I dislike opening and closing my bedroom window. It's heavy and cumbersome and inconveniently located in a corner. As the weather changes, I just pile on more blankets and sweatshirts until it's so cold that we turn on the heat. Then I finally close the window and stuff all the cracks with that odd silly-putty substance you find in hardware stores and plastic wrap the interior frame. Now is an intermediate time, when the weather fluctuates wildly from day to day, but the evening breezes have picked up enough that occasionally the force of it opens my bedroom door. You know, in that way that I'm sure has a scientific explanation involving pressure and stuff.

Because I think in metaphor, this seasonal occurrence has made me think of the axiom, "When God closes a door, He opens a window." How often do you hear that? It's meant to convey a sense of hope and even endless opportunity. Don't worry about that terrible job interview; there's another right around the corner. That man that ended things by email? He doesn't matter because someone new and even better will come along. But when, you ask? And if each opportunity is so replaceable, how do you know when it's THE opportunity. Does it make each new person/job/anything disposable? Replaceable?

That's so depressing, isn't it? But I think it's how I've been living for the past six years. Somewhere along the way I came to the conclusion that nothing was really worth holding on to. I throw out paper and clothes and refuse to develop attachments to apartments or homes. That fire in my Cobble Hill apartment? What a great excuse to move! Rather than trying to improve on a situation, I've moved on. On the few occasions I have tried to put down roots, I've been the one left behind. It's painful, and I'd like to say it's made me stronger, but, really, it's just left me a little sad.

This isn't to say that there aren't great things in my life. I'm working on my master's thesis. I have amazing friends, who I wish I saw more often. My home life is pleasant and conflict free. I'm finally mostly healthy, and I'm able to make plans for the future. But the constant flux is wearing and I don't want to make anymore adjustments. I want things to be simple. So let's work on that, shall we?

Occasionally you learn things through social networks. People you only casually know in real life, but know well enough to be "friends" with on Facebook, show up on your homepage and all of a sudden you know that they've just started a business, been accepted into Harvard, or broken up with their partner of five years. With just the sad little status update of "heartbroken" I found out that someone I don' t know very well is suffering the last - the kind of loss and pain that feels like it'll never end. (Until, of course, it does.)

If he were someone I knew better, I would reach out, tell him of my own experiences with a what felt like an epic, overwrought break-up. I'd tell him about the both terrible and kind things people tell you about a person for whom you cared deeply and how, actually, it doesn't matter if the words are kind or terrible, they all hurt. Either you made a mistake then or you're making a mistake now, but it doesn't feel like you can change anything. You do your best to make your friends stop talking about it, but all they can do is ask, "How are you doing?" Isn't it obvious? So I won't reach out to him, not only because I don't know him well enough, but also because there's no need to extend his pain in another direction.

There's a movie that I've never seen called "A Day Without a Mexican" (2004):

One morning, California wakes up to find that one-third of its population -- the Hispanic

third -- has disappeared. A strange pink fog envelops the state, and communication outside

its boundaries is completely cut off. The economic, political and social implications of this

disaster threaten California's way of life, and for a group of disparate people (all white, except

for one Latina), the cracks in their private lives are forced wide open. [Netflix]

The pink fog is a little ridiculous, but the premise is interesting. A significant portion of the nation's economy is dependent on undocumented workers willing to do incredibly difficult work. It's hilarious to me that people fear "illegals" stealing their jobs. Picking fruit isn't exactly luxurious work, and I've never heard anyone lust after washing dishes in a restaurant. You can argue that undocumented workers depress wages, and I would agree with you, but our nation is so incredibly dependent on its supply of cheap food and manufacturing that I would also argue that those workers people like to scorn and hunt down on the borders do us a bigger favor than some might appreciate. Look around: something in your immediate vicinity was most likely picked, prepared, manufactured, or served by an illegal immigrant. If you enjoy your quality of life, you enjoy illegal immigration.

All the talk about whether or not illegal immigrants (and I assure you, this is always code for Mexicans and a subtext for a pernicious kind of racism) should have access to the proposed public option in the current healthcare reform legislation has had me thinking a lot. If you want to throw out the ultra-liberal notion that healthcare is a human right, that's fine. If you want to argue that illegal immigrants don't "deserve" access to our health care, you're flat out wrong. I find the "they don't pay taxes" argument completely spurious. They may not pay income taxes (because we legally bar them from doing so) but they do pay local sales and property taxes. (And by the way, the business owners who hire them are also skipping out on taxes.) There are plenty of Americans that don't pay income taxes, and guess what they're not all unemployed, lazy welfare moms (another coded kind of racism). Peace Corps volunteers, a largely college-educated middle class bunch, don't pay taxes, are completely supported by the federal government, and even qualify for the Earned Income Credit. But I think that most people would say that PCV's are serving their country (which is true) and so deserve that kind of support. And so I ask, how are illegal immigrants not serving us?

Yesterday I put my old Moroccan travel skills to the test by taking a day trip to Boston. Yes, that would be four to four and a half hours both ways for a total of about nine hours on a bus. Don't feel sorry for me though; it was a very fancy bus with leather seats, wireless internet and lots of leg room (not that I need that). Those things, along with my awesome ability to sleep anywhere and the company of my friend Nicole, made for a pleasant trip. No chickens or sheep were on the bus and no one called out for a mika bag.

Titian, Tintoretto, Veronese: Rivals in Renaissance Venice, a special exhibition at the Museum of Fine Art, was what had drawn us to the city. Matthew, who biked in from Cambridge, joined us. At first, I bought the whole call and response premise that the curators had carefully constructed. Titian paints a sacre conversazione, then Tintoretto (his younger rival) paints a more dynamic (some might even say "extreme") one. Some of the more compelling visual arguments involved a room full of nudes (appropriately hidden behind red velvet curtains), the Supper at Emmaus, and Saints Anthony and Jerome (in a separate room of course, though the Temptation of Saint Anthony could have been worked into the room of nudes, I'm sure). The argument began to lose steam for me, however, when the wall-texts/curators started making tenuous connections amongst the size and shape of rivals' canvases and their choice of extremely common subjects. I have a hard time believing that Tintoretto was hunting down Titian's canvases in private collections so that he could compete with the older man. Also, some of those objects were sent to Spain, where Titian had an important patron in the King, but Tintoretto did not. The need for competition isn't immediately apparent, but the power of the male ego may be a factor here, too.

One theme that kept popping up throughout the exhibition was the influence of Michelangelo on the Venetian painters. Michelangelo's reach is something that I haven't studied at all. Though it makes sense that his studio assistants would go on to have workshops of their own, and for his works to be seen by his contemporaries, I've always studied him in such a vacuum that I have no conception of him as a best amongst many, only as a singular star that outshone all. Now that I think about that I'm remembering that the younger Raphael was a rising star whose tranquil, orderly style, threatened the older, more tempestuous master. This, of course, may be a Hollywood construction. And by "Hollywood" I mean "art historical." Rivalries create drama which in turn brings in crowds and/or sells books. Wonderful. Maybe in three hundred years there will be an exhibition called Duchamp/Picasso/Pollock: Modern Master Catfight. I, of course, will write an MA thesis entitled, Hannah Höch: I Will Cut You. (Sorry, I might be the only one who thinks that's funny. It really is, you know.)

And now I'm very tired. Noon is a bit early to consider a nap, but you can only study so much German on four hours of sleep. Also, even though I only spent a a few hours in Boston, I accomplished a lot - I met a fellow writer; I doled out love advice; I walked from Copley Square to Cambridge; I doled out living-in-Brooklyn advice; and I reviewed weak masculine nouns. Every weekend should be so productive.

If you haven't been thinking about Michael Jackson, you haven't been outside in the last week and a half. Without a television or regular newspaper subscription I've avoided a vast majority of the coverage, or what Jon Stewart calls "obitutainment" - the fine media art of obituaries as entertainment.

The Daily Show With Jon StewartMon - Thurs 11p / 10c

Writing, I've discovered, is a fickle activity. Or perhaps I am a fickle writer. The latter is probably more plausible than the former. Though I have heard writers discuss the need for a twinge of sadness in order to sit down at the computer. I've often used this blog as a sort of dumping ground for any thoughts I needed to get rid of. It's almost like a pensieve, which I believe is a magical made up thing yet a useful analogy nonetheless.

