Songs that Didn't Used to Exist

... and a hawk walked into my heart

noreply@blogger.com (MV) — Thu, 12 May 2011 02:46:00 +0000

If you live in New York, or spend time on Twitter, you might already know a bit about what I'm going to say, but I'm going to say it anyway. I'm going to try to keep it short, too, because I simply can't spare the heartache right now.

I know almost nothing about birds, though I purchased a birdfeeder about a month ago when I realized I had a backyard for the first time in 7 years. The birds flocked in, and while I bought a book to begin trying to identifying them, it was enough for me to know I was providing sustenance for the... birds of Greenpoint. They seemed happy, and so was I.

And then, I stumbled upon a heretofore unseen phenomenon: the birdcam. What follows is my truly limited knowledge of the situation, and the information I have about hawks is all from the internet so, you know: make of it what you will.

At NYU's Bobst library, two red-winged hawks, nicknamed Bobby and Violet, began painstakingly making a nest some time ago, which was detailed in the New York Times City Room. Then, there were three lovely pale white eggs. Those eggs appeared around the 23rd or 24th of March, so, though Violet sat her ass in that nest so lovingly day in, day out, by May 3rd, experts had decided that there would be no baby hawks -- the time passed was too long. The New York Times even wrote a sad little letter to her, telling her to give up. But, she didn't, and on May 6th, there was a baby hawk, unforgivingly called an "eyass" in the nest! It was called a miracle (though I don't believe in those). Thousands of people got to watch this glory unfold from the hawkcam that had been installed, and boy did they. I saw well over 5,000 viewers for much of that first day, and I watched, stunned. The beauty of it, the cuteness, and the novelty of such an experience being possible. To check in on them at any time of day! People sent in photos and videos of graphic feedings, of the cute little baby's head bobbing wildly. The internet was again a glorious, time-sucking thing! At a point where I had been ready to throw my laptop into a lake for the banality of it all, here was something lovely! Living! Worthwhile. For probably 10 hours that first day I was completely sucked in.

But the happiness was short-lived. People quickly noticed that the mother hawk was limping, and her leg was swollen. Oh, god. Suddenly, there was the need for "experts" to weigh in, and they did -- and the prognosis wasn't good. Violet has a government-issued band on her leg, but it's somehow managed to creep up far enough to cut off the blood in her leg. Taking a mother hawk from her nest is complicated, and of course the baby can't survive without her. Nobody knew how bad her leg was or could get. I closed my tab with the hawkcam, and allowed myself to look in once a day for an update.

She continues to feed her little one. No other eggs have hatched. And tomorrow, a bird person will attempt to catch her, remove her from her nest, and see if they can help her and quickly return her to her nest. The chances of that are apparently slim, and the most likely outcome? That she'll need to be taken to a zoo to heal. And the baby? Well, that's complicated. A hawkling can't survive properly in captivity, because Violet, out of the nest context, wouldn't recognize her own baby, and would try to kill it. So, they'd have to be separated. But a baby hawk with no mother... well, it's no hawk at all. The prospects are grim. I'm not an expert on birds. I keep my fingers crossed and hope for the best. (Update: I have noticed since then, that anytime I check in now, the viewership has gone way down. I understand, I don't have the heart to look either -- humans like a good story when it comes to animals. Most of us don't have the stomach to watch something bad happen in these circumstances).

But I'm left asking myself: was the glory of this beautiful thing, this ability to watch the birds 24 hours a day worth it? Should we leave nature alone and spare ourselves the heartbreak?

For me, the answer is probably a sad "yes." I just can't get invested in this little bird only to hear that it's died in a zoo somewhere, alone, without its lovely mother.

Then again, I've always had a bleeding heart.

For now, the two are still in their nest, and you can see them, here. I wish them the best, but can't watch any longer.

yes, i'm really this lame

noreply@blogger.com (MV) — Tue, 19 Apr 2011 03:34:00 +0000

jotted down some of my most profound thoughts on perfume. beware, i don't have any actual knowledge of fragrance terminology nor the patience to learn. i just call them like i see them. cheers.

Below follows a list of all the perfumes currently in rotation in my life and how I feel about them. because i'm that much of a loser.

Top Three:
1. Gardenia by Chanel. If you can only have one gardenia scent, this, in my opinion, is the one. It's in your face and over the top without really going totally insane. It's perfect.

2. Fracas by Robert Piguet. This is a tuberose, and like Gardenia before it, it's very loud. I've heard people say they're "embarrassed" to wear it in public, but it doesn't bother me at all. Go ahead, sneeze in my midst. It's always recognizable.

