
I'll make sure to frolic and love while i still can.
I've given up on hope--
the backwards pajamas and ice cubes down the toilet tactics
just don't seem to do it for me these days.
My alarm will go off,
and I will get up and go.
study graphs and charts I can't make sense of,
speak of Plato and Aristotle,
until everything has melted away.

You Know Your Life Sucks When....

1) you miss your economics class because you dont know how to read properly
2) you are witnessed multiple times sprinting down the street like an idiot because you dont know where your classes are (even though you already made yourself walk to each class two days before classes started so you would avoid problems like this)
3) your professor gives you a piece of candy because he feels sorry for you
4)  it's ginger flavored, and you don't even like ginger
5) you manage to buy the wrong super expensive textbook even though the booklist (that is supposed to be accurate) told you that you needed it
5) there is an arrangement of people in the dining hall eating lunch together who should have never known each other existed (a big school can suddenly get too small)
6) all of your friends are at the gym right now but you aren't because you're lazy.
7) you really want to eat Artichoke pizza and then proceed to hit up Mamouns but you promised yourself you would actually eat on the meal plan this semester. (and eat healthier in general)
8) you should be doing work right now, but you aren't because you're too busy feeling sorry for yourself.

It's Tuesday and I Miss the Summertime.

It's been a while. I've been promising myself i'd write for the past couple of weeks, but I seem to never have the chance. (more like the diligence) However, I have been thinking about this post for a while, and I'd just like start out with this statement:
I am SO happy i go to NYU.
let me repeat that, I am SO HAPPY I GO TO NYU.
Last week i visited some friends at UMass, and I think I would suffocate on a college campus. Not just at UMass, at any college not in a city. (how/why the hell did i look at the smallest schools in the country?)
Alright, maybe I've been spoiled, living in the heart of the universe for an entire semester, but I just don't understand what people do on a college campus.
I guess they just be at college. be in a bubble. imerse themselves because there is nothing else to do.
the interesting thing is, everyone seems to love it.
everyone seems so, so happy. and it's really a beautiful thing. (and i really shouldn't question it)

Tomorrow (well today) is my second first day of school. i also should be reading beowulf. obviously i am not. 

olga just stopped me midway this post to edit a poem,
you know, one of her deep ones,
where i have to think REALLY hard when i edit,
i have to choose words carefully,
convey the right feelings.
my feelings.
her feelings.
something about snow and blackbirds.
and liars (not pretty little ones) 


 i didn't watch.

it's made me awfully tired.
but in a good way. a nice tired,
the kind you get when you've been thinking quite hard.
and made me realize that  i need to start writing poetry again,
i miss it.
and i'm just miserable at this blogging thing. (clearly)


i just need to keep repeating: 
katie, 
this is an exercise.
this is only an exercise.
it doesn't matter if you're terrible at it.

olga promised me when it gets warm she would bike around amherst with a notebook and write.
i told her i'd walk around newyork with a notebook and observe. [and write too of course]
we're going to hold each other to it.

i need to start taking advantage of the city. it's sad how little i do.
I'm going to buy a calender and mark off X's for the next two months on days I need to do something interesting. and under the X i'm going to write where i'm going.
and then i'm going to go there. and enjoy it.
because i KNOW, i will enjoy it, i just have to plan it. and actually do it.
it's just so HARD when its 6 degrees out and all i want to do
is lie in bed and talk about nothing for hours with good friends.

but i will, i will.

i also vow to never be the stupid college freshman again. never again. 
but, of course, i'm going out next weekend. (why am i a walking contradiction?)


goodnight,
and good luck.

Where do they all come from?

Sometimes when i lie in bed late at night
and pick at my chipping nail polish,
and run my fingers through my hair
[that is just awfully too long]
i think about l o n e l i n e s s
For a person who is not lonely,
i guess i think about it a lot.
What does the word mean?
or rather,
what makes a person lonely?

Ironically, in a world where are
chocked with interconnectivity,
loneliness has given birth
to thousands-millions
and everywhere i seem to go,
i stare into dark eyes
glazed over with a hard, cold, layer of
something i can't reach.

I think we're all here
to say something,
but in the hustle of trying to get
through our lives and find happiness,
[another word that confuses me]
some are silenced.