So why haven't I been writing? I've been somewhat happy for the past few months. There are various reasons, which I don't feel like discussing. Sadness for me it seems is a public activity, but I like to keep the good things to myself. This is partly superstition and partly a desire to avoid questions from certain parties. (Conocen quienes son.) Oh, how I dread the questions, because at this point in my life the answers are always changing and even I can't keep up. Why ask other people to?

Also, I should be honest: Readers that I don't know personally freak me out a bit. Don't get me wrong - it's encouraging in a way. But it also feels like a bit of an intrusion. As though there are eavesdroppers on my musings. Why keep a blog then? Well, why have a cellphone conversation on a bus? It's convenient? If I could be so emotionally and mentally consistent, you'd probably be completely bored by me. And, I think, in this era we all have to accept the paradox of the wish for privacy in public forums. Also, as I recently told a dear friend, it's pointless to try to be perfectly consistent if you value the moment you're living in.

I'll try to write more this summer. A lot of things have happened and there are even more things planned. A trip to Boston here, a family visit there; the start of school. Oh, and there's a farm I want to visit. Maybe even a new apartment? For now, enjoy the coming holiday; and know that I'm thinking of you. Also, for everyone's sake let's hope the news is a little less exciting than last week's. Shake Your Body (Down to the Ground) anybody?

xoxo

This is actually quite disturbing, but to someone raised watching My Fair Lady and Funny Girl each Thanksgiving, and Night of the Living Dead and Hellraiser IV every other night, the novel, Pride and Prejudice and Zombies, really combines my love of camp and old-fashioned love stories. Apparently, it has shot up the Amazon.com bestseller list in recent weeks. Maybe this says something about Amazon shoppers that we just didn't know about before, or maybe as the Op-Ed contributor in the NY Times says, it has something to do with our collective anxiety about the economy. We've moved on from sleek vampires, who can only be sustained by the riches and excesses of a negligent society, to zombies, who are undiscriminating and leave behind just the strongest and least likely group of allies. Vampires are surgical in their tactics; zombies a bit more . . .blunt. Feasting on brains just isn't glamorous work. I'm feeling a bit better this morning, in case you're wondering.

Like most people I find that the days are too short for all that I'd like to accomplish. There's work, studying, reading for information, reading for pleasure, reading for conversation, visiting with friends, and then there's sleep. That last thing has been on my mind a lot - or maybe I should say on my waking mind. For each of the last four days I've probably slept about 16 to 20 hours. Luckily, I don't have any major deadlines this week, and I'm also pretty damn productive when I'm actually awake. This is what my doctor calls functioning narcolepsy. She doesn't actually know if that's what I have, but I've seen two neurologists who concede that it's a possibility. All I know is that when I'm not on medication, I can't keep my eyes open for more than 8 hours at a time. I compensate by walking around, going to the gym, and abstaining from caffeine and sugar or anything else that could cause a "crash." I do my best not to nap, and really can't indulge the urge to sleep very often because it's just not socially acceptable to sleep at one's desk, or place your head on your fellow subway passenger's shoulder. I don't even like it when people's coat sleeves touch me, so I'm not about to relax enough to get cozy with a stranger. Ick.

On Monday I'll go into a sleep lab where creepy doctors (I'm sure they're actually very nice) will watch me sleep and assess my brain waves. It's a little scary to think that I could be abnormal in such a fundamental way, but it'll be nice to have a name for the persistent urge to sleep. Well, other than outright laziness. That's not really a label I want. I'm on the search for non-pharmaceutical remedies to my problems. I'm starting with vegetables, herbs and multi-vitamins, but will move on to acupuncture in May. I assume that my body is weary from the last decade of moving and general upheavals to which I've subjected it. If I could start all over again, maybe I would have gone to Berkeley. Just to be in the same time zone for an extended period would be a treat, and might even help my circadian rhythms help themselves. And just in case you're wondering, I'm writing this now as part of my promise to myself to stay awake until at least 10 PM tonight. Only 35 minutes to go . . .

I wasn't very excited about moving into this apartment, but it was the most personal space I could find for the least amount of money in the short amount of time I had to find it nearest the two train lines I needed most. To top it all off my room came with a putrid yellow wall. It looked like the tail-end of a really nasty bruise. Everything else was a bright shiny white but this was just gross. Who picked out this color and then actually left it there? Last week, I decided to spruce up the place and painted over that nasty yellow with a beautiful Florence Blue (or so the paint can told me). I also rearranged my entire room, built a dresser that had been lying around in parts since November, unpacked my suitcase from my visit to California in February and hung up my pictures. This is not normal behavior. Clearly, I was trying to distract myself from something.

A few weeks ago I was feeling a bit at an emotional loss, and decided to do a bit of emotional spring-cleaning. This, for me, generally means erasing old emails, ridding my phone of numbers I'm certain I'll never use again, unsubscribing from newsletters, and "de-friending" a few people on Facebook. There's no confrontation involved, as I don't tell anyone I'm cutting them out of my life; I just do it. It may not sound very mature, but it's a way to exert control over situations in which I, in fact, have none. And, besides, it made me feel better.

I like to imagine that were I to see these people again I would be cold and unkind but I'm clearly delusional. Not too long ago I ran into one of them and to my horror I was friendly and somewhat nice. I never ever run into him, which is remarkable since we live, oh, two blocks away from each other. And, if I had thought about it more carefully, I would have known he'd be at that performance, but I was busy distracting myself from something else that evening (writing, work, the eighty-seven new exhibitions I needed to see), and decided to venture off to the village by myself for a glass of wine and a dark room where I wouldn't have to be "on". But nope, there he was, unknowingly ruining my plan, proving that there isn't a shred of control to be had no matter how many times you erase someone's phone number. And, now, of course, I miss him (which is dumb for a lot of reasons) and refuse to actually tell him, or really, even admit it to myself, because he's really made it quite clear that I'm not all that important to him. Not even a little.

So what's the good of all this? What I realized a long time ago is that I'm actually at my best when I'm frustrated. It's a way to till the soil so to speak - to renew commitments to myself and evaluate what I can do to improve my well-being. I certainly can't control how other people behave, but I can direct frustrations toward something productive. A few weeks ago I was frustrated that I didn't have any published writing samples to show my boss, so I emailed a few ideas to the editors of three magazines I've long admired. All three responded favorably; one piece has been published; I was offered a review of a large retrospective opening later this year; and the third is overlooking its policy of working with "established" writers to consider my project further. How nice for me. I may never resolve my feelings about certain people, but at least this time I got a pretty blue wall out of it. And, oh, how I love blue.

Let me introduce you to Mouahssine, my gendarme in Morocco. I call him "my gendarme" because whenever I had to go to the gendarmerie I always asked for him, and he was almost always available. Once they woke him up from a nap. That's the epitome of service. Oh, and he was essentially assigned to watch over me. Any time I travelled outside of the Ouarzazate region I had to text him and tell him when I would return.

But I digress. Mouahssine was straight out of central-casting for law-enforcement-officer-in-a-foreign-land-once-occupied-by-the-French. Balding and just shy of pudgy with just past his prime folded skin around his mouth and temples, he had the best blue-green eyes. He smoked at his large paper-strewn desk, while he held meetings, and while he typed on his antiquated IBM computer. The best part: his phone played Tainted Love whenever someone called, endearing him to me all the more.

In order to stay in Morocco for more than twelve weeks I had to apply to be a resident. This meant filling out five copies of a six-page application by hand. At the time, this felt really unnecessary; why couldn't Mouahssine just photocopy my application? With a very sore hand and slightly grumpy demeanor, I listened as he outlined what else I would need to bring him: a letter from the country director stating my purpose in Morocco, my Peace Corps identification, and the entry and identification pages of my passport, all in quintuplicate form, plus a sixty dirham stamp from a local hanut. Being a pretty well-prepared and efficient young woman (and not wanting to make a second two hour fifteen kilometer trip to Ouarzazate that week) I already had all of those things with me and immediately went to my photocopy man up the street, got the copies and returned to Mouahssine's office.

Mouahssine was flabbergasted and elated. How had I gotten the copies so quickly? And then his face fell. I didn't have the proper stamps. I explained how I had gone to five different hanuts and no one had the elusive sixty dirham stamp. He shook his head, "No the government stamps for your photocopies." What? Copies, of any sort, just aren't trusted in Morocco. But clearly you can't have five originals of something, unless you've filled them all out by hand in the presence of a gendarme. . . It was all making sense.

