Winning the Lottery

I was just re-reading the post I wrote about Hangzhou a year ago and found I had written this:
"Next time I will come back to Hangzhou, and go to the edge of the desert to see Dunhuang and geek out at the collection of Buddhist caves there (and ride out to the Gobi in a camel), and go to see the Xinjiang Autonomous region in Urumqi, and the grasslands of Inner Mongolia, the panda bears in Chengdu, a re-visit to beautiful Qingdao, the Shaolin temple near Luoyang (which, much to my chagrin, I realized was really close much too late), and the gardens in Suzhou. I also need to go to Tokyo and Kyoto and to see Mount Fuji in Japan. I need to see Seoul, South Korea, and Ulaanbaatar, Mongolia. I need to ride the transsiberian from Beijing to Saint Petersburg."


When I read those words, the itch that has been bothering me for days - no, weeks - took form. I've been solidly settled in Brooklyn for six (almost seven) months now and have not really made a significant journey since I got here. I find that extraordinarily bizarre as I am in constant movement, constant change. I hate being stuck to a place for so long, and am finding hard to fight the urge to travel. Call me a location commitmentphobe. Or nomad. I get stressed and twitchy and annoyed.
But there is so much out there to see and experience that not seeing and experiencing it seems like a bit of a waste. In a way, there is nothing really stopping me from booking a flight to Ulaanbaatar or Tokyo to Saint Petersburg when my next paycheck comes in. I could do it. Of course, that would mean not paying rent or something. And probably getting fired. Perhaps my priorities have shifted.
My mom makes me buy a lottery ticket whenever the jackpot gets high. Although we haven't won, I often find myself thinking about what I would do if we did.
Here's what I would do:
(1) Pay off my student loans,
(2) Finance my short film,
(3) Book a ticket to Ulaanbataar/Tokyo/Saint Petersburg and spend some time traveling the world.
(4) Buy one of the brownstones over on Prospect Park West.

Pretty straightforward.
Honestly, the one that excites me the most is number three. I love to travel. I love airplanes and airports (yes, I grumble about airports a lot, but there's something to them...they're quite magical, interesting, unique spaces). I love getting lost in cities. And taking the wrong train. And finding a beautiful place that I would not find anywhere else. I love discovering new flavors, new textures. I love meeting new people.
Today, when I dropped my brother off at the Grand Central Terminal Airport shuttle, I wanted to jump into the van with him, get to LGA and buy a ticket to some random place I haven't been to before and just go. I wanted to be impulsive.
Admittedly, my tiredness won over (I was too sleepy to be impulsive at 7 am). But I miss that feeling of being in transit, of being excited about a new place, and sad about leaving the old one.
Don't get me wrong. I love Brooklyn. I love my life in NYC.
But perhaps, I am beginning to think that there is still too much world out there to see.

Categories:

They are the Grey-Azure of the Sky on the First Rays of Dawn

I sit here in the gloom of my room at 11:43 pm on Tuesday May 8th and my fingers itch to write something meaningful, but nothing comes. Instead, I listen to "Somebody That You Used To Know" for the umpteenth time today. Certain phrases in that song swirl throughout my head.
Is that what it feels like? What I did months back?
I actually identify much more with Kimbra's part: "Now and then I think about all the times that you screwed me over. But had me believing  it was always something that I'd done. I don't wanna live that way. Reading into every word you say".
Still feels cold though.
Outside, the rain rushes down the drainpipe into the building's central courtyard. A rainy spring night in Brooklyn. The humidity has been clinging to the air since this morning. I should have taken an umbrella to work, but I figured it would be okay. It was. The walk from the office to the Fulton station on the G is relatively short. Sometimes too short.
The minutes tick away. Perhaps I am looking at another night of insomnia. The kind that tricks me into believing that I'm tired and then has me counting the humidity bubbles on my ceiling for hours. The kind that doesn't let me actually be productive when I climb down from my loft bed to try to tire my mind. Instead of say, letting me log footage or write business plans, it eggs me on to watch another episode of Sherlock. Because Sherlock is always a better choice than logging.
The question lingers: Am I happy?
Well, I'm not sad.
That's for sure.
I am ... restless. A taxing restlessness that comes from my impatience. From the frustration of knowing what I want and being too ridiculously scared to actually go out and do something about it. My shrink tells me that I over think things. She is, naturally, correct. I tend to forget that life is not a story with an arc, with rhyme and reason. That it is not necessarily logical. Or if it is, some of the logic behind emotions is far too complex to understand. Too complex, and unnecessary to understand. It is better to just let them run through you, to live them. But if you do that, you end up like me. Writing on my blog at midnight about everything and nothing in particular.
Crushes are such strange things. The feelings, the emotions, feel almost alien. A forgotten feeling that I last felt six years ago. The smile that won't leave my lips. The gaze I can't truly meet. The small whiffs of a sweet earthy but clean musk that drives me insane with desire. The feeling that every phrase I utter is the stupidest thing I've ever said in my life, even though they are perfectly natural and normal things to say. The itching to do something brash, and dramatic and at the same time, hoping that it will go unnoticed as long as possible. The way it takes a single word - "Hello!" - to take me from cool and zen to smiley idiot. The way I feel 13 when I'm actually 23.
What does one do with all this? Certainly not what I did in High School (that always ended so badly - I would not like a repeat of that). As an adult, what does one do with a crush?
 Not sleep apparently.
And write a blog post about it.
Both less than stellar ideas.
Why does it have to fuck with your brain?
Those eyes haunt my daydreams.