3. Bandit by Robert Piguet. Number three (like the two before it) is also crazy loud, but this time, it's the smell of smoke and leather and a bar in Berlin. Or at least, so I imagine. Nearly masculine, this smells less like a perfume and more like a person you may not want to be left alone with. I bought it based on the emotional attachment I have for Fracas. I keep it around because I am the only person I've ever smelled it on, and it's a winner.

Three I keep around for nostalgia:
1. Amarige by Givenchy. This has some in your face floral up front (sort of like a less developed Fracas) and then the leftover scent is nearly sickly sweet. Over the years I've soured on it to the point of almost never wearing it because it was the only scent I wore for roughly four years, but I'll never be without a bottle.

2. Very Irresistable by Givenchy. More manly than I recall it being.

3. Organza Indecence by Givenchy. This one was (to my horror) discontinued years ago, but has been resurrected in a less flamboyant bottle and it still smells amazing! Musky vanilla. Must have. Reminds me of a second place runner up in this vein: Estee Lauder's Sensuous which I have about a half bottle of but don't really wear anymore.

Other favorites:

1. Coco by Chanel. This one just reeks of playing dress up when you were a kid, maybe because it's a weird cousin of No. 5 which my mom used to wear. Spicy in all the right places.

2. Shalimar by Guerlain. This is one that is SO classic that it nearly veers into Grandma territory, but I recently bought a tiny bottle of the actual, full strength perfume, and there's nothing like it.

3. Dolce & Gabbana Light Blue. As a lover of more obscure perfumes, I was almost embarrassed by my love for this one. A few years back you smelled it on every third person walking down the street. I don't care. It's amazing.

4. Burberry London. I've chewed my way through three bottles of this and my nose simply never tires of it.

Things I could do without (most of the time)

1. Hypnotic Poison by Christian Dior. Also known as "migraine in a bottle." Seriously, this might as well be a pesticide. Which is sad, because similar to Amarige, the weird sweet undertone is almost addictive.

2. Cartier de Lune. Sadly I mostly agree with the reviews on this one. Nothing overly offensive, it's just that I wore Pleasures for 3 years in the late 90's. I don't feel any need to revisit (well, occasionally). It's very bright, however, which makes it special within my collection, so I'm keeping it.

3. Dior Addict 2. Had a love affair that lasted one month. Made my nose tired.

4. Miss Dior Cherie. Bought a giant bottle in Paris. Too… something. I don't know what. Turns out, Dior isn't really the perfumer for moi, sadly.

5. Stella by Stella McCartney. Dunno. Meh.

nail polish blogs

noreply@blogger.com (MV) — Sat, 16 Apr 2011 14:49:00 +0000

One of the things I love about the internet is that it fosters and encourages all sorts of weirdly broad yet somehow niche communities. One of my favorites is the nail polish enthusiast movement, which can be characterized by its incredibly recognizable photography, and its overly excited descriptions of... nail polish. Like sports fanatics, these are people that can tell you the closest match to NARS' Zulu for under $12, off the top of their heads. And, while that is completely insane, and totally outside the domain of where I'm comfortable, there's something incredibly recognizable and comforting about this weird crew. But what is it?

For me, I suppose it's the voyeurism of the completely unknown. In their descriptions, I hear all kinds of thought processes that I usually reserve for movie plots or books, but, which, when applied to nail polish, actually works just as well. It's like a gender-based wine connoisseur, but then, I'm not a total alien here. See, for as long as I can remember, I've loved nail polish too. No, I don't spend entire paychecks on an entire collection, nor am I even faintly aware of what these "collections" are (though if I had to guess I'd wager they're on roughly the same schedule as the rest of the fashion world), but I spend lots of time looking at it in shops (both online and IRL), and now, I read nail polish blogs, and dream of the day that my nails and my knowledge are up to snuff enough to start one of my own. Never mind the fact that the redundancy on these blogs is pretty high. It's about completionism and self-expression, right? (Those nails up there? Mine. And that's my favorite color, a Halloween special by OPI for Sephora called "If you've got it, haunt it." And I certainly hope they bring it back next year.)

See also: Hi, I'm Laura, and I'm addicted to buying makeup.

today

noreply@blogger.com (MV) — Wed, 13 Apr 2011 23:27:00 +0000

I walked over the Williamsburg Bridge for the first time in the history of time. It was impressive, a little scary, and rather time consuming, in the best possible way.

