crescent moon

Gypsy String Music @ Freight & Salvage...

Lists & Thoughts:

1) Turns out, I close my eyes and twiddle my thumbs to music. A familiar familial image. Nature, nurture, or nostalgia?

2) I close my eyes and listen to my breath match rhythmically with harp accords. I watch my thoughts evaporate in green curlicues.

3) Gypsy music connects me to my ancestors from the Caucuses (the true Caucasians), the trojan horses, the frauds, the foreigners in classical, aristocratic St. Petersburg.

4) It's clear: being nomadic, being a stranger in a strange land is in my blood with an intensity that ebbs and flows like tides that crash across rocky shores.

5) Otherness and familiarity both define my existence.

6) My distant dreams, the stars in my head: to live in Russia once again, to learn and play folk music, and, to join my grandpa in the armchair, giant headphones over our ears, and twiddle our thumbs.

still surviving

Possibly. Barely. Persistently.

Although wouldn't it be nice to have someone not let me choke on the noose around my neck?:





But then, why aren't there any women in this video? And the fact that the band is all-male hardly counts as a true explanation.

upcoming mother's day feelings

I am still in that adolescent (maybe younger?) stage on this issue, where my emotions are intense and confusing. I wasn't allowed to feel much, or at least not to express any guilt-inducing dangerous emotions like anger and hurt. I wasn't allowed to have a voice and I am still working out some way to be.

So here are some feeling according to Smashing Pumpkins lyrics:

Despite all my rage I'm still just a rat in a cage






Pink ribbon scars
The never forget
I tried so hard
To cleanse these regrets
My angel wings
Were bruised and restrained
My belly stings




Maybe one day I'll channel my feelings into art and help others know that they are not alone.

learn to fly

I thought in graduate school, in my adult mid-20s life, I would have to, I don't know, start acting like an adult. But here I am, rocking out to the Foo Fighters while grading statistics homework. Oh, they are just so good.



Things have been happening in my life, both incredibly sad and incredibly exciting. One of these days, I will have the time to sit still and write everything down. I promise (to myself).

some flowers

Most of the time out here, I'd miss New York. I'd miss the gloomy streets lined with ginormous steel and glass. I'd miss the worsening fall and winter weather, the hats, the boots, the umbrellas. California would just mock me with its glaring sun, bright houses, and forever blooming trees. It may be silly, but my heart would be heavy from the cheerful crowds of San Francisco.

Until I discovered this song:




Now this makes me forget any grudge I might've held against the city and put flowers in my hair. Yes, I know once I'm gone, I'll miss this unique hippie place.

p.s.

While looking through all the Once videos, I ran across this one. Read the comments; interesting, isn't it? Even though the movie is so much more than a love story, this discussion has provided some great responses. It reminded me of the days when I truly felt some of these soul-wrenching, gut-churning, wonderful-awful love emotions for the silliest things. And now? Whoever said that love is like "jumping off a building, hoping that the person at the bottom will keep their promise to catch you" pretty much described my first year of marriage.

falling slowly

Take this sinking boat and point it home
We've still got time
Raise your hopeful voice you have a choice
You'll make it now

I am restless. I feel like screaming. I want to break away.

Sigh. Ever since I came back from Europe, I can't quite adjust to life here. I know, I've lived here long enough to understand how things work, to communicate with people in a common language, to get around. It's safe here, it's familiar, I can easily find my way. But. But but but. BUT. This is not home. I am sorry, California; I really tried, New York. I love you all dearly, but you are my foster family. My long-lost blood-family is across that stupid ocean, over on the stupid capricious continent.

And I know that grass isn't greener on the other side. I've seen and lived the struggles over there. I am willing to take them on. Because there is something, and I really can't explain it, but there is something about returning to a land that is your home.

But then, I worry about practicalities. I am too far along in my American career and settling into certain dreams. I am young, but I can't run forever. I am scared the madness in my head won't let me live the humble inspired life I'd imagined for myself. There are rules to life, and guidelines, and I am running out of time.

A calming answer came to me aboard a greyhound bus on the way to Toronto. With Canada as the backdrop (kilometre signs and litre gas stations and centres along the road), these Irish and Eastern European characters whispered hope into my ear. I'm a sinking boat, but God, please take it and point it home. I've still got time...

Needless to say, at this APA convention, I will be making my way to talk to representatives from the division of international psychology. Wish me luck, friends.

almost there

I know I should write more about life in California, it being different than any other place in which I've lived so far. But it's hard when said life is being spent on producing page after page on ambiguous topics like emotion regulation. While not effectively regulating own emotions.

Soon though, summer vacation will begin, and with it, a trip to London. I will try to capture what I can of the gloomy romantic city, because this is exactly how I imagine it: gloomy, romantic, gray buildings and moist cobblestone streets, dreamy strangers passing secret gazes in coffee shops while writing existential poetry to distant lovers. And if it isn't like I imagine, well, then Oscar Wilde owes me an apology.