Mouahssine directed me to the royal government offices across the street, where I found the photocopy verification unit. For two dirham a piece a woman looked at the original and then stamped (many, many times) the photocopy, stating that it was indeed accurate and correct. This took an entire afternoon. Only in a culture absolutely suspicious of technology would I be forced to do this. And only in a place where it's every man for himself would the government force such a wasteful tax on the individual. To be fair, I didn't pay taxes in Morocco and the law enforcement resources it devotes to Peace Corps Volunteers is quite remarkable and expensive (though I can't say how effective it is since I very rarely felt safe there). Needless to say Mouahssine was happy that I was able to obtain the official photocopy stamps and he even found the elusive sixty dirham stamp for me.

What all of this reminded me of was the Stamp Tax of 1765 levied by the British in the American Colonies. That caused a major uproar! Really, Americans have just always hated taxes, and this attitude has forced local governments to find a way around it in order to cover the expenses for all those things we take for granted, like roads, clean drinking water and law enforcement. That's why the headline, Cities Turn to Fees to Fill Budget Gaps, was so interesting to me this morning. We expect our taxes to cover everything that could possibly be used by everyone, like law enforcement or natural disaster responses. But what if they didn't? What kind of society would we be? It would be the cruel realization of a nation obsessed with individualism. I don't fish, why should I have to support the infrastructure that allows other people to do so. I don't drive or take taxis, so I only want my taxes to go towards the subway system. Or, worse, I don't live in that unsafe neighborhood, so I won't pay taxes to support extra police officers on the streets over there. Government officials who choose to raise taxes on individual services are just feeding into the mentality that individuals don't benefit from the improvement of the whole system. If a friend gets into an accident she already has to worry about the health insurance bills, now she has to worry about her ability to pay the police, too? That just seems wrong.

What does this have to do with my gendarme, Mouahssine? Not much, really. I was always aware that I was treated differently because of my nationality, receiving more attention and patience than what was accorded to most of my community, most of which was interviewed and lectured to about my safety. Mouahssine admitted to me that he had actually never even been to my poor little dirt road town, even though it was only fifteen kilometers away. It didn't need him, he said, but I did. The latter was definitely true, but I couldn't shake the feeling that if my town had been a little better connected, or not Berber for that matter, it would have warranted a more even distribution of the region's resources. Unfortunately, that's not the kind of society Morocco has, but I certainly hope I've returned to a place that believes in some sort of support for everyone in their hour of need.

How do artists become known? At what point have they passed through the emerging phase and into the established phase? In the art world we tend to talk about the same artists over and over again (Warhol, Beuys, Rauschenberg, etc.), but occasionally a young artist receives some buzz. This has always seemed to be an unquantifiable phenomenon. Over brunch a few curatorial assistants talk about some street art they saw in Dumbo, then again at the seasonal gallery openings; a gallery owner overhears and asks for more information. Next thing you know that street artist, Swoon in this case, has a solo exhibition at Deitsch Projects. That’s buzz. A kind of hum outside of the mainstream that sometimes, but not always, is harnessed by institutions in order to make claims to the new and hip. More often it’s fleeting, befitting something named after the sound of flying through the air.

My understanding of buzz clearly contradicts that of researchers, as represented by a recent article in the New York Times, “Mapping the Cultural Buzz: How Cool is That?” Using 300,000 commercial photographs from 6,000 events to evaluate what was buzz-worthy, which they seem to define as synonymous with news-worthy and purchase-worthy, they unsurprisingly concluded that the areas surrounding such cultural meccas as Lincoln Center and Times Square were the most concentrated places of buzz. This is oddly circuitous logic to pinpoint something so ephemeral. Of course these places were photographed by commercial news outlets! And of course celebrities attended! But that’s not necessarily buzz! At best, it’s publicity—good publicity, but hardly out of the ordinary. The creative class (who knows how they define that!) shouldn’t be delimited by what paparazzi are willing to cover and where they’re willing to travel. If it’s the creative class they’re concerned with, shouldn’t they be looking at the geographic location of those who not only consume but also create these events? Does anyone even live in Times Square anymore? (I’m actually curious about that.)

It seems to me that a completely different type of data-set is needed to quantify something like buzz. Commercial outlets should definitely be a component, but is the press really the best source these researchers could access? Music seems rife with possibilities in this area. Researchers could gather data on a band’s album sales just before and after a concert in a particular city. Taking into account advertising and news coverage, they could also look at hits on the band’s webpage, Google search statistics and (because I’m sure this is also about revenue-generating possibilities) purchases on ITunes, EMusic and other digital outlets. Almost all of this information is sortable by geographic location through IP addresses and billing zip codes. (Yes, they’re watching you and they know what you like to buy.) They may also want to look at continued sales in a particular area over the next few weeks, since one usually hears of buzz as something that is generated over space and time. If I see a great Bon Iver concert, buy his album and tell ten friends and they tell ten friends, etc., then more and more little dots will appear on a data map until it either stops or reaches such critical mass that Prince anoints him the heir to the singer-songwriter throne. (I believe that’s what Malcolm Gladwell called the tipping point.)

Most problematic is the continued focus on those large institutions as Very Important Places. They aren’t the sole producers of culture, nor should they be. I won’t deny their importance, but I do object to the idea that we should look to them for our (or any) city’s future. Cultivation of the creative class (if that is indeed possible) shouldn’t be formulated through the paradigms of bureaucracies like Lincoln Center or The Met (both of them) but through support of alternative spaces, residencies and those people that make this vibrant, diverse cultural community possible.

Some of you know that I've often played around with the idea of being a writer. This blog has been an exercise in finding a bit of my own voice and figuring out if I'm comfortable with putting my thoughts in the public realm (even if that realm only consists of Katharine, Karin, Eric, my mom, aunt, and grandma - and oh, yes, occasionally, Matthew [all of them]). You've all been wonderfully supportive, I must say, actually pressuring me to write more, and forcing me to dig up ideas when I didn't think I had any. So thank you for that.

Today marks my foray into the world of web publications not just read by my social circle. My very first contemporary art review was published at ArtCat Zine this afternoon, and I'm pretty proud of the result. I hope you'll check it out:

http://zine.artcat.com/contributor/anjuli_lebowitz/

I also recommend going to see the exhibition itself. It's on the way to Fairway and IKEA, and only ten blocks from me, so you really have no excuse. And the gallery is run by a Williams alumnus to boot!

Last night I learned why Mick Jagger is a sex symbol. Having been introduced to him and the music of the Rolling Stones when he was already pushing 45 (I was 8) I just didn't see the appeal. He just seemed like a skinny old man courting major hip replacement surgery with all of that strutting and gyrating around stage. Clearly, having smoked waaaaaaay too much of something, he had deep crevices at each side of his mouth, and his hair desperately needed a good washing. Yes, I was a judgmental child, but I also knew a dirty old man when I saw one.

Last night, though. Whoa. In Gimme Shelter, which I saw in the basement of the Rubin Museum of Art with an old college friend, LA, Mick is hot. There's no other way to describe him. He still showed off those awkward gyrating pelvic bones, but the shaggy hair and pretty pink lips nearly had me and LA swooning on the floor. (That could also be because of the one (count it!) drink I had just before.)

The true star of the documentary, however, was the drummer, Charlie Watts. Obviously, blow dryers were acceptable appliances for men in the late '60s, because his hair is incredible. Framing his pale, chiseled features, it hung poker straight down to his chin, with a lovely side part. And he's so tense as he plays, curling his lips into his mouth and occasionally giving Mick a side glance as if to say, "Really? That move again with the hands held above the head and the hips? Really?"

What was truly remarkable about him though is that he seems to be the only member of the band who took the events of the film seriously. Gimme Shelter was intended to be about the Rolling Stones's 1969 American tour, and for the most part it consists of footage from various concerts, where Mick sings, girls scream and Keith Richards wears frilly pink shirts through which his nipples show. There's an incredible scene from Tina Turner's performance as an opening act, in which you realize why she was so revolutionary for women musically, socially and sexually.

Unfortunately, not all of the Stones' concerts went so smoothly. At the Altamont Free Speedway Festival in northern California 850 people were injured, 4 were killed and a fifth was stabbed to death right in front of the stage. Much of the blame was placed upon the Hell's Angels who were hired (wages: beer) to keep people off the stage and protect the generators. Obviously, not trained professionals, as intoxicated as the crowd and by definition anti-social, the Angels armed themselves with sharpened cue sticks and viciously attacked anyone out of line, including the lead singer of Jefferson Airplane. If your security doesn't know who is actually allowed on the stage, it's clearly counter-productive to have them. On the other hand, the crowd was unbelievable! I've never seen such unruliness in a public arena - climbing the rafters, milling about on stage, stripping naked and climbing on top of people (ew), and throwing glass bottles into the crowd (a pregnant woman suffered a skull fracture).