new book shelves

noreply@blogger.com (MV) — Tue, 12 Apr 2011 23:27:00 +0000

In the Wake of the Plague, by Norman Cantor

noreply@blogger.com (MV) — Mon, 11 Apr 2011 14:29:00 +0000

These days, I find that I prefer to write about a book while I'm reading it, rather than when I'm finished. I feel that way about In the Wake of the Plague right now. It's incredibly engrossing and informative -- if you wanted to know all about the Black Death that raged through most of the world starting in the 1340's or so. Besides making me itchy, the book is an incredible reminder of how tedious our hold on the health of our population really is, as we're just one tiny modification away from pandemic. Sure, that sounds crazy and paranoid, but that doesn't mean it's not true. I'm not knowledgeable in any way on medical matters, but I know a few things about the world we live in now, as opposed to the world that the plagues confronted in the 14th century. Back then, it took about a decade for the plague to make its way from Asia all the way across Europe, and it spent the greater part of the next 100 years moving in smaller, successive waves back and forth. Today, it could travel the same distance in a few days, no joke. It's not just information that travels faster today, and in fact, in a situation like this one, the travel of information would matter very little. What would matter, however, is the fact that mass, fast transportation allows people from all walks of life and all cultures to be in Chicago and then in New Delhi or London in the same day. All I'm saying is, we're probably screwed.

just another sign we're doomed

noreply@blogger.com (MV) — Mon, 04 Apr 2011 05:35:00 +0000

found in the yard last month

noreply@blogger.com (MV) — Thu, 31 Mar 2011 03:41:00 +0000

warming up to it, i think.

Hi, I'm Laura, and I'm addicted to buying makeup

noreply@blogger.com (MV) — Mon, 07 Mar 2011 06:34:00 +0000

I don't know where it began, but I can probably blame it on my mother. You see, I failed to meet her mostly unspoken expectations in most ways: though she dressed me up as a child, by the time I reached adolescence, it was painfully obvious I would not be the woman she had imagined, and it all happened just at the time when I was becoming less physically awkward.

As a child, when my wardrobe and style were still firmly in my mother's grasp, and I wore dresses nearly every day, and had long hair down to my waist, I was... self-conscious. My eyesight is really bad, so I always had thick glasses, and my mouth was giant, with huge teeth, and I felt... like I didn't belong in my skin. I wasn't unhappy with myself, but I certainly felt that I was not in my own body most of the time. This, combined with other things, made me painfully shy.

Several forces collided to change all of that, somewhere around the time I was 14 or 15. I'm sure it's the same for many girls, but the combination of puberty, contact lenses, and the ability to purchase my own clothes came about all around the same time. I formed the basis of who I was and would be, physically, then. A brief period of heavy metal involved heavy makeup, painted eyes and red lips, but it simply didn't last. In the summer between 9th and 10th grade, I became aware of who I was.

And who was I? I was a girl who didn't wear makeup, and had very short hair. I wore pants. I was, essentially, a tomboy. Discovering this, talking with a close friend about my family's problems, waking up -- all of it brought with it new found confidence, and assurance of who I was and could be. Suddenly, years of worrying about what other people thought of me crumbled and disappeared. I didn't care, at all. I simply didn't care what people thought of me.

But that's not what I'm here to talk about. I'm here to talk about makeup. Like I said, I was always infatuated with it, and what it meant or could mean -- so I'd sneak into my mother's modest supply whenever I could. Not so much to try it on, but to look at it, hold it, and smell it. The idea of owning it seemed incredibly powerful to me. And it is.

So, a confession. I don't really wear makeup. I do, however, buy it. In fact, it's kind of a problem. I'm running out of places to store it. I have a similar problem with perfume, but I use that so I'll talk about that at a later date. I would call myself a collector.

Favorite lipstick? Illamasqua's Encounter. Favorite mascara? DiorShow in Brown. Eyeliner? Guerlain Terracota Kohl. My favorites go on, but I'll try them all. The nail polish and skin products I use. The makeup, I merely look at. I don't even like the way it looks on my face. But, something about it is so attractive to me that I want to buy it. I feel at peace wandering through Sephora though I hate shopping. I belong there. Why? I honestly have no idea. Something long in the past, I'm sure. In this case, it's a problem only because of its lack of use: I'm sure my actual purchases -- which are in the low thousands a year, I'd estimate -- aren't much beyond the average. It's just that nagging fact that I really don't wear very much of the makeup that I buy.

It's not a problem I fret about, just a mildly interesting tick in a personality full of such aberrations. It's not like my 25 or so tubes of lipstick are hurting anyone, right?

oh google ads, you never cease to amaze me

noreply@blogger.com (MV) — Sat, 05 Mar 2011 22:30:00 +0000

I was just searching on CNN for that horrific "puppy survives euthanization, gets new lease on life" story from last week, and these are the ads that my key words brought up in the side bar. I was going to write something about that story, about what it is that we humans love about such a shitty "against the odds" story (especially when it was brought on by something terrible and human-generated to begin with!), but now I'm writing about this, instead. "100s of Pet Euthanize -- Top Brands at Low Prices" -- really? Sounds great!

