Real Dreams

Cheltzie, her bf, his brother, and me. Angel is missing from the photograph as he was the photographer.

Hello! Quick one (although, truthfully there's nothing more I need right now than to sit down and crank out a 10 page update [catharsis, you know] but my tears will have to suffice until time for a day-long coffee shop rendezvous with my MacBook is permitted). Basically, I felt compelled to share what is now my absolute favorite photograph ever (in which I am depicted, I mean). 

Last month, for the first time in my life, I had an 'adult' New Year's Weekend. By this, I mean that it was the first time that I did not have the pleasure of hugging my family as I welcomed the new year. Instead, I fled Los Angeles for San Diego (not a dramatic trek, I know) with two of my best friends. So basically, I said goodbye to what should have been the best year of my life 2010 and welcomed the year I went off to Peace Corps or began grad school 2011 at a random gay club named Rick's on University St, two miles from Downtown SD. I received no hugs (the club was too crowed) and, instead, was drenched in $2 champagne by a not-so-nice couple on the platform directly above myself. Additionally, I wore 4 inch heels (I love heels - in theory and on other people; I, myself, completely suck at enduring the torture) and was literally sitting in mixture of vodka tonics and puke at the corner of the bar. 

Eventually, my friends and I made our way back to our cute boutique hotel room and I changed into boots, instantaneously converting my outfit into the perfect mix of cool. With my new comfortable shoes, I decided to accompany my best friend Angel out to the bars in the Gaslamp District (a block or so from where we were staying) to continue with the New Years Eve festivities. Since the U.S. has an uber lame nightlife and final call is at 1:20am, (In Santiago, that's when we left our hotel to get the night started, what gives? We need to calm down in the States) we quickly rushed into the first bar that let us in - which ended up being a really fun bar (something that bars tend to lack here, in my experience). We danced while simultaneously singing yelling the words to Journey's "Don't Stop Believin'" (of course) at the top of our lungs. It was my turn to buy drinks so we got two Stellas and went about our night for exactly 10 minutes before we were kicked out and sent home. 

The rest of the night was a mess full of drunken yells, drunken tears (from him, not me) and a pit stop to the local 24 hour Subway (who knew those existed?) because he [Angel] was hungry. Overall, we had a good, necessary conversation so that made it all a bit better. I must admit, however, that it was a slightly disappointing beginning of the year. Alas, I'm one of those people who finds the end/beginning/New Year's Resolution thing a bit annoying and obsolete (not the resolutions, its limiting [one day] disposition) because of its arbitrary nature. However, as my dear friend Cheltzie Lee and I enjoyed our Indian brunch the next day, I eavesdropped on the conversation the two middle-aged women beside us were having. I was intrigued by what they were discussing - the importance & significance of the first purchase of the year. I quickly scanned my previous night's transactions and realized that the only things I had purchased in 2011 were those two beers at that fun Don't Stop Believin' bar. I was immediately filled with a slew of sadness because I did not want beer to define my entire year. I then chuckled because I remembered how I didn't really believe in that sort of thing (or, not seriously at least). Then, I realized that even if I did believe that my first purchase of the year would, indeed, define my entire year - then I would just have to construct this purchase (these beers) into a positive one. 

That night, New Year's Day Saturday, was the best night I've had since my days drunkenly trekking down Providencia to and from Subterraneo. It was one of those nights filled with a chill, nonchalant, underhyped air that can, truly, only be provided by good company. Cheltzie Lee's boyfriend and his brother joined us for dinner (Thai). It sounds absolutely ridiculous but that table was filled with such love (this was only the second time I'd met her boyfriend and first time meeting his brother, mind you) and comfort, that I immediately knew it would be a great night. Maybe, that's what made the difference - the fact that I told myself that it would be a good night. Either way, I felt this because of the company I had. The night consisted of dinner (with two rounds of warm sake) followed by an hour at an amazing Irish pub with a really fun Flogging Molly cover band. During this hour (while the band took a break) we all got to know each other a bit and, as repetitive as it's beginning to sound, I felt so comfortable. The night ended with us stumbling into a chill bar that served as a mini nightclub with the funnest DJ. We danced and drank the night away, met some interesting characters, and I solidified a strong family-like bond with the amazing company I've kept. This seems like an odd statement when discussing a night of bar hopping, but this is pretty much the entire point. For the past 22 years of my life - and the past 8, in particular - I can hand pick the times (situations) I've actually felt at peace and comfortable. There are not too many of them, but most include: times abroad, times with my family, or with my best friend Jess. Being comfortable, to me, instinctively translates into being happy. Since my comfortable-to-uncomfortable ratio is a bit on the unequal side, I basically tend to stay away from social gatherings or anything that requires a bit minimum socializing. I figure that I should not voluntarily submit myself to such torture. However, this recluse state has also brought on such a tender sadness. 90% of the time I am at peace with my choice of trading in uncomfortable situations for that morose seclusion. However, that was when I could take refuge in school and work. Post-grad has been a bit trickier. Thus, as much as I try to throw myself into my job, good literature and excellent music - the marginal cost of this sadness is suddenly becoming too high a price to pay. So, for this reason, I've agreed to finally spend time with my beloved friends - the ones I've so boorishly neglected. 