As I watched Watts watch the footage of this particular concert, and listen to a Hell's Angel on the radio blame the Stones for the whole fiasco, I could see the incredible pain it caused him. No one spoke of the bad press they would suffer, or the fines, or the generally despicable behavior of the organizers. The Stones watched the footage to see if there was anything that might show who stabbed and killed 18-year-old Meredith Hunter, an African-American man who had purportedly wished to shoot Jagger because his girlfriend mentioned how hot the latter was. Jealousy, it seems, never pays.

I'm still mulling over this film. The contrasts with the orderliness of my own concert-going experiences (even those that are free and outdoors) is startling. It explains the generally terrible reputation of Hell's Angels in California (and really, motorcylists in general) and it has me very curious about something. How many of those naked, unruly, irresponsible, drugged-up young people became my teachers? Also, where can I find the red, ruffled bolero with sparkly flowers Keith Richards wore? His daughters are so lucky.

Many of you know that I prefer few things to reading. Compulsively consuming everything from newspapers and magazines to treatises on the special relationship between women and birds (parrots, specifically) and artists' manifestoes makes me a better art historian and, more importantly, conversationalist.

The latter is a great point of pride to any New Yorker, but especially a transplant, and especially a transplant to Brooklyn. It’s important to know your way around, but it’s invaluable to know your neighborhood history. That chic salon on the corner of Court and Baltic Streets used to be a plain old coffee shop and before that it was an Italian bakery with the best and cheapest cannoli you could ever ask for. Only a nickel each! Thanks to Jasmine’s mom, who is a bit of a history buff herself, for that bit of neighborhood trivia. And, actually, thank you to the Italian bakers for retiring before I relocated across the street. The tempting smell alone would have thwarted all my (half-hearted) efforts to avoid excess sugar. [Left: The intersection of Dekalb Street and Fulton Street, near my old apartment in Fort Greene.]

So imagine my delight when I found Brooklyn Revealed in the Daily Roundup as I scoured the NY Times online for an article about something other than the economy or grandmothers who will or will not help their daughters with their newborn children. (For the record, my grandmother was heavily involved in my childhood, as were my aunt and uncle, and I turned out smart, funny and, overall, just fantastic. Their words, not mine. And my, also really awesome, mother plans to help me with my children, albeit from an RV parked outside my co-op on the Upper West Side. Long story . . .) Here is a site with interactive maps and photographs so you can learn how streets got their names and the history of the six original townships that composed the County of Kings. It's a little time travel to a time of open spaces, horse carriages, and separate designations of citizenship, as well as a great place to cull a general sense of how far the borough has come.

In my own narcissistic way I looked for pictures of the neighborhoods I've lived in (Fort Greene and Cobble Hill [both in the red Brooklyn section) and places that my mother lived until she was nearly an adolescent (she was born in Fort Greene but hopped from Bedford-Stuyvesant [same red section] to Ocean Avenue [green Flatbush area]). Expect me to gush about the old photographs of the Brooklyn Museum of Art and the farms in East New York. Imagine the CSA’s we could have had! [Right: A view of Fulton Street, which, I think, is where the Fulton Street Mall is now. That’s where my grandmother used to shop for her nurse uniforms and holiday outfits for my mom and her siblings.]

If you find yourself with limited time to visit the borough, this should give you an idea of what Brooklynites mean when they say it's just quieter and slower paced. Despite our complaining about the Manhattanization of our neighborhoods, there really is a wonderful feeling of continuity with the various waves of those before us, who, at first dismayed at being pushed out of the center of it all, discovered a place to call home. Though, really, don't take the photographs too much to heart; there are McDonald's and Tasti-Delights next to beautifully restored brownstones and there aren't nearly as many horse carriages anymore. Rather than smell like Central Park South, we prefer the hot summer stench of the Gowanus Canal.

The ever-dreaded threshold of thirty is just around the corner (one year, nine months, twelve days), and all of those Things I Should Have Done By Now are creeping into my very overwhelmed head. Graduate school, they whisper; serious boyfriend, they say; publications, they whine. Oh, if only I could quiet them and appreciate the here and now! Though I’m a huge fan of to-do lists, long-term planning actually gives me a terrible feeling in the pit of my stomach. Nervous and unsure, I feel hemmed-in—as though I’m stuck in a tiny hatch-back on a cross-country road trip and no one will let me drive. (FYI: I always drive on road trips. This does not make me a control freak; it makes me a better driver.)

Commitments are something my friends and I discuss constantly. At Nicole’s (very fun) birthday dinner, for example, it was relationships. The clueless men we’re dating and the ones we’d like to date. The ones that marry us, the ones that text their friends, but not us, that they can’t wait to see us, and the ones that appear after years of silence to tell us we still matter. I tend to specialize in the last species, and find it an emotionally exhausting and insecurity-fueled experience (and am therefore not looking forward to Venus in retrograde in April and May). Why can’t we get it right the first time, or in one case the third or fourth times? Really, why must everything be left so open-ended? On the other hand, I have been receiving a bit more attention than usual from a friend whom I’ve always been interested in. And we’ve never dated before—so look at that! Progress! Only I should probably warn him that I’m not much for the rituals of dating (really, who has the time?), so a surprise kiss and declaration of love will do the trick just fine. Oh, and if he even mutters the word “casual” I will walk. Walk, I say!

Mostly, though, I worry about my career. Today’s economic environment is ripe for career-anxiety, but I’m very lucky to have a position that I love with curators that appear to value me as more than an elaborately (and expensively, might I add) trained chimp who can press buttons on machines they don’t understand. Still, it’s not at all surprising that I’m beginning to freak out over my application to graduate school, which I turned in Sunday. What if I don’t get in? Worse, what if I do get in and don’t finish? (Again.) What if I suffer from writer’s block? (Again.) What if my professors hate me? (Or so I imagine, again.) What if I’m tired after work and can never get the readings done? Or what if I’m just no good at school any more? That would be devastating. The scariest part of it all is that an M.A. puts me on a path that firmly cements past decisions I’ve made and forces me to contemplate how I will move forward in the curatorial field. It’s really about taking the next step forward and trusting that everything will turn out how I want it. The only difficult part is defining exactly what I want. That’s what that one year, nine months, twelve days is for, I guess, but I'll try to be flexible about the time schedule.

Last month Brandeis University announced that it would close the Rose Art Museum, one of the most respected collections of post-war American art in the country. Roberta Smith wrote a thoughtful piece, which I encourage you to read here. A personal chord was struck, as I read about how the Rose been a responsible entity, raising its own funds, supporting its own programming and even, seemingly, paying an onerous tithe to Brandeis. For all that hard work it will be closed.

What will its students do without original objects from which to study? As one of my favorite professors says, “It is always the object which asks the question; you can only get so far with theory and abstractions.” What would my own education have been like without the resources of the Clark Art Institute, Mass MoCA and, most importantly, the Williams College Museum of Art, where I led tours for three years, and worked in the curatorial and education departments each summer? What if I had never interacted with original objects in the study rooms of each place, never held a Rembrandt etching, or lectured next to a Degas pastel? Would I ever have pursued work in museums? Or would I have ended up in law school or on Wall Street like so many of my classmates? (That would have been much kinder to my finances!)

Much has been said about how the administration’s decision is short-sighted and akin to cannibalizing itself. There goes the art history program! No more studio projects! And, donors? Well, they’ll be less likely to give ever again—to the university or the Rose, if it’s saved, because who knows what might happen during the next fiscal crisis. What will be next? Will Brandeis auction off books, buildings, and donor portraits? It’s incredibly disheartening to see acts of philanthropy completely turned on their heads. I doubt that the men and women who donated paintings worth $5,000 in 1962 did so because they thought, “I sure hope this Lichtenstein appreciates and that they’ll be able to sell it to a private collection in 2009 for millions of dollars.” No, they donated original works of art because they are unique, important contributions to the field. If those donors had wanted Brandeis to have the cash they would have written a check, which is significantly easier to transport, believe me.