Categories:

Matzo Ball Soup

I made it! I've been telling people about making it for a few weeks now, but I finally got around to doing it. Mostly because I found Matzo at $0.99 per box at the supermarket (where I originally went to get a soda and some butter). I made them with chicken stock. The only problem is, I made enough of them to feed a small army, so if anyone has a hankering for Matzo Ball Soup, I'd be happy to send some your way (provided, of course, it does not entail shipping it...I have enough headaches with shipping liquids at work).

So here are the crushed up the matzos. I usually just stick the pieces into the food processor. Easier and faster:

And here is the first test ball, boiled on clear water:

Here is the soup cooking away!

And the soup in a bowl all ready to eat!

Categories: Brooklyn, foodie, matzo balls soup

Love Will Tear Us Apart

When Routine Bites Hard,

And ambitions are low.

And resentment rides high,

But emotions won't grow.

And we're changing our ways,

taking different roads.

Love, love will tear us apart again.

Love, love will tear us apart again.

Why is the bedroom so cold?

Turned away on your side.

Is my timing that flawed?

Our respect run so dry?

Yet there's still this appeal,

that we've kept through our lives.

Love, love will tear us apart again.

Love, love will tear us apart again.

Do you cry out in your sleep?

All my failings exposed...

Gets a taste in my mouth

As desperation takes hold.

Why is it something so good

Just can't function no more?

Love, love will tear us apart again.

- Joy Division

Categories: love, music

Mad Rush

My fingers stroked the keys of the Steinway in the Villard Room with the same ease and familiarity they always had - as if they had been practicing on it every day. Philip Glass's Mad Rush echoed throughout the College Center, bringing back old memories long forgotten - the taste of sweet potato fries at the retreat, snowy days in the warmth of the music practice rooms, late nights at the Vogelstein editing rooms - the endless battle against our heavy eyelids, the smell of maple syrup boiling in our stove, perfectly cooked fried eggs on an english muffin with a steaming hot mug of tea on a crisp fall afternoon with the wind blowing through the leaves in the woods, grass with last night's raindrops still clinging to the soft blades under my fingers, the fireworks reflected on Sunset Lake. I can still smell that comforting smell of fresh laundry and old books, still hear the gut wrenching pain of every chord emanating from the strings in my cello that last concert, still taste the explosion of ecuadorian mango in a spoonful of Haagen-Dazs Sorbet in a hot late August afternoon.

And then the piece ended and I found myself sitting under the dying Magnolia tree near swift hall - alone. I screamed at the pine trees in Sunset Lake, begging, and pleading them to return what they had taken and now refused to return. I tried to coax the piano into play those notes again with the same warmth, the same passion, the same happiness.

But it was all gone. The Magnolias were not the same Magnolias. The Pine Trees had aged. The piano had seen more masterful musicians.

Vassar - my Vassar - is gone. And returning was like walking through a strange memory. Like meeting a doppleganger, some strange wonderland seen through the other side of a looking-glass.