Truth be told, my friends and I have more 'not in common' than 'in common' but I'm now realizing that this is actually better. I, then, think of an episode of Boy Meets World where Erik and Jack are in the middle of a double date when they realize that they want to switch because they have more in common with each other's respective date. While attempting to seduce the dates into each other's arms, the girls realize what's going on. When Erik and Jack explain how they have more in common with their non-dates, one girl says something along the lines of: "Why would I want to be someone who is the same as me? Who eats a peanut butter and peanut butter sandwich? I want a peanut butter and jelly sandwich." This always stuck and I always found this a bit (silly and) prolific. I guess, I've ignored it for way too long now. 

The point is, San Diego, my friends, the first purchase of 2011 beers, and - most importantly (for this post, at least) - this photograph, they represent my triumphant return to the social side of life. I'm choosing (closely and carefully) to detach myself from the recluse life I've led for 22 years. I'm in no way a social butterfly and don't intend on becoming on one. However, I am now letting myself take a breather from all this introspection (okay, maybe not) and allowing myself to have chill, underhyped nights with the people I love and am most comfortable around, In turn, I am putting myself in situations that will bring those temporarily moments of bliss. I'm also making myself take some of those usually uncomfortable situations (WeHo bars, for example) and making them fun and comfortable, all with good company. Hedonism, I suppose, is what it's called. Although, I'd rather not muddy it up with any more labels because I'm sure it'll spoil soon. That's the problem - I think about it too much, I feel like I'm spoiling it, and, of course, then set the course for the self-fulfilling prophecy to run its course. So there's that. 

I'm currently planning a mini trip to the Dominican Republic in early April for Cheltzie's bday. It's where I was planning to go for my graduation trip, before all the bad things occurred. I think a bit of redemption will be good for the soul. 

Wow, this post definitely surpassed its intended length. Not in the mood for editing (30 Rock marathon with the sister awaits), so I apologize if it's difficult to read. I'm not a writer, after all.

Today, I listened to the Vampire Weekend Pandora Station all day (which is what gave me the push to create this post) but I solely listened to my good friends Seasons while actually writing it up and, thus, inspired the (simple) title. So they're my recommendation for the day.

To good company.


With love,

-melidee

"Watercolors, magnetic poetry, and a harmonica" *

 

 via

I just finished re-reading The Perks of Being a Wallflower. I feel like I really needed it. My introversion and constant introspection has been haunting me for the past 18 years (you know, around the time you're forced to socialize) and especially these past four years (particularly these post grad months where I'm expected prostitute myself network to find a job). Anyway, I've always felt so much love for Charlie but my love has grown even more so right now. I'm feeling better about life. Day 19 of rehab and I've finally had "The Breakthrough". I decided to take August off from everything (lets pretend these two Aug posts don't exist). Reality, fate and sick grandparents forced me to cancel my trip to Santo Domingo and my graduation present trip was canceled as well. As devastated as I was, I truly believe that the two virtues I've been lacking lately -patience and appreciation- are being tested and I am slowly (but surely) learning. So I sit here, watching my mommy live her life and daddy live his, my brother (who we've recently nicknamed Botwin because he's taken on a Shane-like appearance lately) blossom into a teenager and it all just seems to connect and feel real and happy and beautiful and all I can say is how truly blissful life is. I'm back to living a life full of instability and this is exactly what I've yearned for. I have college degree and about $40 to my name with no savings and no plans. I feel at peace.

"Incidentally", I'm making my brother read the novel this weekend. He'll soon begin middle school and I want him to go in with a good head on his shoulders. I'm sure he'll take it in as his own but I truly hope he loves it as much as I did when I read it years ago and as much as I loved it while I was rereading it today. 

Lastly, Bill and Charlie have given me the final push to face Ayn Rand once again. Since I began taking Economics courses, it's been my personal goal to read Atlas Shrugged when a Turkish macroeconomics professor challenged us suggested it. I failed the first time around (what college student has the spare time?) but I think it's time to try again. Maybe though, I'd like to start with The Fountainhead since I'd never considered it. I guess it's one of those pretentious type of things I have to get out of my system. I hope I can do it. Anyhow, off to my mandatory 3 mile run and yoga session at the park. You know that feeling Charlie describes where everything seems to be connected and you feel like you are part of the air? My evenings lately have been kind of like that. Mashallah.

The other day dad played "Moon Shadow" by Yusuf Islam Cat Stevens and I couldn't help but smile.
 