As for my 5AM distraction, here are some songs from a movie that first got me into Radiohead, which also happens to be the movie that first got me into Leonardo DiCaprio. That is, for a whole few months, until "Titanic" blew up in everyone's faces:





Ok, and now I am sad at the concept of young passionate love. Is it wrong that I kind of want someone to defy the rules of society for the sake of being with me? Although maybe I'd take the life of my cousin over one lunatic teenage boyfriend... It's a close one.

dusting off

In light of the post-holiday season of trying to shed some of that cheese-and-cookies-induced extra pudginess, I thought it would be important to set a goal:



Or at least (and by at least, I don't mean that it's any less professional or arduous, but that it involves less splits in the air, know what I mean?):



Sigh. Not that I was ever a great dancer, but I had passion and I loved doing it. Sure, my body is about as elastic as a ruler, but I have rhythm, I can memorize a routine, and I'd like to think that I can make it work, too. When I dance, all my stage fright disappears, my body blends with the music through fluid movement, and I feel a part of something greater than myself. Needless to say, I'd like to feel that creative energy move through my body. I'd like to dance again.

Вернись мой друг

I don't know if I'll ever forgive myself for missing Zemfira in concert in San Francisco. I mean, seriously. I found out THREE DAYS AFTER THE SCHEDULED DATE that the only US cities in which she performed were SF and LA. (...Excuse me while I rip a little part of my heart out here...) Ahem. No, but, I don't think there will ever be another time when she and I are in the same city at the same time. And I missed it.

I can't even think about it.

But, I can dwell on her music and general brilliancy. Like this and this:





And for all of one of you who speaks Russian, watch a 6-part interview with her and feel in the presence of greatness:

Part I, Part II, Part III, Part IV, Part V, Part VI

Also, I think this is how I'll be spending the holidays (English-speaker safe!):

Conflict of interest

One accidental click over to this and suddenly I am tearfully wishing I were sitting amidst the golden pale blues of the Mariinsky Theater. I want to see the intimate royal stage, I want to feel the grandeur of Prokofiev's sounds, I want to be moved by the dancers' rhythmic fluidity.

But I guess this hand-me-down futon and strewn-about statistics assignments will have to do, won't they?

She dreams in color

I felt young again as I raced down I-91 blaring "Even Flow" out the window of my old car. I was returning from a hot date with Pearl Jam, my grunge spirit fully revived. Despite an adventurous start to the night (who knew there would be about 20,000 drunken Connecticut frat boys dying to get in touch with their anti-establishment selves?), I found myself on a grassy field, in a cloud of marijuana, wrapped in the enchanting angsty sounds of Eddie Vedder's voice. The night was warm and clear. As I sat under the stars, soaking in the memories of my once marginalized underground existence, I became increasingly nostalgic for the rock-n-roll passion of these songs. Although I might have missed the height of the grunge movement by a few years, I still sported my fair share of flannel shirts. I too shielded by face from the voyeuristic unforgiving cruel world with long unkempt hair. Life, it was full of pain and full of music that connected us tortured souls. I know I am undoubtedly in a better place now, but man, did it feel good to once again rock out to these soul-ripping melodies.

How bad I am!!

Because I have fifteen minutes before I get to dash home from work. And because I'm a closet rock star at heart. Here's another fun gimmick I picked up from the vivid world of blogging.

The rules?
The CD Cover Meme group has only three rules: (1) The first article title on this random wiki page is the name of your band, (2) the last four words of the very last quote on this random quote page is the title of your album, and (3) the third picture here, no matter what it is, will be your album cover.

Et voila. This is what I get:


Apparently, Sven Birkerts is an American essayist with a Latvian ancestry. And the quote goes like this: "I hate mankind, for I think myself one of the best of them, and I know how bad I am." - Joseph Baretti. The photo is by Dena who actually has quite a cool gallery.

Interesting. Very interesting.

About a girl

One of those relationships described in 3 sentences ended up a la ASW:

One song

It is a constant struggle for me to maintain faith in humanity. Or rather, faith that despite humanity's utterly and undeniably fucked up nature, there is a reason to keep on. I am not depressed in a clinical, low self-esteem, down-for-no-reason sense, but I do often question the purpose of it all. I know this sounds silly and something that most people simply ignore in order to lead normal lives, but I just can't help it! Seriously! I am that person who lies awake at night, genuinely weighted by the world's problems, feeling like the joke's on her.

This Martin Luther King Day though is a good time for introspection. I am honestly so thankful for all his inspiration. His passion, willingness, and actions restore that drive in me to use my energy toward social change. Even if ever so slightly.

This weekend, Jeremy and I saw Adam Pascal in concert. And all I have to say is WOW. I first fell in love with his voice as Roger in Rent, but his solo career just reconfirmed that love for me. He brings charisma to the stage, and his voice is so rock-n-roll and serenading all at once. A good time was had by all.

P.S. Is anyone else distraught over the fact that Rent is ending on Broadway? I feel like a little part of me will die on June 1st, but that just means that I have to go see it a few more times before then!

The things we say

The kids over at Explosm recently had a translation contest in an attempt to expand their website globally. Of course, as soon as I heard "translation", I started salivating. Nothing makes me happier than to be able to use my bilingual skills. You know, those mad skillz I got.

They warned the contestants about the challenge of translating their very language-dependent humor. They often use slang or puns in their comics, which only an extremely proficient translator could even attempt to carry across. In the end, I chickened out. I tried my best to translate the meanings of the words, to make sure they didn't sound awkward in Russian, but the jokes? The implicit jokes just didn't translate so well. I mean, what's funny in one culture is not in another. And I'm not clever enough to subtly change the humor as well as the language while staying true to the pictures.

That was one tough assignment. I didn't submit anything, but here is what I came up with.