On garlands and candy canes

I bought my first Christmas tree in Brooklyn, New York on a cold November afternoon.

That's not to say this is my first tree ever, simply the first that I picked out and purchased myself. I don't want to say "paid for" because I used the credit card linked to my mother's bank account, but that's another story. Point is - I hauled my ass to Brooklyn armed with gloves, a purse (into which I would end up stuffing the fake snow I stole from the Target display trees), and a really really big Bed, Bath, and Beyond bag to hide the illegalities entailed in my holiday mission.

Something was clearly off when I ended up with the disabled shopping cart. It was the only one I could find stranded on the second floor of Target, and God forbid I cross over to the other side of the store down the escalator and get myself a normal one. No: I found this little guy left for vultures in isle 6, surrounded by Christmas decorations galore. The moment I tried to move him, the right front wheel rolled but did not turn, whirling the cart to its right smack into the artificial candy canes. Hmm, I thought. Either this is nothing more than a disabled shopping cart, or some higher power is trying to tell me to buy those spiffy-looking candy canes. If you know me at all, I always go with the option that's more fun. What this meant was the next 40 minutes of me pushing and shoving and adjusting the wheel every few seconds and crashing into a lot of customers. They understood, though. Christmas brings out the mercantilist bit(ch) in all of us.

After I had my fun picking out the canes, ornaments, garlands, and a wreath, I kicked the cart's bad side into the isle with the trees. Only this was no isle - the entire back corner of the second floor looked like a forest out of Elf. I had never seen so many fake trees so close together at the same time; my little cart could barely maneuver past the plastic branches and the tangles of Christmas lights. It was beautiful, but it wasn't quite right - they were all too big or too skinny or too fake-looking. I realized you can say the same thing about women. Maybe I'll write a poem about how women are like Christmas trees in the 21st century.

And there it was. If I were in a cheesy movie where angels bellowed their "AAAAAH"s and the object in front of me was illuminated in mysterious light, this would be the scene. Just over four feet in a natural shade of green, it looked at me from a stand that was about as high as my dresser. I would put the tree on the dresser. The turn of events couldn't be more perfect if I had a normal cart or if having a Christmas tree in the dorms was legal. This was my baby, prelit and pre-packaged. Sixty dollars for something that will probably last for the duration of my college years? I didn't even think twice.

I asked the nice men in green hats and nametags where they sold the fake snow that was so neatly displayed among the branches, and they threw me a "we don't sell that here". How was I to have a tree without snow? The Russian in me didn't hesitate too long. The purse was small, but if I packed the rolls of snow like sardines, no one would suspect a thing. Besides, would they really care if I took one itty-bitty fraction of the blanket of cotton that covered the ugly tree stands?

After paying up at the cash register, I pondered on how I was going to get the five-foot long box past my dorm's security guard. It wouldn't have been bad if the box didn't say CHRISTMAS TREE and had photos of the goods plastered on all four sides. This is where the BedBath bag came in. I wrapped one half in the shitty wrapping they gave me in Target, left room for the handle, and covered the other side with the plastic bag on top of the shitty wrapping. I was buying a lamp, I swear. The handle cut the skin on my fingers; this is where the gloves came in. At least two men stopped me on the way from Target to the subway with "You need any help, honey?" No thanks, go molest the Victoria's Secret across the street. Brooklyn never fails to substantiate its stereotypes.

As I rolled along the Brooklyn Bridge in a lonely subway car, I considered why I'd go through all this trouble for a holiday which I don't even celebrate, during which I won't even be here. The tree and the candy canes and the colorful lights lift my mood like no other, sure. But what was it about Christmas that made me so incredibly happy for no apparent reason?

I want to say I don't know. I want to say I don't have any particular expectations that the holiday spirit will instill itself into everyone and make them nicer, more forgiving, more optimistic. I want to say that I'm not hoping the $200 worth of decorations in my room will somehow make magic happen and turn the implausible into reality. I want to say I don't wish things were different. But I can't lie to myself, now can I?
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On art

Warning: do not attempt to read this post if you are excessively tired, sleepy, busy, impatient, or intoxicated.