What hasn’t been talked about is the failings of the staff of the Rose. On one hand, they are victims in that they were given absolutely no notice or say about the closing, and are now unemployed in a difficult economy in an extremely difficult field. On the other hand, one of the primary jobs of a university museum is to make itself one of the most priceless resources on campus. It’s not just another library or laboratory; it’s a living breathing space in which students and faculty from all disciplines can interact with historical documents. In Smith’s article the director discusses how many objects are on tour and how many millions of people see the Rose’s art annually. These are the kinds of statistics important to a large civic institution that must justify its existence to a skeptical public. For a university museum the mandate is much narrower. Those objects on tour should be on campus. Curators should be collaborating with faculty to create exhibitions that cross disciplinary lines and tap into the interests of the most students possible, not boasting about sending resources around the world.

In 1997 I spent a formative summer on the Brandeis University campus. My days were spent in theater rehearsals and writing workshops, and learning the foundations of Judaism that have served me much of my adult life. The Rose was closed all summer for renovations, and I never got to peek inside. Instead I had the opportunity to travel to the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston, where I encountered a room full of John Singer Sargents and decided right then and there that I wanted to work in museums. The Rose would always be there I thought; I’ll visit some day. That doesn’t appear to be the case.

Morocco + Christmas =

This is exactly what Marrakech is like. Really. Especially, the lighting yourself on fire part. Oh, but not the red hats; those are for Fes only.

It's too bad this is happening on my birthday or else I would be hopping around on those buses!

http://www.brooklyneagle.com/categories/category.php?category_id=12&id=25020

However did they choose the colors for the different "loops", I wonder? And who really believes art is a good "investment" these days? No one is going to make the kind of financial returns David Rockefeller made on his Rothko a year and half ago. Buy because you love it and can't live without it!

Also, come to my birthday get-together. Details to be sent out soon via email. Don't be Brooklyn-resistant.

Last winter, as I sat in a home made of dirt bricks, with a bamboo roof, ill from whatever parasites had infected me, and lacking heat or running water, I was very nearly driven mad by the contradiction of being in such a harsh environment, but still able to connect with my family and friends via wireless internet. (I am now experiencing this in reverse, as I chat online with friends that still live in Morocco. More than once have I read "My fingers are too cold to type! TTYL!) It was nearly impossible to imagine that the environment in which I sat could exist simultaneously as the one which I had left. Was I even on the same planet?

Trust art to address this issue. I just learned about the artist Filippo Minelli. Now a conceptual artist who uses graffiti and documents it photographically is not that novel, but his ongoing project Contradictions, speaks to me in such a visceral way, I barely even have the vocabulary for it. By visiting slums in the developing world and scrawling incredibly popular websites, such as Facebook, Myspace and Flickr, on tin houses, scrap heaps and run-down trains, he frames the incredible chasm between how people live in these environments and how, we in the developed world, spend a great deal of time in an alternate reality. Here's a quote from him from the Daily Dish:

What I want to do by writing the names of anything connected with the 2.0 life... [on] the slums of the third world is to point out the gap between the reality we still live in and the ephemeral world of technologies. It's a kind of reminder, for people like me..., I'm an Apple user and also have social-network accounts, that the real world is deeply far from the idealization we have of it...

What speaks to me most about is the tightrope many developing nations walk as they build technological infrastructures, which are vital to their efforts to attract foreign investment, but often neglect what we consider very basic infrastructure, such as rural electrification and water treatment plants. There simply aren't enough resources for them to do both, and foreign investment wins out because it ostensibly generates immediate revenues. A rural farmer simply isn't going to produce a larger crop because the government connected him to the power grid, but her sons can travel to the nearest large town to work for outsourced jobs from larger economies.

I doubt that Minelli's art "helps" anyone in the communities in which he works, but that's not really the point. You and I are his target audience. How we process the contradictions he highlights is the truly interesting aspect.

Whenever I'm having a major mini quarter life crisis my grandmother always asks me: If your life were a dream, how would you interpret it? I know, it sounds a little funny, and it is, but sometimes it's a really useful way to step outside of myself and think about how to overcome any obstacles in my path. Other times, when there is no crisis, and I'm a bit bored, I pick out random themes that seem to repeat themselves. This week has been especially rich with oddities.

One of my (really awesome, friendly, funny) co-workers ordered a fox from Ebay. Not a live one, though. It's a specimen of taxidermy, on which she's writing her master's thesis. Then I met a man with the surname, Fox. And I've been thinking about the cute little kid in the movie, "You've Got Mail", that spells out his name, F-O-X, in this really adorable way. Ummm, the problem with this? Foxes apparently represent trickery and fire. And that totally connects to the fact that I burned my thumb pretty badly on some coffee and my favorite brunch place was closed last week after suffering damage from a kitchen fire. I don't think there are any consequences to all these silly observations of mine, but I will not be building any fires in my house like I did last winter.

Life has been relatively uneventful in the past week. I've made little progress on my room, which is a total mess and looks not too dissimilar to a war zone or, more accurately, my room in the third grade. I did attend a great lecture by Maira Kalman, a graphic artist and painter, who does tons of work for The New Yorker. She was personable, self-deprecating and incredibly smart. She also pursues whatever she wants, and fully admits that luck aids her talent. I like that kind of honesty.

Congratulations to Jimmy Carter, the countless educators on the ground and the people who have made small adjustments to their behavior to nearly eradicate the affliction that is Guinea Worm!

http://kristof.blogs.nytimes.com/2008/12/05/jimmy-carter-and-george-w-bushs-future/

And to echo Kristof's thoughts: What will a former President Bush look like? Will he chop wood or help to save forests? The cynic in me says he'll probably spread the myth that zebras are vicious man-eating beasts that should never, ever be put on the endangered species list.

In one last-ditch effort to blend into the neighborhood that is Williamsburg, I forewent washing my hair today. It was an inspired decision brought on by a combination of laziness and the odd looks I get at El Beit, a coffee shop on Bedford Avenue, for having obviously freshly washed, extremely wet hair. Where skinny black jeans had failed before, my slightly greasy hair succeeded. Though my super-smooth french press coffee didn't necessarily taste any better (it's pretty damn good to begin with), it was nice to not be stared at for maintaining basic hygiene.

Alas, this experiment will come to an end for two reasons. First, my head itches, and I have very little tolerance for discomfort of this nature. Second, I'm moving to greener pastures this Friday, where, yes, coffee shops still serve sustainably grown, organic, fair trade coffee in wasteful paper cups with plastic lids and cardboard sleeves, but where everyone appears to be freshly showered by 11:30 AM! They also appear to hold steady jobs, or at least feel obligated to appear friendly and ready for the day. In addition, these new neighbors of mine stay thin not by chain-smoking and shivering in the cold outside the eight hundred bars in the neighborhood, but by going to the gym, or, running outside. Perhaps the best thing about my new apartment in what is probably the second most yuppie part of Brooklyn, is that it's on the top floor, so I wont have to worry about crazy upstairs neighbors who throw combination stomp-karaoke-furniture moving parties at 2:00 AM each Wednesday. (I should mention here that my current sublet is actually quite nice, and my three roommates even nicer. It's just that the neighborhood is so not my speed - as you can see.)

There were, however, a couple odd omens this morning when I went to pick up my keys. First off, the G train arrived much too quickly, which made traveling to Bergen Street so easy as to catch me off guard. Then there was a crazy pigeon just hanging out on the exit sign above the platform. I assume he wanted the F train and was a bit irked by the abnormally efficient G. Then one of my favorite restaurants, Miriam's on Court Street, was on fire. OK, I didn't actually see any flames streaming from windows, reaching for the cold winter sky. But I did see three giant fire trucks, and many, many handsome firemen coming out of Miriam's, telling everyone everything was "OK now." Finally, when I went into a cute little bakery to have a pumpernickel bagel, there was an Andy Warhol look alike (face, clothes, hat, everything) sitting in the corner. He told me that he'd never seen me there before. And I said, "Well, I'm new to the neighborhood."

Amidst all of the craziness that has been my life over the past year, I've had a few really wonderful events to look forward to. Coming back to America, though unplanned, was nice. Eric and Katharine's wedding was a fabulously joyous event, and just this past weekend I celebrated the wedding of two more very wonderful, very dear people: Karin and Ryu. They had the kind of wedding I hope to have. It wasn't a crazy, aspirational wedding with doves and ice sculptures. Oscar de la Renta didn't design her gown (though I'm sure Karin might have liked that). And it wasn't held in some nineteenth-century mansion.