This is why I don't trust computer-generated results. I swore I would stop saying "fuck" on the internet, but give me A FUCKING BREAK.

PS: The search is so fucked up I didn't find what I was looking for.

Homelessness, away from home

noreply@blogger.com (MV) — Tue, 01 Mar 2011 05:41:00 +0000

I've been in San Francisco for four days, staying in a hotel downtown. Though I was already aware of the fact that California has large numbers of homeless people wandering the streets, I've been completely taken aback by it, and by the seeming callousness of the people around them, walking past, and occasionally laughing at their admittedly sometimes wild antics to get peoples' attention. I'm not going to indict an entire city -- I'm sure there are people working tirelessly day in, day out, to help these people get off the streets. This is really more about self-indictment. Oh, and hating on the rich, of course.

Of course, homelessness is tied up with mental illness, and addiction. The question of being homeless "by choice" often comes up in any discussion of the subject, and of course, "choice" is a tricky topic for a sick person. People don't, for instance, choose to be addicted to alcohol or drugs -- addiction chooses them. And over the past few days, in the roughly one dozen encounters I've had with the homeless of San Francisco, nearly all of them were either visibly intoxicated, or very sick.

I assumed that the problem was concentrated to the very touristy area that I'm staying in, and it is very much more noticeable. But, over my weekend of wandering many parts of the city, I've seen homeless people nearly everywhere, in the more than 10 miles that I walked around this beautiful, seemingly open, happy, and affluent place.

I admit to having parted ways with some money over the past few days, not because I'm gullible or because I'm stupid, or because I think giving a drunk $3 will result in a turnaround of his life. No, I do it because I simply can't look another human being in the eye and say "no" to such a very small request. Oh, and I'm a gigantic, bleeding hearted liberal.

This of course, brings me back to my own home. The part of Brooklyn I live in -- Greenpoint -- has its own little enclave of homeless. I donate money to the church that runs the soup kitchen, but the homeless in Greenpoint are of a slightly different character. They are almost all old, white Polish men, and the evidence would suggest that they are nearly all terrible alcoholics. They're too tired looking to even panhandle, and most of the time, they don't ask for anything. I've never done anything for them.

I'm not so innocent or selfless to envision a day where I devote all of my time to this issue. I don't believe in God, however, so I know that this is all there is -- there is no reward for the poor and the hungry and the sick in the afterlife. To spend even part of your life roaming the streets, alone, sick, and ignored seems to me a special kind of Hell that we can little afford to sit passively by and watch, as if reality wasn't reality at all, but a great movie put on for our viewing pleasure.

I'm not wealthy -- not yet. And, statistically speaking, I probably never will be. Money, however, is the key to this problem. These are people without money. They are disenfranchised in a way that is inconceivable to most of us, and yes, I feel like a fucking asshole walking into my lovely hotel while they stand out there. If I'm ever wealthy, I'll really do some good for the homeless. Money and time and love is all that it takes to get people off the streets, into shelters and rehab. These are people who have, or had, families, and parents. They were born, and undoubtedly highly valued by friends or co-workers, lovers and children. How they got to here doesn't matter. How they get to somewhere better matters very much. So, when I am rich, if that ever comes to pass, I promise not to ignore the problem as undoubtedly most rich people do. To them -- the ignorers -- I say, not only "fuck you," but also, "shame on you."

Shame on you. Oh, and since there's no special Hell you'll be heading to in the afterlife, fuck you, one more time.

Other things my mother gave me

noreply@blogger.com (MV) — Thu, 17 Feb 2011 03:56:00 +0000

I don't want it to seem that my mother only gave me thoughts on alcoholism, though those did and do tinge nearly every thought I have. She gave me other things, and if you are to get to know me, by way of her, you should know those other things.

My mother gave me, physically, my first copy of Jane Eyre, which literally determined the entire course of my existence. She gave me my love of silence, and also gave me the space to enjoy it. Trained to be a teacher, she believed wholeheartedly that children should be left alone sometimes, a belief I carry with me. Like the best parents, she was proud of me, and believed in my intelligence.

Now, she was primarily an alcoholic, and as such, wasn't there for me most of the time. The lines between parent and friend were inevitably blurred. She embarrassed me. But her disease taught me things, as well, so I'm thankful for these side effects. From this primary and formative experience, I think I learned not to take things for granted. I learned to be independent. I try to be good, and honest, and true to myself. I keep secrets better than anyone I've ever known, beyond her perhaps. Now, that's not always a positive, but I've made the best use of it I can.