And I saw my own reflection in the water. Older. More defined features. Eyes that had seen too much. A soul that had been torn apart and was beginning to be pieced back together. I saw someone that was someone else - a doppleganger of myself. And I realized that I do not know who I am any more than I did then.

On the train back to New York, I felt like myself again - something I haven't felt for a while. I felt a release. Or the beginning of one. Perhaps now I can really move forward.

Categories: Hudson Valley, Poughkeepsie, travel, Vassar

Vertical Ascent

Filmmaking often feels like climbing up a mountain. It often feels like trying to scale a huge cliff on that mountain with few footholds. Sometimes you slip and dangle above the precipice, hanging on to dear life from the pick that is firmly wedged into the side. When then happens, you breathe in and out. You sweat cold. And for a moment just think to yourself "I'm done with this shit

", but never actually let go.

Being reminded that you're doing alright. That you're actually impressive. That you actually might make it by just the sheer will you have to make it, makes you feel good about life. It makes you get your feet back up against the wall and try to keep on climbing.

Categories: film

To Korea and back again in under 3 hours

I order thai food on Monday night after having a particularly stressful allergic reaction towards the end of the day. Well, it wasn't so much the reaction itself as much as the fact that I had to chow down some Benadryl on an empty stomach, which is always so much fun.

By the time I got home, I was dizzy and tired and had a massive headache. It was cold outside, and the wind made me wish that I had thought of wearing my winter coat that day like Accuweather.com told me to.

So I ordered Thai off of a place nearby through seamless.com. I got crab rangoon (which were delicious because, come on, they're crab rangoons! But otherwise passable in terms of rangoon quality itself) and chicken pad thai (which was also slightly disappointing). About five minutes after I order Thai food, I realized what I really wanted was Korean food. This reminded me that M and I have been planning to go eat at Korea Town in Manhattan since we discovered M lives really close to Korea Town, but hadn't actually done it yet. This led to M and I making plans to go out to Korea Town on Tuesday for Bibimbap.

So we did.

Stepping into Korea Town is a weird experience. It is like turning a corner and finding yourself on a street that definitely belongs in Seoul and not downtown Manhattan. Even the Citibank on that block is marked in Korean characters. Neon is everywhere. There are some traditional Chinese characters advertising Chinese food being served alongside traditional Korean dishes. M and I stick out like a sore thumb amongst the small throngs of Koreans that mill about the street speaking in fast Korean. Some give us a few quizzical glances. We clearly are outsiders.

We cruised around Korea Town for a bit, looking for a good place. We joked about doing post-dinner karaoke but wisely decided against it. We avoided the seedy restaurants in second floors of buildings and decided on one named "Miss Korea BBQ". It has a nice modern design but still evokes a bit of that Asian quality. It looked clean. And the prices seemed reasonable. We duck in and order Bibimbap. M orders some wine which she doesn't like. We eat our fill of food served in a stone pot (I scrape away at the bottom of the pot to catch the pieces of rice that have stuck there and formed bizarrely crispy delicious little rice bits) and try a little of every appetizer put in front of us (I nearly choked on a spicy pickle). It was nice.

I mean, there's no bibimbap like the ones I ate regularly in Qingdao, or like the one I had in Nanguoluxiang in Beijing, but the one in Korea Town will do just fine.

Afterwards, we duck into a Korean cafe, order two Honeydew Melon Bubble Teas and walk over to Herald Square and sit in the cold sipping our neon-green drinks and desperately checking the score on the Rangers-Penguins game on M's phone. The Rangers won so M was happy. And I was too, if only because I'm a Rangers fan by association. I think M and S might disown me if I supported any other hockey team. I find myself wishing it were world cup season so that I could go nuts for the soccer teams. Last World Cup I was a passionate supporter of The Netherlands, because, c'mon, it's the Dutch. They're badass by definition. And they should have won. Whimpy Spaniards....they'd throw themselves on the ground whenever a Dutchman would come less than 5 ft close to them. I mean, they're a good team. But the Dutch are better.

And totally should have won.

THEY SHOULD HAVE WON, OKAY?

Next World Cup, I hope I'll be able to root for Ecuador again. But that's assuming the national soccer team gets its act together and plays strong through the prelims. But that's another year away still I think. So I'm just going to be happy being a Rangers fan by association. For now.

Categories: hockey, Korean Hot Pot, NYC, rangers