faux pas

( Coquettish wordplay with Byron Lu... )

This was taken by Christopher circa last fall "somewhere in NoLita." I'm clad in my signature sneakers and clutching my signature Vespa purse, courtesy of (a friend named) Melissa. The scenario in this shot is: typical New Yorker (me) treads over typical political statement (really, this exact slogan is all over the Village) en route to typical bohemian coffee parlor (Starbucks) in lower Manhattan. So the Starbucks (and the new Village, for that matter) isn't very Bohemian. But over the course of my life, I have romanticized the city to the point where I've convinced myself I cannot live anywhere else (long-term).

I read an interesting opinion piece on Slate the other day about New York's origin as a thriving port city and how perhaps right from the start, it was destined to become a city of intermittent residents and looming departures, and the thought of these inevitable departures is so strong that it deters some from actually ever returning again. Of course, a lot of people I know seem to be deterred by other factors, like the pungent punch of fresh urine on every other block. Now I'm no jingoist, but somehow the idea of New York-specific love and loyalty, no matter how misguided or melodramatic, has always been acceptable in my book. And while we're on the subject of books, I'll now (yet again) quote one of my favorite lines from one of my favorite books. Kundera just does it better.

"The beauty of New York rests on a completely different base. It's unintentional. It arose independent of human design, like a stalagmitic cavern. Forms which are in themselves quite ugly turn up fortuitously, without design, in such incredible surroundings that they sparkle with a sudden wondrous poetry...Unintentional beauty. Yes...Before beauty disappears entirely from the earth, it will go on existing for a while by mistake. Beauty by mistake - the final phase in the history of beauty."

For anyone in the Jackson area: head over to Cups and try a mocha mint frappe. You won't regret it. Casey (of millingroark fame) agrees.

Members of my extended family are visiting for a few days, and so I am once again reminded of the course my life COULD take, which is incentive enough to keep me motivated. To do what, exactly? Is it downright arrogant of me to think that I can write better than Jhumpa Lahiri? And on that note, why does every Indian writer I encounter employ such a depressingly simplistic style of prose? What makes Lahiri any more literary than a news reporter? I don't get it; do cookie-cutter descriptions/themes/characters merit a Pulitzer? Someone please counter this and explain to me why Lahiri is a "good" writer.

My pulsating headaches are back, though tamer. I feel like I've developed an extra organ specifically designed to pump pain throughout my body.