So yes, there was shame, and pent up anger, and a tendency to always be tired. Yes, there were lies and depression and hurt feelings every day. But there was also the deep connection I formed with my brothers because our parents were so busy with themselves. There was love, no matter how badly co-dependent that love was. There were moments when I thought that I couldn't have had a better mother. And, in spite of all the terrible things, I wouldn't go back and ask for a different one, though I couldn't say just why.

Now, there is so much to tell about this that I could fill books and spend the rest of my life pondering just this. I could troll the diaries I've kept daily since about 1986 to find incredible tales of wonder and sadness. Maybe I will, one day. For now, I am happy to have shared this much.

And, surprisingly, I don't feel more vulnerable for it, but less. Be safe, love your friends, and be alive.

Love,

Laura June

A fresh start, by way of explanation

noreply@blogger.com (MV) — Wed, 16 Feb 2011 19:46:00 +0000

This is going to be cringe-worthy.

I say that because I don't like to talk about myself publicly, but I've been mulling this over for years, and now I've made up my mind to share what was, and in some ways still is, the defining reality of my life.

My mother has been dead for four years now, so while I don't believe in the afterlife, I hope I'll be forgiven for exposing her. I promise my intentions are the best possible.

My mother was an alcoholic. I have known this since I was about 8 years old, but it took until I was around 16 years old to admit it, out loud, to a person outside my immediate family. With speaking it came great liberation. It was something I divulged willingly only a few times.

This time around, I'm not looking for liberation. This time is for purely humanitarian reasons. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

When I say my mother was an alcoholic, I mean it in the worst, most uncontrollable way possible. She hurt everyone around her, destroyed lives, lied, and was the most verbally abusive person I've ever met. Anyone who has ever lived that way knows what I'm talking about. I don't need to give details, other than to say that from around 8 to 20 years old, it was the one inescapable thing which I could neither contain nor control. I hated it. I wanted her to be better for me, and for my family, and for herself. I cried, I told lies to cover for her, I learned to live in secrecy and shame. I watched a beautiful, funny, and smart person devolve into a frail, tired old lady before she was 50 years old.

And it didn't stop there. Alcoholism is a genetic disease, and as I studied my family's history, I saw the telltale signs of it everywhere I was willing to look. I can pick a drunk out from 2 miles away, and I love every single one of them, because I have seen how nearly impossible it can be even broach the idea of recovery. But addiction, unlike other diseases, ruins entire families. It makes you yourself behave like an addict. You waste money and time and energy and you lie, only to try to help cover for that person who you love so dearly. I lived this way for most of my life, and still deal with the repercussions every day.

The thing is, you can never give up on an alcoholic, nor should you. But you must disengage in important ways.

I began to leave my mother, firstly, by physically moving out of her house, and watched every person in my family do the same thing over time, until she was alone. Eventually I stopped pleading with her, and faked a relationship, kept it on a purely superficial level, because I wanted some semblance of a relationship with her. That went on for years -- while I was grappling with my own problems -- I never pretended for my own sake, but purely for hers. I also never stopped hoping she would get better, but I realized that I couldn't force her to.

In October of 2006 I got engaged. One week later, I sat down to write her a letter. By that time it had been over a year since I'd even seen her in person, but my brother had seen her very recently, and had told me he thought she was dying. The letter I wrote, which I've told almost no one about, was incredibly harsh. It was metered, not angry, because anger had left me years earlier. I told her that I was getting married, that I loved her, and that I would always be willing to help her try to get better if she could. But, I told her, if she was unwilling to try, she would never meet my husband, she would not be invited to my wedding, and if we had children, she would never see them. I told her that she had sullied far too many of my relationships, and that I would protect my new family from her. It wasn't an easy letter to write, but, I thought, it was necessary. This was about two months before she died.

One week before she died, she called me for the first time in months. I didn't answer. She didn't leave a message.

Two days before she died I was at work, in an office, and my brother called me to tell me she was in the hospital, in a coma, and that she was probably going to die.

I thought she would be dead before I made the drive from Brooklyn to Pittsburgh, but she wasn't. She lived another day and a half. We unplugged her from the various things keeping her alive, and she died. She was 52 years old. She left no will, no funeral plans, no cemetery plot.

It was a terrible thing, but, in the long run, a relief. Watching someone suffer so is a terrible thing. I loved her so very dearly, and I miss her. But the truth is, I never had the kind of mother most people have, because she was sick the entire time that I knew her.

She gave me things, though. She gave me a fear of having children because my DNA is so obviously bankrupt I'd have to be a lunatic or incredibly optimistic to even consider it.

And there it is: optimism. I believe that no one is too far gone for help, and if I could have done anything to help her, surely I would have. I tried, so many times. I'm writing this because I know that there are people out there just like me, living afraid. Whether you're the addict or the person who loves them, it doesn't matter. I've seen people change in a matter of weeks, and I did it myself.