Sleeping, eyes wide open

Tonight I listen to the quiet outside my window, letting my fingers tapping on the keys take the stage in this concert of silence. The city is never this quiet, no matter the time of day. When I first got to New York, it disturbed me. I would hear the honks and yelling at 4:00 AM and feel alone in a city of thousands. However, within weeks the songs of the city streets were the comforting lullabies that rocked me to bed. Now that  I'm home again, I'm not quite sure if I find the quiet lonely or comforting. The idea of an entire town being fast asleep is gives me eerie feeling, something I can't shake. 

I turn off the TV to go to bed, and tell myself that the season finale can wait until tomorrow because my sleep is more important, even if it is winter break. It's 3:29 AM. Last night I went to bed past five AM. One would think I would be falling over in exhaustion craving nothing but the warmth of my bed right now. And perhaps I am sleep deprived and in need of a bed. Yet, as soon as I settle down to close my eyes, I am drawn to writing. My body is giving out, but my brain is still on overdrive. I guess this is how it usually happens: late night, not particularly sleepy, and a little bit of inspiration.
The past few weeks home have been a blur. Half the time I'm complaining that I miss my college friends and that winter break is too long in a town with nothing to do. The other half of the time I'm getting used to the comfortable, mundane routine of sleeping all day and staying up all night, doing nothing but seeing old friends and watching good TV. My mind has drifted away for a while, and frankly, it feels nice. The thought of classes, work, professors, and the hustle bustle of my new home, has me shrinking deeper and deeper into the mass of pillows on my queen size bed at home.
I guess I should savour the last two weeks while I have them, because like any other college student, I will undoubtably begging for time off once the semester begins.

I promised myself I wouldn't complain on this blog, and already I've begun ramble about insignificant details. Maybe another day I'll have something more interesting to say. In the mean time, my bed is calling me. It's looking quite comfortable tonight.

Begininngs

It's sounds almost cliche, starting a blog on the start of the new year. I guess blogging is the next natural step in the "I want to spend my life writing process." I've always been a writer, but I was never one for stream of consciousness. It feels awkward, almost forced. My roommate writes in a diary every night. I've never had  patience for things like that. I guess I get bored with my words, sentences,  and stories that no one particularly wants to hear on a given day.
 If I have a lot on my mind, I tend to write poetry.  I guess it sounds sort of silly, but banging out a few lines usually reveals the heavy set of emotions that need to come tumbling out once-and-a-while.  Throw me into the middle of a story and I won't know what to do with it. But give me an interesting prompt, and I'll write a poem.
  But, something told me inside that I needed to do this blog. (god, I'm a walking cliche) Step outside my iambic pentameter filled Microsoft word documents and into this new user-friendly text-box, where I don't have to think so hard about how my next line should transition. It sounds so cheesy (and I'm embarrassed to admit it), because perhaps I'm making a bigger deal out of this whole thing than it actually is, but there is a thrill in writing without thinking. A thrill in the idea that someone may actually read this mass of jumbled words, even though I'm just writing for myself.
As a friend once told me "the only restraints you have are the ones you put on yourself." People blog all day and every day, and no one gives two shits about how delicious so-and-so's lunch was, or how wonderful their trip to Paris was, but it gives the writer a sense of satisfaction, a purpose, when they write about these insignificant details of their lives. I guess what it comes down to, is that every one gives a shit about their own shit, and everyone wants to do something useful with the stock of words that have been building in their bursting brains. A commentary on the world, by yours truly. It's self indulgence at full speed.
I don't really know how this works, I don't even know who reads this thing. I feel sort of odd making it public that I have a blog, what would I even say?  "Dear friends and family, read about my life on here. I can't promise you it'll be interesting but maybe you'll be tempted to check it out while you're procrastinating" Who knows, I doubt I'll tell anyone I have a blog at all. It's more for myself , and whoever accidently discovers it, well, I'm sorry if I bore you.
This is an experiment. A learning process of sorts. I need to break out of the melodramatic, ambiguous, writing that has dried my lips and move on to other, more exciting endeavors. Maybe I'll write something real that I can wrap my fingers around and understand at first glance, and not worry about the various ways it can be interpreted by my audience. Perhaps a post as simple as a vivid memory, a sunny afternoon maybe, or a day in the square. After all, writers are only entrepreneurs of thought. And as readers, we jump on the story for the ride.

I don't know how to end this, but I've come to realize nothing ever really ends these days. We end one year only to begin another. I end a blog post with the promise to write again tomorrow, but who knows if I'll ever even come back. I guess that's the magic of it all...