What made it so perfect was that everything was "them". It was held on a farm in Florida (where she's from); they chose every single song on the playlist at the reception; they did a cute little first dance; there was a bag pipe player during the ceremony (who doesn't remember the bag pipes at Convocation?), and they seemed genuinely happy. They even found ways to incorporate each of their faiths and backgrounds into the ceremony (their children will be Colombian/Japanese/Eastern-European/Jewish/Catholic). Also, they made the wedding party take pictures in front of the (very plush, very fancy) port-a-potty trailer. Personally, I enjoyed that part. Please don't knock the fancy port-a-potty trailer - there are mints inside. The cutest part was when Karin's parents took the stage and sang a little song they had written for the happy couple. I hope someone puts video of that on YouTube! And Ryu's dad already started putting on the pressure for grandkids during his toast!

Congratulations to Karin and Ryu!

A part of my vote on November 4th was for Michelle Obama, a woman I am quite proud to have in the White House for the next four years. (I imagine that this is how my grandmother felt about Jackie Kennedy.)

This is an interesting interview of an author of an unauthorized, but still quite glowing, biography, Michelle. (At least the last few chapters I read in a Barnes & Noble on Court Street were very positive.) She does an excellent job of making Mrs. Obama the illustration of the post-civil rights era (if that really exists in these Prop 8 days is another question) and culmination of many of its goals, if its primary goal was to have more Ivy League educated young women from the South Side of Chicago, that is.

http://www.democracynow.org/2008/11/13/michelle_obamas_biographer_on_the_nations#

If anyone is wondering what Democracy Now! is, they should know that it's what people who listen to NPR say they actually listen to, so that they don't have to admit to being an "NPR listener," because that might make them sound "too, too," as Grandma likes to say.

On my commute this morning I nearly knocked over a young woman handing out the New York Times. I briefly considered taking one, realized that I didn't have 35 cents readily available and figured I'd read it online. Underground, I saw the above the flap photograph of two helicopters flying over a mountainous region away from the setting (rising?) sun, with the headline "Iraq War Ends." Really?!?? Was Bush trying to steal Obama's thunder? Perhaps Michelle's amazing, power red dress made W. realize that he was no longer in charge and so he should try to be her new favorite person by ending the "dumb" war.

Oh, but how I was fooled! When I emerged on 1st Avenue I saw a pile of these fake papers. Too thin to be the real thing, too progressive even for the Salzbergers, too much fun for the morning edition, it had other hopeful headlines proclaiming a true cost plan to reflect how much environmentally unfriendly products damage society, a recall of all gas guzzling cars and, my favorite, that Harvard Business School would be closing its doors. (Sorry Matthew! You really belong in education, anyway!) It's turns out that it was produced by an organization called The Yes Men, which is a name I happen to love and find pleasingly ironic.

I don't usually like being tricked but this little hoax brightened my morning and made this very hectic, whirlwind day that much easier.

Something I had forgotten but rediscovered today is that New York breeds a certain kind of restlessness in me. I've been sick for three weeks straight and really should have spent this holiday in bed, surfing the internet and reading Atmospheric Disturbances by Rivka Galchen. My favorite part so far is when the narrator, Leo, discusses an argument he has with his "authentic" wife, Rema:

But I did tell Rema that her response was ludicrously out of proportion. She must actually be worried about something else, I said. She had an endogenous mesallaiance, I concluded. She said she didn't know what a mesallaince as, or what endogenous was, and that I was arrogant, awful, a few other things as well. I liked those accusations and found them flattering and thought she was right.What if all everyone liked the accusations you threw at them? What if they were grateful for the criticisms and harsh words? Maybe, just like Leo, we should find it flattering when people point out our flaws. It shows a kind of caring - an negative sign of affection. I don't think anyone outside of a book would really ever feel that way. And as an overly direct yet ridiculously sensitive person, I certainly don't, even though I'm always relieved to hear the absolute, complete truth. Well, I'm relieved after I cry a little.

That was sort of a tangent. What I really set out to talk about was my restlessness today, and how I worsened a slight cold by wandering in the freezing cold in one of the silliest neighborhoods known to man. I won't name it because I'll probably end up moving there (I'm awaiting landlord approval as I type), but you should know that it's in Brooklyn and it even has a really ridiculous name. It also happens to be the neighborhood my grandmother literally landed in when she migrated from Puerto Rico. She remembers the boat docking and then walking to a cousin's house near the water. They stayed for a little while and then moved to the neighborhood where I'm currently subletting, Williamsburg. Apparently, there were more (possibly better) cousins to hang out with over here. It's sort of a big decision to not live in Fort Greene, which I loved and still has a lot going for it. Unfortunately, the few times I've hung out there over the last three months I felt myself slipping into the same funk of last August, and, well, that's just not going to work this time around. Banish the funk!

Anyway, I wandered all over the new neighborhood and checked out the synagogue, perused the menus of a Japanese restaurant that makes a decent tuna avocado roll, purchased Dayquil and Nyquil at a gigantic RiteAid (one of three within like ten blocks; I told you the neighborhood is ridiculous), and bought a cup of coffee at a tiny cafe with a talkative proprietor with tons of opinions on art (thumbs up to Van Gogh and Basquiat; thumbs down to Jackson Pollock!) and who tipped me off to a Berber-speaking waitress at one of my favorite restaurants (which is run by his brother). I really hope she speaks the same dialect I do, and that I can actually remember some! And that she doesn't think I'm totally crazy for wanting to order falafel plates in Tashlheit. Maybe she'll be flattered, actually.

This New York Times article was interesting to read post-election.

http://www.nytimes.com/2008/11/11/us/politics/11south.html?partner=permalink&exprod=permalink

There are still people who find the idea of African-Americans as assertive, equal partners in society as frightening as they did fifty years ago. Only now it's not necessarily about equal access to schools or jobs (except that it actually is even though there are laws governing that sort of thing) it's about the most basic respect on the street. Who moves to the right when you're about to run into each other? Who gets to speak up at town halls? The people interviewed in this article use the word "aggressive" a lot to describe how blacks will act now that we have a Preseident-Elect Obama. It reminds me in many ways how assertive women are often labeled bitches or Jews too pushy for doing very similar things they're male or gentile counterparts do all the time. And I'm actually quite worried about how this will play out in more rural areas, where even as recently as this year we've heard stories of forced confessions under police beatings and horrific lynchings of black adolescents simply for being "too aggressive" in schoolyard skirmishes. Yes, we've elected our first African-American president, but we still have a great deal of work to do.

I just got back from the BYFI Fall Forum, which was all about Jewish writing in America today. It's a topic that's been much-mulled over, and proclaimed dead by more than one person with way more credentials than me. But I found it kind of inspiring. There are three new authors whose books I'm definitely going to pick up: Dara Horn (BYFI '94!), Rivka Galchen (she grew up like me but in Oklahoma!), and Elisa Albert (she is vehemently NOT a Jewish writer). Little ideas for my own novel came to mind while I sat in the audience, but I think I'll leave them to rest in my notebook for now. Yes, characters will probably be based on you.

Accidentally, I ate some chopped liver. This totally goes against my pseudo-vegetarian (aka pickiness) habits, which were developed in direct response to the massive amounts of meat I was forced to eat in Morocco. It's not that I had meat every day, mind you. It was expensive, and therefore a special treat. But because it was considered special and a yummy, nutritious treat to be savored it was served in heaping mounds with maybe a few olives thrown in. Entire chickens and rabbits just piled up on plates. I was grateful for the protein, but it's a little odd when you notice your neighborhood has far fewer sounds of clucking. So here in the states I've been sticking to fish (plants that move really) and tofu for my protein needs. I'm one of the few people who find the taste and texture of tofu appealing. So that's what I ordered at this little Asian place in my current Brooklyn neighborhood, and I just realized that what I was hoping was eggplant is actually liver. It's kind of like when I was presented with an entire rabbit to eat, I practically willed it to be chicken. It tastes like it!

When I was little my Uncle Oliver would throw me up in the air and catch me over and over again. It was my favorite game. It made me feel happy, cared for and exhilarated all at the same time. When Senator Barack Obama was declared the winner of Tuesday night's election, I felt all of these things. Finally, taking a leap of faith had paid off. All of a sudden a whole new world opened up. I shed a single tear, took some pictures with my friend Yaelle, called my mother, aunt and grandmother and texted everyone I knew. On the two hour ride through the subways to Williamsburg I saw the tired yet elated faces of my fellow New Yorkers. When I finally emerged above ground the riot police were blocking off Bedford Avenue while search helicopters saught stray "rioters" on side streets. Apparently, some people were a little too happy in this Obama stronghold.