My Catholic distaste of talking about these things publicly has been overcome. I have very personal, specific reasons for doing so. Addiction carries with it a very terrible, outdated stigma, and it's one which I reject. We love booze, but we hate drunks. I was ashamed of my mother for years. But today, I'm proud of her for hanging on as long as she could. Her life was certainly more challenging than mine.

If you need help, just tell me. You don't have to be afraid or alone, because I love you, and I don't want you to die this way. This goes for everyone. Life is so amazing and so short.

Love,

Laura June

And every day, a new death

noreply@blogger.com (MV) — Sat, 12 Feb 2011 00:54:00 +0000

Morbidity may be in the blood, but I have to say, the death of a close friend's mother -- which came as a surprise to me, as she was too proud or hopeful to complain very much about sickness -- has hit me hard, in spite of the fact that while I know the friend well, I didn't have the pleasure of knowing her parent well at all.

We live to die, I have accepted that since I was very young. This death, however, has left me in a serious spot of contemplation, one which could, I feel, change the way I think about sharing the bits of who I am with the world. When I say that, I accept that it means sharing bits of others' lives as well, because they have shaped me, and I look to them in the past and present for a way to move forward.

I won't go further than to say that I am deep in thought, and deeply moved to say something. Sharing, in the modern world, is a complex thing. I am as private as I can be. I try to be caring and generous. I am sad now for the things I could say to my friend, which I know in my heart wouldn't make her feel better, but worse, maybe. And maybe, in a moment, I will be able to say them. Until then, I say nothing.

I quit Facebook, and nothing happened

noreply@blogger.com (MV) — Thu, 10 Feb 2011 04:52:00 +0000

Oh, except for this little tug at the heartstrings ("Tim will miss you").

Now, I've been thinking a lot lately about social networks, and I'm sure more intelligent things have been said about Facebook than my ten minutes of musing will bring to light, so I'll just state as plainly as I can my reasons.

1. I actually didn't use it. As in almost never. Five years ago it would have seemed inconceivable to me that nearly every person I'd ever known in my entire life would be in the same place as me on the net, but when that actually came to pass, it had pretty much no effect. Sure, I got to see what the spawn of every person I ever went to high school with looked like (pretty cute in most cases, but I kind of despise children), and I occasionally saw a link every few weeks that was mildly interesting, but really, I didn't use it. And there were plenty of reasons.

2. If you need to look me up to see where I live, what my political beliefs are, and what my religion is, you actually aren't friends with me. Now, I have real actual living friends, some of whom I've known since I was a child. I don't need Facebook for them, because they know me. I call them, email them, visit with them IRL (gasp) and every so often, I sit down and write them a letter by hand, because I'm amazingly old school. For the record, I don't mind letting you know that I'm as left politically as I could be without morphing into Trotsky, I live in Greenpoint, home of the donut ice cream sandwich, and I do not believe in God. That said, most people who know me already know this, and those who don't usually don't care or want to hear about it.

3. Other people seem to be so enamored with Facebook, and the world must have hold outs and weirdos, so I decided to take a hit for the world on this one. Thank me later.

4. There actually isn't a fourth reason. I just felt like it.

Finally, I accept that Facebook is important, and I'm not interested in being one of those people that constantly brags about how they don't own a television (I have one and it's fucking awesome). I also see that it's a great way for people to connect. I just don't want to connect, okay? If I have something to say to you, I'll find you, I swear. I hope that my story brings hope and courage to those of you out there... just kidding.

nine west sent this out again

noreply@blogger.com (MV) — Wed, 02 Feb 2011 22:37:00 +0000

shoe madness

Book Review: When You Reach Me, by Rebecca Stead

noreply@blogger.com (MV) — Fri, 28 Jan 2011 22:06:00 +0000

Think of Sophie's World and A Wrinkle in Time, then combine it with the haunting prose of Never Let Me Go, and wrap that in a little bit of The Monster at the End of this Book. Think of a young adult novel that you'll sit down to read and then not get up again until you've finished, and will possibly start over again at the beginning immediately upon completion. Think of a book that is so wonderful, you immediately want to share it with a young, smart person you care about. Think of a book for children that is incredibly adult, and never talks down to them. Think of a book that takes for granted the intelligence of all children. Think of a book that knows it's a book, in the best way possible. Think of the first time you read James and the Giant Peach, if, like me, you were in the second grade and couldn't believe the fantastic, alien yet familiar world you had just entered. Think of that.