Human longing! We cannot cease desiring, and this is our glory, and our doom. Desire! It carries us and crucifies us, delivers us every new day to a battlefield where, on the eve, the battle was lost; but in sunlight, does it not look like a territory ripe for conquest, a place where - even though tomorrow we will die - we can build empires doomed to fade to dust, as if the knowledge we have of their imminent fall had absolutely no effect on our eagerness to build them now? We are filled with the energy of constantly wanting that which we cannot have, we are abandoned at dawn on a field littered with corpses, we are transported until our death by projects that are no sooner completed than they must be renewed. Yet how exhausting it is to be constantly desiring...

This is from a book called The Elegance of the Hedgehog by Muriel Barbery, and I will probably be mentioning it a lot in the near future. Besides being hands-down the best book I've ever read, there are so many thoughts and ideas to take away from it. It continues to teach long after the last page was turned. I thought this was the perfect passage to start things off as it introduces the very reason I choose art - and I mean all kinds of art - as my career choice and lifelong path. I'm going into a political science major, but all for the sake of reporting on it using words that can influence, sentences that are crafted in a way that hits all the right buttons. That's art. Why is it that we are happy to read something really good, and we marvel at the writer's talent for so effortlessly lightening our mood?

...We soon aspire to pleasure without the quest, to a blissful state without beginning or end, where beauty would no longer be an aim or a project but the very proof of our nature. And that state is art. When we gaze at a still life, when - even though we did not pursue it - we delight in its beauty, a beauty borne away by the magnified and immobile figuration of things, we find pleasure in the fact that there was no need for longing, we may contemplate something we need not want, may cherish something we need not desire. In this scene before our eyes - silent, without life or motion - a time exempt of projects is incarnated, perfection purloined from duration and its weary greed - pleasure without desire, existence without duration, beauty without will.

For art is emotion without desire.

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Just take it as it comes

Purse. Old. Don't know what will happen tomorrow.


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Wind, sun, and a whole lotta dirty fun

Dirty because our feet looked like we were African, and there's still sand in my shoes and jeans.

The past two days were spent at the beach in Aptos. I'll write a detailed post about the events (and trust me, there is definitely something to write about) tomorrow, but for now, here are a few photos with the lovely Nikon D200. Facebook kills picture quality.








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Lipstick red

I've always loved the vibrance of this photo.

It was in Russia two summers ago, I think. The flower was illuminated to look almost poisonous, deadly.

There's something about this color that's always intoxicated my eyes. A deep, pure red that you can't look away from. I think this unconditional pull is what makes it so lethal, and, at the same time, what pushes some people away. For me, it represents life's most vital aspects: passion, excitement, spontaneity, danger, happiness. Danger because it is the color of blood, happiness because it is the color of love.

It takes a real vixen to wear red. Not everyone can do it. I'm not talking about some maroon tank top, I mean a real lipstick-red dress that breaks everyone's necks as they turn to get a good look. It's a color that can make you or break you. Diva or clown? If you try, you're shooting yourself in the foot. In red, sexy comes effortless.

That's why I love it. You can't fake sexiness in red. You end up looking trashy. The color will expose your every curve, every hint of doubt, every imperfection. So you have to own it on the inside. Be the diva, be fierce. Genuine confidence goes a long way.
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Life's pleasures are illegal, immoral, and fattening

I recently bought a book that's called "11,002 things to be miserable about" from the humor section at Borders. It was apparently inspired by a bunnies-and-rainbows book called "14,000 Things to Be Happy About", a comprehensive list of life's small joys. While I find its dark opposite way more hilarious, I'm saving that list for tomorrow's List of the Week. As for tonight - in honor of my (rare) happy mood - here's a small insight on little things that make me happy.

Waking up to the smell of bagels and Philadelphia cream cheese
A good, make that awesome, hair day
A Milkyway bar
Making a real dinner and not burning it
Finding a song that is sing-alongable
Getting daisies
Driving without parents
Text messages
Wednesdays
Cracking open a brand new book and burying my nose in it
SNL skits that are actually funny
"Hairspray"
Drooling over sexy British men
Really bad "that's what she said" jokes
Laughing at your terrible, terrible voice as you sing along to Ne-Yo's "Mad" but joining in anyway, when we're in my car gulping down Tapioca drinks and speeding down El Camino


Just to reiterate a point in an earlier post, don't leave those you love! You never know what kind of crap life will think up next and when you'll ever see them again. Honestly, this is a very rare mood for me, so I'm going to get this out there while I'm still on an emotional high:

Take too many bad pictures, laugh like you're a psychotic poodle, and throw yourself out there like you've never been hurt. Because every 60 seconds you spend angry or upset is a minute of happiness you'll never get back.

<3

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