Over the past few days a new feeling has settled in. When I was little the beach was my weekend hangout. My mother allowed me to swim alone, but always gave me a strict marker on my bathing suit that I wasn't allowed to go past. At the time Hawaii was one of those majestic places where you could see straight to the bottom of the ocean floor. It helped if you were interested in avoiding sea urchins and sharp rocks. Go out too far and you would injure your feet, or worse, get caught in a rip tide and be carried out to sea. On those rare weekends when my father was home he often decided that I needed to be toughened up. He would carry me much further out into the ocean, waaaay past my safety marker. So incredibly far, that I couldn't see through the water to the bottom (it helps to keep in mind that he was literally twice my height). I would hold onto him for dear life and protest quite loudly that he carry me back to shore. Sometimes he obliged me, but mostly he wanted me to explore and to see the world from a little further away. All I felt was the huge expanse of the sea ready to swallow me up, and take me away from everything I knew.

Those feelings of uncertainty, of the completely and utterly unknown are what have settled in. What does it mean to have an Obama presidency? What does it man to not have a Bush or Clinton in the White House? On a personal note, what does it mean to have someone like me in the presidency? Not just "like me" because he's biracial, but because he was raised by a single mother and his grandparents, plus he's well-educated, progressive, pragmatic and young. Yes, many of these things could describe President Bill Clinton, but, honestly I wasn't nearly as cognizant of his administration as I was of President George W. Bush's. The consequences of the latter presidency will stay with us for generations to come, no matter how amazing (or not) President Obama proves to be. I have high hopes for the next four (dare I say, eight) years, but I'm also full of the fear of the unknown. It's actually a positive fear in an odd way. That scared feeling you get when you sense your hopes are being raised, and you just hope to God that no one will bring them down, but you know someone probably will, so you hold back a little.

I thought that I would have carried the unexamined elation of Tuesday through at least today!

In other news: Williams beat Amherst in their 123rd match-up. I love my new job (more on that later). I love the new Trader Joe's in Cobble Hill (way more on that later). Karin and Ryu are getting married next weekend and I'm going to be a bridesmaid. (I bought gold shoes today - 30% off! I am so a recessionista.) I'm happy to be back in New York.

xoxoxo

I've avoided TV and radio for the past three days (sorry, Rachel - you're still Rachel-tastic!), but all I can think about is tomorrow and the crazy consequences that are in store for our country if things don't go a certain (OK, my) way. Here's what I'm reading and watching to keep myself calm and hopeful:

and

Vote early and keep your fingers crossed. I'll be in Park Slope either celebrating or mourning. I have a special feeling about this one though.

I am obsessed with this blog. (Thanks to Eric! [Or did Greg actually find it first?]) It's possible that I would enjoy it less if my guy were losing, but since he has a 92.5% chance of winning today, I love it. A lot. Also, the writers have a habit of making fun of the Drudge Report, which also makes me smile. "Drudge" is a word my grandmother uses to describe the stuff caught in the drain of the kitchen sink.

Today I'm going up north to spend time with my aunt and uncle before I depart for New York (again) on Friday. We'll probably watch MSNBC, eat In-N-Out burgers (even though I am 95% vegetarian now), and roam around Carlsbad. I'm not really sure, but I love spending time with them, and am sad that I won't be able to do it as frequently as I have over the past four months. Boo. New York, you better be worth it.

Today I went to the San Diego Registrar of Voters and voted early! After months of waiting and waiting I finally got to mark my ballot for Barack Obama. I am so happy!

Now if only my clothes would pack themselves . . .

Is anyone still reading this? Well, besides lovely Matthew, who occasionally looks up from his intense social calendar of tea, leather and mountain climbs to read about my silly musings on CostCo. If you are: thanks!

About eighteen months ago I decided that New York had given up on me. It's an intensely fickle city, full of itinerant freelancers and subletters. Most people I know are struggling to figure out their careers, and we're never sure if it's because we're under thirty or if because the city is just more difficult than other places. For some reason many New Yorkers believe that by simply existing in that space they are somehow "making it". Fearing that trap, I made a decision to leave, sold all my furniture, gave up a lease on a disgusting vermin-infested studio (thank you, Parkoff Management!) and jaunted off to Morocco. What a great idea that was!

Actually, it was. As difficult as my experience turned out to be--the lack of water, the parasites, the crazy host sisters who thought it was OK to gossip about my health and spend 8 hours in a too hot public bath, and the men who thought daily marriage proposals should be considered carefully (highest offer? 100,000 camels!)--it was worth it. I never want it to be thought that I didn't value my time in that place. The most important lesson I took from that experience, however, wasn't the three languages I learned, or the insights into a different culture, or how to make cous-cous. It wasn't even my realization that I'm somewhat of a change junkie. What I hope to always carry with me is the knowledge that I am my best and only true judge.

And so next week I return to New York, to work in my chosen field, in a position I've always thought I wanted. I hope it's true. It's work that I love and believe is important, in a place that I've always felt the most myself. I'm frightened that I'll fall into some old, very damaging patterns, that only serve to undermine my happiness. Mostly, I'm anxious about leaving my family again. Who will take me to CostCo and make sure I see the latest Hollywood releases? The wanderlust in me has been cured, though, I think. Everything else will follow.

The television in my house is a hot commodity. Four adults with very different viewing preferences reside here. My mother will watch anything and everything on the SciFi Channel, including but by no means excluded to, Eureka, Dr. Who, Dead Like Me and some show about a man whose parents sold his soul to the devil when he was born. Rick enjoys WWF and Burn Notice. I enjoy anything on Showtime (Weeds and Dexter are probably my favorites), along with Lost and The Office.

My grandmother has always liked what we affectionately call "dead people shows." House, Monk, CSI, CSI: Miami, Law and Order, Law and Order: Criminal Intent, Cold Case, NCIS, Bones and a myriad of other shows which tend to revolve around an illness or crime and wrap up their story lines within the hour. She despises Lost even though I've explained that the main character is a doctor, just like House, there are mysteries to be solved and a few people even manage to die. She's not buying it; she thinks the polar bear is ridiculous, and that a bunch of pretty people on an island should really "get a grip". She also doesn't find comedies funny. (Don't get me wrong, Grandma actually has a fabulous sense of humor; she just finds sit-coms inane.)

But while I was away on a recent trip to New York (yay!), as you may know, Senator John McCain named little-known Governor Sarah Palin as his running mate. For some reason this has opened up a whole new world of television. She watches Countdown with Keith Olbermann and The Rachel Maddow Show with me. There are few objections when I watch the other news programs. Somehow the whole X chromosome ploy by McCain didn't win over my Grandma - a woman who once told me that Senator Barack Obama was smarmy, and that she didn't understand how people my age could be so enthusiastic about him. And tonight, after a lovely trip to CostCo for a three pound package of strawberries, I turned on The Daily Show, and Grandma admitted that "Jon Stewart is so cute." Obviously, this country is on the right track.

It's sort of a running joke that I look like I'm twelve. I suppose it's because, at nearly 28 years-old, I have no (obvious) wrinkles, I smile easily, and I have a "sweet," "soft" voice. (I don't always appreciate these adjectives.) Since when does friendly equal youth? Especially considering the amount of complaining I hear about "today's youth". Here are just a few of the places I've been carded during my stint in lovely San Diego:

The Ralph's grocery store in Mission Valley

Legal age to purchase alcohol: 21.

Question from cashier to me: Looks like you have wine here. Who will be making the purchase today?

Answer: My grandmother.

AMC Movie Theaters in Fashion Valley

Legal age to view an R-rated movie accompanied by an adult: 17.

Cashier to my grandmother: I'm sorry but she really needs to be 17 to see this film.

My grandmother to cashier: Add ten years and you have her age.

The Point Loma Public Library

Legal age to obtain your own card without a parent's signature: 18.

Question from librarian to me: Did you bring your mom with you, hun? She'll need to sign your application.

Based on the reactions I've received whenever I reveal my real age, I'm beginning to worry that my driver's license will be confiscated by an over zealous librarian who is convinced that I couldn't possibly be closing in on 30 and that I must have stolen some nice old lady's wallet to obtain a fake ID. Not cool!