Four years on, I mark the day

noreply@blogger.com (MV) — Fri, 21 Jan 2011 05:00:00 +0000

I am not on the internet -- look somewhere else (part one)

noreply@blogger.com (MV) — Wed, 19 Jan 2011 21:53:00 +0000

Inspired by this great article on Salon today, I decided to begin exploring at length my ever-increasing feeling that I'm not here. Really, I'm not. Let me explain: I've always had a somewhat tenuous relationship with the internet -- particularly Twitter, Facebook, about.me and the like, which can be vaguely categorized under the "Web 2.0" heading but are, in essence, most of the internet these days. Yes, I can be found in all these places, but the fact that I'm occasionally playing a character -- well, isn't it obvious when you take a look at my about.me page what I'm getting at?

The thing is, I'm starting to realize it's not... obvious. The joke seems to be lost on many except those people who... *gasp* actually know me. So where does that leave me? In the weeks leading up to Christmas, I quit Twitter for about two weeks. Stopped Tweeting, stopped looking at it, deleted my apps. Why? Well, the reason I started messing with it at all to begin with had to do with my job. What kept me there was the entertainment -- the laughs, the jokes, the occasionally intriguing links (after all, I have @rosa to thank for the Salon article I referenced above). I "walked away" because I realized I had more to gain than I had to lose. Now, you'll say -- two weeks is nothing! Well, ask anyone who is quitting smoking and they'll tell you how long two weeks actually is. But the transition from Twitterer to non-Twitterer was a refreshing, easy thing to do. And I didn't have to use brain power to bother responding to people I didn't know or agree with, I didn't have to get enraged every time 40 people tweeted about the same thing -- a weather phenomenon, a low-level celebrity's fake passing on. I let it all go! And I wasn't seemingly any less informed about the universe around me!

Alas, I returned. CES happened, and the draw was simply too much. Now, all these things -- Twitter, for instance, of course have actual uses in my daily life. But they don't help me read the books I want to read, they don't get my essays or poetry written, they don't convey the love and affection I have for my family. All of those things are relegated to my private -- i.e. "real" -- life. And that's the one I want to live. I'm not harshing on Twitter, I promise. I have just come to the realization that for me, personally, living my life as if I'm a public person, when in fact I'm largely not, is not necessarily healthy, even if I'm joking half the time. I don't want to over-emphasize this train of thought -- Twitter has never been an "addiction" for me -- in fact, it's the large, tossing off of ideas and thoughts, in an incredibly vague, confused and lazy manner that I've become accustomed to -- that I object to in myself. I thought originally I was stopping because I was so often annoyed with other people, but in fact, it was me I didn't like. Months ago I wrote about my love of Jaron Lanier's "You Are Not a Gadget." Now, I'm learning quite personally about some of what he meant. I'm just more suited to a longer-form sharing of my ideas.

Is my about.me profile hilarious? Yes. Is it useful or informative? Does it tell you any single thing about me? No.

I plan to continue with this series (which actually sort of started back in October with my post about Foursquare) but I'm supposed to be packing, and unfortunately for me, "hipster" that I am, I own so many books that it's proving to be a monumental task. Gotta go tweet this shit.

Book Review: Lives Like Loaded Guns

noreply@blogger.com (MV) — Sun, 16 Jan 2011 01:07:00 +0000

Lyndall Gordon's biography of Charlotte Bronte, A Passionate Life, was the first biography of the writer I'd read (around 1996) that seemed to bring her to life. Lives Like Loaded Guns: Emily Dickinson and her Family's Feuds had a similar effect. I'd just read the extremely studied and standard Sewall biography of Dickinson. While Gordon's biography makes some rather unfounded and eye-opening assertions (not going to spoil those for you) about Dickinson herself, what she deftly brings to life is the progression of the author's post-death publication history, which could fill books unto itself.

I'm not really generally that into literary biographies, but I realized one day that Emily Dickinson was a real empty spot in my education, so I started to read some of her poems. They spoke directly to me, like they have to so many before her, but they seemed to me, in that modern way that things often do, to need some biographical or historical context, probably in part because my knowledge of American literature of the 18th century is pretty much confined to Alcott, Emerson, Poe and Thoreau.

Anyway, this book is incredibly engrossing. I probably can't praise it better than to say that I'm going to read Vindication, Gordon's biography of Mary Wollstonecraft, next. Like I said, I was already, post Sewall, pretty well versed in Emily's letters, poetry, and the characters that made up her life. What this book added was some context, some emotion, a little gossipy flavor, and a much-needed perspective on the occurrences after the writer's death which continue to influence how we read her work today. Hint: if you're going to leave a literary legacy, be clear about who owns your work, and don't leave your papers laying all over the place.

You know what I'm not interested in? Fighting for the death of Copyright

noreply@blogger.com (MV) — Tue, 04 Jan 2011 05:00:00 +0000

Duke University's Law Center blog published this post about all the glorious works of literature and film we're "missing out" on because the new copyright law (the one we've had since 1978) doesn't permit the expiration of old copyrights anymore. So now, we have to suffer and pay for a fucking copy of "Horton Hears a Who" and "Waiting for Godot"?