-melidee

"Bildungsroman"

Today is a "Berlin, Without Return" and "Steven" kind of day. I am extremely homesick, only I have no idea what "home" means. Although this blog is for me to express what I am feeling, I am not interested in sharing intimate details of my life. However, you must trust me when I say that I have no "home". And though I've never known this "home" concept that most people seem to have made for themselves, I've at least known that wherever my family-my mother, father, sister and brother-is, that is home. Lately, however, I've begun to question this interpretation--not because I have suddenly stopped holding my family in such high regards, quite the opposite actually, but because I do not want to make them suffer. I am an extremely miserable and awkward person. I hate having my family worry about me; this 'moving back home' post college thing feels like a recipe for disaster because my parents will be everyday witnesses to my misery. I fear pushing them away as a defense mechanism, which is the complete opposite of what I want. Some people say that what I'm actually doing is crying for help, but I sit and think, "help with what exactly?" I mean, really, every one of my heroes has gone, is going through or will go through exactly what I am going through. In Emersonian thought, I believe that this is the necessary misery as a precursor to the non-conformism I will struggle with my entire life. I just don't understand why no one else cares! Why do people only care for their own well being? I mean, I suppose that according to Adam Smith, this is exactly what we are supposed to do in order to have a maximized efficient society, however, all it seems to bring is a dystopian numbness that, either, everyone sees and chooses to ignore, or everyone really is that oblivious to. I feel really stupid so can some please explain to me why I should care for the following things (and teach me how to care for them while we're at it)? Vegas, clubbing, drinking (hammered and pretentious drinking, good old fashion I get), conspicuous consumption: cars, phones, cheap tacky clothes passed off as "fashion", Disneyland, office jobs/corporate world, stepping on others to get to the top, Lady Gaga, love proverbs, being 'cool', trying to prove to others that you don't care when all that effort really just shows how much you do (we ALL do), being not so originally "original", putting others down, telling other people's secrets, acting like a grown-up. Shit, I know I'm guilty of some of these things, namely trying to be "original" and gossiping and it makes me sick to my stomach because I am disgusted with myself. I just don't understand it and it kills me because after all this schooling, I hate when I don't understand stuff. As an almost official social scientist who has studying the intricacies of this unjust world for the past 4 years, I realized this weekend that what's missing in my life is a good dose of literature and philosophy. I was rereading Hesse's Peter Camenzind and Kierkegaard's Fear and Trembling this weekend and was filled with a type of nostalgia that can only be brought on by something you've never lived, only read about. Then as I was catching up on The Economist, I came across an article on a Picasso exhibit and the painting they used for the article was a portrait of Gertrude Stein so then I started thinking about Matisse, Picasso, Hemingway, and of course, Virginia Woolf. Of course, this is a minuscule listing of all the great masters and I began realizing how much wonderful literature and art there is out there waiting to be discovered. I used to read so much in high school, mostly due to the AP English courses I took, and, God, I loved all the meticulous works of art that drove me absolutely insane with ideas. I've decided that I must learn German well enough to read my favorite literature in original German texts. Maybe I'll have my roommate teach me, she speaks alemán.  Maybe I'll find a good school out in Berlin, or maybe I'll make my fantasy of a Prague Spring come true. One day it will happen, I know. First, I need to be somewhere in Latin America or the Middle East. I fear, though, that this is all talk. What if I end up living with my parents, working a financially comfortable and incredibly miserable office job? What if I end up pushing everyone out of my life? What if, for fear of this life, I end up settling for a family and a stable life? I fear I would end up dying extremely young. Do you ever feel that way? I hate it but I do, all too often. Anyway, the point of this sloppy rant is to say that all I can do at this point is to delve myself in bildungsroman (bildungsromen as plural? I kid!), art and music of the brilliant people I am so lucky to 'know'. I can only hope that their lifelong work contains the secrets to keep me going. Maybe they'll show me the path "home". Or maybe they'll let me know what I already know, that home is in me. Mind over matter. Maybe the piano lessons I'll be taking over the summer will offer me another form of relief & release (finally, it's been a childhood dream!). I feel, though, that my family will end up being the "icy heights that contain all reason". I'll soon realize this, however, I'm still in the medial chapters of this bildungsroman that is my life. Ramesh, I know the feeling conveyed in "Steven" all too well and although it seems that people end up settling back into the expected life, I have never been able to resettle. Coming back from Chile was extremely difficult; so was El Salvador. I've never fully been able to let go of that addicting romanticized fantasy of leaving this place for good. I think you haven't as well. At least, that's what I get from "Berlin, Without Return"; How do you deal with staying connected with your family? I fear cutting them off for the sake of my silly fantasy. Although, I guess in the age of Skype, it should be less of a problem. I don't know, it just feels odd. I don't want to miss Steven, I want to be with him. Tell me, is the beauty of it in actually having to leave him? Is the nostalgia the point of it all? Oh and "Warmest Part of the Winter" has been my ridiculously morbid comfort lately and, as ridiculously beautiful as the song is, I am scared. I should really just get through this last quarter of college, I am such an idiot sometimes.

All the stuff mentioned above.

-melidee