The one place I wasn't carded: The San Diego County Registrar of Voters. Apparently, they compare your signature in their database. What a relief!

Some of you know that I was a dork growing up. Sure, I had friends, but I also watched Star Trek (both the original series and The Next Generation) and even attended an actual convention with my family in tow. The best part was when they showed us how the transporters worked. Cue ooh's and aaah's. My other claim to dorkiness? The bowling league in which I participated for about two years from the age of ten on the naval base on Coronado Island. No, we didn't have those silly short-sleeved polyester shirts. And I never got a crazy nickname. At my strongest I bowled an 85 and used a six-pound ball. If I broke a hundred that was amazing! I never used the granny throw, even though it seemed like an effective strategy because you got to use both hands.

Looking back on it, I think it's pretty silly that I was playing an indoor sport at the peak of my childhood in sunny Southern California. I rectified this as a high-schooler by taking up tennis and developing more tan lines than I care to remember. Despite the lack of tanning opportunities, bowling taught me excellent hand-eye coordination and perseverance by repeatedly showing me that no matter how hard you try sometimes the ball just isn't going to go your way.

To my surprise I still carry these lessons. My arm is straight and true, and my ball placement is fantastic. About a year ago, I bowled a 180 with an 8 pound ball, shaming my date, who seemed to think he was supposed to win because he was male and had paid for my shoe rental and the beers that should have made me throw poorly. No way, Jose. I've got skills.

Tonight was a slightly different story, under slightly different circumstances. I went bowling with my Uncle Val, who is crazy good (he got five strikes!) but not crazy competitive. He's encouraging and helpful, yet still let's me do my own thing. What I was surprised by was that I threw the 8 pound ball like it was nothing. My ball wasn't straight and true-it skewed right. That wasn't cool. So I upgraded to the 10 pound ball. Same thing. My score was in the toilet; I needed to adjust my form, but how? Could I, little Anjuli, The Little One, as my Aunt Lisa calls me, actually throw a 12 pound ball with control and grace? As it turns out, I could. I'm buff. Who knew?

Did my score vastly improve? Yes. OK, fine, it improved for one game and then my arm got tired and I was throwing all over the place. But the point is: I was much more powerful than I thought. Maybe all of that carrying of my own trash in and out of my site in Morocco actually worked out my arms. Or maybe it was wringing the water out of my hand-washed clothes?

What I've been thinking about since we returned from the bowling alley and finished our amazing In-and-Out burgers, is about how much I've changed. There are the more obvious psychological changes I've undergone - the stress, the regret, the pride, the excitement, the wonder - but there are also the physical ways in which my experiences have manifested themselves. Not only am I mentally stronger, but also, it turns out that I can lift heavier objects and run greater distances. I keep expecting to return to who I was a year ago because that's who I think I am. But actually, I'm a physically and mentally stronger, longer-haired, one-year older, some might even say better, version of who I was when I left. I didn't necessarily have to travel to Morocco to achieve all of that, but I tend to take the most dramatic approach to life. What direction I'll take next is still up in the air, but it's reassuring to know that I have this new strength to draw upon as I make yet another transition.

Now that it's been a month since I returned to San Diego, I'd like to say that I've completely readjusted to everything. Afterall, my entire life minus those ten months in Morocco has revolved around such modern day conveniences as hot running water (no boiling required!) and 24-hour Mexican food. And on many levels I have found my way back to my American self, unless you think the urge to reuse Ziploc bags and rinse and dry paper towels for later use is un-American. (Seriously, you can use them at least three times!)

Occasionally, at places like CostCo and Trader Joe's, I'm entirely overwhelmed by the sheer abundance and choice of products. To give you an idea, my family of four buys three different types of milk from CostCo: unsweetened soy for me, fat-free Lactaid for Grandma, and whole milk for my mother's partner, Rick. And we don't just buy one; my soymilk comes in a pack of three and doesn't expire for over a month. Compare this to the tiny, square plastic bags of milk sold once a week on Fridays to go with cous-cous in my tiny desert town. There was one kind (thick) and to make it thicker it was placed in a warm spot, such as an oven, so it would turn just a bit. Then it was re-refrigerated (if you owned such a machine, which I didn't) and served denser than a milkshake. Let's say that it was an acquired taste. I happened to love it, but that was after a slow, incremental three-month process of increasing my tolerance for the at first gag-inducing taste. (Yes, I was a trooper, but I was also hungry and willing to try many, many things at which I would normally turn my nose up.) Just walking through the dairy aisle at my local grocer is a lesson in variety and choice nearly unheard of in the countryside in which I lived. And it's glorious.

And perhaps that's one of the best parts of coming home - everything is fresh and new to me. I treat grocery stores like museums, and blueberries like a rare find. I'm sure I'll go back to taking these things for granted, but for now I'm enjoying the sense of wonder that comes with the rediscovery of basic amenities such as a hot shower and door-to-door transportation. The first week home was a series of waves of relief, slightly tinged with guilt, that basic things didn't have to be difficult. Now after a full month, I can proudly say I'm happy to be home.

It began with a side of broccoli. There it was, sitting matter of factly next to the largest piece of meat served to me in about 10 months. I had just said goodbye to my community in TToot a few days before and to my best friends via text and phone. Completely overwhelmed and, to be honest, pretty damned scared about what the next chapter of my life holds, I ate the broccoli. And it was good.

Now I'm in Park Slope, Brooklyn for the next few hours (even travel out of Morocco is complicated!) trying to take in all the things that seem familiar yet are totally freaking me out. Why are bagels so big here? Why are there bagels at all, actually? And the iced coffee I just had is easily five times the size of a coffee in Ouarzazate. Everyone speaks English, which is like soooo cool. There are no plastic bags hanging off trees! And everything is so shiny and new!

I kind of miss my desert town, and I know that I'll miss the simplicity of the life I led, even though it felt complicated at the time. Coming home early was a very, very difficult decision, but ultimately the right one. And I'm happy to say that it feels good to be on familiar territory and to see familiar faces. Not to mention the incredible amount of support I've received from the Peace Corps in Morocco volunteer community, my friends here in the States, and most of all, my family, who has prepared a room for me and is eagerly awaiting my arrival in San Diego tonight.

There's a lot for me to readjust to, so I think I'll still maintain this blog. There are a lot of things about Morocco I wasn't able to share in this forum that now I can, and I'll need a place to process the whole experience. I hope you'll continue reading! And if you're anywhere near Park Slope right now come to the Tea Lounge!

p.s. Kudos to my good friend, Evan, for picking me up at the airport last night on extremely late notice, and to Eric, my favorite rabbinical student, for coming down to Park Slope as I type!

Last week I attended my training group's IST, or Inter-Service Training, and it was amazing! It was so great to be back with everyone (minus a couple wonderful colleagues who have returned to the States for various reasons) and to learn about their communities and projects. Even with eight hours of sessions everyday, we managed to have a bit of fun. Those of us who live in the desert were particularly fond of the hotel pool! From right to left: Danice, Quigs, Anny, Megan (it was her birthday so she got to be the "swan"), Matthew, me (big splash, no grace) and Brian.

Dear Flies of the Ouarzazate Region:

First, let me commend you on your persistence and willingness to live in harsh conditions that until nine months ago I could never have appreciated. The desert life, with its sand storms, lack of fresh water and growing threat of scorpions, is harsh. That you have thrived in such an environment warrants both my admiration and consternation.

For you see, flies, your success here in the Ouarzazate region has made you arrogant. Never have I formally invited you into my home, yet you let yourselves in at all hours of the day, buzzing from 6:00 AM to all hours of the night. Nor are we friends, yet you insist upon sitting on my lap, leaning on my shoulder and landing smack dab in the middle of my forehead. In short, flies, you’re ridiculously rude and I hate you.

These sentiments may come as a shock, dear flies, but they are long overdue. Besides the few angry outbursts where I murdered you with Newsweeks I never intended to read, I’ve been quite tolerant of your inconsiderate ways. Indeed, I was even mildly flattered that you appeared to admire my cooking so much that you multiplied exponentially at the dinner hour. That is, until I noticed you preferred the vegetable scraps to my tortillas made from scratch!

Enough is enough. You should know that I’ve employed a small lizard to eat you. So don’t be surprised when you come to an abrupt, slimy end next time you’re sunning yourself on my bedroom window. Perhaps it will teach you to give a lady some privacy.

All the best,

Anjuli