A recent experience tells all I need to tell of my general feelings about the importance of keeping works -- especially of literature -- out of our sad sack public domain. My friend and I (I'm not naming names, he knows who he is) decided to read Shakespeare together this 2011. We decided to start with King Lear. I have my handy old Norton Shakespeare in physical form still, so he was left to peruse Amazon and Barnes and Noble for an e-reader copy. Then I tried to find one. You know what? Good fucking luck. Looking for any "classic" work whose copyright has long since expired is like stepping into a fucking minefield of bad PDF scans, crappy grammar and typesetting, and a general lack of pride in the work. You know why? Because it's cheap, easy, and pretty much anyone can make a quick buck selling their shitty version of "Emily Dickerson's" poems. I shit you not: that was in Barnes and Noble's LEGIT fucking store the last time I checked. I did send them an email to complain, but the point is, I'll spend the $15 fucking dollars for the version edited by an actual scholar rather than the one "edited" by some dickhead spammer in a fallout shelter waiting for the end of the world. Don't worry brother, it's coming soon.

Books: 2011

noreply@blogger.com (MV) — Sun, 02 Jan 2011 00:22:00 +0000

Happy New Year! In my sixth year of cataloging my reading, I have high hopes for my progress. This year, I hope to continue on my quest of reading the Pulitzer Prize winners -- it's been an enjoyable journey, and maybe this year I'll get into the 1980's! I have, however, another project for the year brewing. This year, I want to start reading all of Shakespeare's plays. Not in chronological order, mind you, but however we please. I say 'we' because I'm not going to go it alone on this one, and I'm really happy about it. I'm also in another book club which I'll be following along with and joining up as I see fit. I have a big year of reading planned, and I'm hoping to actually finish reading the Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson this year, too. So, anyway, here we go.

1.an style="font-style:italic;">Lives Like Loaded Guns: Emily Dickinson and her Family's Feuds, by Lyndall Gordon (2010).
2. Vindication: A Life of Mary Wollstonecraft, by Lyndall Gordon (2005).
3. The Tragedy of King Lear, by William Shakespeare (ca 1603).
4. When You Reach me, by Rebecca Stead (2009).
5. Adverbs, by Daniel Handler (2006).
6. The Ecstasy of Communication, by Jean Baudrillard (1988).
7. Alone Together, by Sherry Turkle (2011).
8. A Visit from the Goon Squad, by Jennifer Egan (2010).
9. In the Wake of the Plague, by Norman F. Cantor (2001).
10. Personal Memoirs of Ulysses S. Grant, by Ulysses S. Grant (1885).
11. Lords of Finance: The Bankers Who Broke the World, by Liaquat Ahamed (2009).
12. The Sportswriter, by Richard Ford (1995).

Still waiting on an email from Gawker regarding my password

noreply@blogger.com (MV) — Fri, 31 Dec 2010 03:53:00 +0000

Anytime there's a big hullabalo on the internet, I like to wait until everyone else has already moved on to get really excited about whatever it was, so maybe this is just another example of that, but I'm really pissed off about the Gawker data breach.

I'm not pissed off that it happened, I mean, it sucks for them, but whatever. I'm actually just angry that I never heard a single word from Gawker -- no email saying "hey, your shit's leaked, change your password" -- nothing. While I understand that 1.3 million people is a lot of emailing, keep in mind, I wasn't just one of 1.3 million. I was one of the unlucky ones whose password was almost immediately -- and publicly -- unencrypted. And there were less than 200,000 of those. Still, no email, and that's unacceptable.

So yeah, finding posts like this and this don't make me feel any better.

But hey, at least my password wasn't something I used everywhere all the time, and at least I work in the media so I knew -- apparently before the rest of Gawker even started paying attention -- what was going on, and made sure my shit was in order. I'd venture to guess that many of the rest of those 1.3 million still don't know about the data breach.

But you know, whatever. At least I got a really helpful note from I Can Has Cheezburger. Seriously.

The Life of Emily Dickinson

noreply@blogger.com (MV) — Fri, 24 Dec 2010 17:29:00 +0000

I'm about halfway through the first volume. Amazed at how intensely interesting such an outwardly unmonumental life can be. I don't know if that's due to the author (Sewall) or Emily Dickinson. Will tell you when I figure it out myself. For now, suffice to say that I am tearing through this book fast enough to have seemingly inflamed one of my eyes yesterday... always a sign of a true page-turner.

My Style 2.0

noreply@blogger.com (MV) — Tue, 21 Dec 2010 03:46:00 +0000

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