Les Anniversaires or The Way the Universe Conspires to Make You Feel Victorious

After my dear-God-here-comes-30 panic attack had subsided, I decided to take action and plan a party for my 26^th birthday. Surrounded by individuals from various spheres of my life, laughing, dancing, and drinking together as if they had all known each other since before this very moment, I realized (as the lynchpin of the whole soirée) how incredibly humbling and blissful the celebration of your birth can be.

 In French, the word for birthday is un anniversaire, derived from the Latin anniversarius meaning “returning yearly”. What I appreciate about the etymology of this French word, is the fact that it has very little to do with the singular persona. It simply refers to a specific, recurring unit of time that can be interpreted as a return to a place, an emotion, a gathering of people, or (as we have come to know it) a day.

Some lucky few may find it easy to reflect on their past, or celebrate life with the people they love regularly and thus do not need a predetermined span of time to which they must return. But for those of us who are too often mired within the daily minutiae, the annual return to a consciously reflective state which celebrates still being above ground, or the friends we have garnered, or the past year’s accomplishments, or the fact that you are standing there in the smallest pants size you have ever worn in your life [shameless fitness plug] is precisely what we need to give us the strength to make it to next year’s return.

Taking inventory of all the things that have altered in your life and all the goals you have yet to cross off your Life List can be a paralysis-inducing experience. But the benefit of an annual return is that, with any luck, you will not necessarily be returning to the same place each year. For me, this past year teemed with seismic shifts that altered everything from how I felt to where I worked to how hard I loved to how I viewed the world and my place in it…if that’s not a blog post waiting to happen, I don’t know what is. The fact remains, Chapter 25 of The Book of Me read pretty slowly...almost as if the author was making it all up as she went along. But towards the end, the plot really started to pick up, a clear and concise focus started brewing and by the beginning of Chapter 26, even I was anxious to see what would come next. As a writer, I rarely share my work before I am satisfied with its completion, and similarly, the major plot points of the forthcoming The Book of Me chapters shall remain a mystery…but as long as I am granted continued annual returns I assure you the finished product will be one hell of a read.

I’ll sign you a copy,

~carter 

Wordsmiths United

I am what you might call...a traditionalist.
I want my architecture borderline ancient,
my neighborhood infused with quirky history,
my last name changed [eventually],
and my literature presented on pages, not a screen.

My current tome of choice is David Foster Wallace's magnum opus, Infinite Jest. Now, I am not sure if I just have one of those faces you can't help but bother while it's deeply engrossed in belles-lettres or if the 1,079-page, footnote laden, encyclopedic text really is that marvelous to behold, but I cannot tell you how many people, while on my morning commute, have approached me about investing in an e-reader.

At first, the consistent interruption while reading an already complex novel was purely bothersome. But as the comments continued, it became a reluctant game I would play called: Let's See How Many People Say Something Today...

Yesterday morning, while boarding the T, one individual told me he had received Infinite Jest, a few months ago, as a gift and [noticing the placement of my bookmark] wanted to know if I had any tips for getting through it.

I realized then, that for a self-professed bibliophile [and teacher!], my reaction to this whole please-stop-bothering-me-during-the-few-moments-I-have-to-myself-to-read-in-peace-haven't-you-ever-seen-a-big-book-before thing was all wrong.

The fact remains, that whether donning scrubs, a business suit, a grocer nametag, baggy pants, active wear, or a T-driver's uniform, not one person asked me why I would read a book of that size voluntarily, they simply questioned the most efficient way to do so. They were intrigued, moved to say something, and [dear God] it was literature itself that got complete strangers talking.

I did my best to convince him that if you could just muscle your way through to page 223, you won't want to put it down. ..And suddenly we were engaged in a discourse over preconceived literary notions. When did recreational texts become synonymous with relaxation and auto-pilot reading? Why aren't cognitive challenges valued outside of a space where you can receive a grade for it?

Spark Note Version: Nerd-alert/Bookworm Heaven

We are not meant to live in isolation. Even a solitary event like reading is a measured and calculated social interaction between you and the author. At times, we simply need to take a step back from our planned personal moments and realize that perhaps this moment is the one in which we were meant to engage.  If the works of art we so enjoy were destined to live in a desolate vacuum, they never would have been created in the first place.

Life [like art] is not about detachment, it is not about how many trolley stops we can get through before the next person interrupts our myopic views of how this specific instant should play out. It’s about discovery; it is the knowledge that you are not the first [and you will certainly not be the last] individual to appreciate this text. And that the more you engage others, the more you become the reason this piece of art will never be extinguished.

Wordsmiths and logophiles unite,

~carter

Acrylic Nails, Boxing, & The Unwitting Quest For Something Real

I had a goal: Become Smaller. Minimize. Take up less space. Turn inward on myself and realize I do not need all of this weight to, in fact, live.

But somewhere between the loss of pound 1 and the closer side of pound 30, I recognized that my world had been enhanced. Made fuller...more rounded and the only thing to become less has been my pants size.

Shameless Smaller Pants Size Plug

As the only woman in the boxing gym, my painted toe nails [we don't wear shoes on the mat],un-chiseled physique, [and let's be honest] breasts, stood out like well..breasts in an all male boxing gym. I had heard boxing was an excellent total body conditioning workout and while Females Welcome At Every Session flashed across their webpage, the raw and Million Dollar Baby-ish atmosphere clearly deterred the average lass. Let us be clear that I am in no way switching careers to become Laila Ali, Jr., I simply wanted to try something new.

Now, I won't come right out and scream Chauvinist or Sexist at the evident surprise on the men's faces as I kept up the combinations with them, hit the heavy bag with them and "planked" them under the table...hell, I was surprised too. But I will say when I heard the words "I didn't expect you to be good" I knew I had to come back and get better.

Weight loss is about getting smaller, right? Becoming more demure, inward, less...We females do it to become a more "girlish" weight, to fit in smaller sizes, thus widening the gap between femininity and masculinity, no? Along with these fallacies, I was under the impression that weight loss would let my natural beauty shine more fully.

What an idiot.

Natural beauty is there all along. How you perceive it, however, is entirely psychological.

After my first session, I went to the nail salon to have my acrylic nails removed, thus exposing my natural nails for the first time in eons. Aside from the practicality of short nails in boxing gloves, I wanted to take a small, tangible step in the direction towards natural beauty.

It starts from within...way in...like cerebellum deep.

Once I stopped identifying long nails with beauty, just as I stopped identifying boxing with brutishness, I discovered my own definitions of "beauty" and "femininity".

Femininity is synonymous with strength. Beauty is the ability to work in the sweltering heat, pass another human through your body and return to work because "maternity leave" wasn't invented for your color yet. Beauty is recognizing that when there is something you want to alter, you have the ability to accomplish it, because to be "girly" is to understand the world is yours for the taking.

Whatever your goal that has been collecting dust on that shelf you only think of when riddled with guilt, If you think you can not accomplish it...think again.

For me, it's cheers to the next 30 pounds, and the unintended, unwitting yet invaluable life lessons I have yet to dream up.

Keep moving,

~carter

Do Mi Mi. Mi So So. Re Fa Fa. La Ti Ti.

The first time I bought a Maxwell album I was 16, freshly driver’s licensed, and taking every advantage of summertime self-transportation freedom. After spending the day with my devastatingly handsome, and soon-to-be-16-year-old boyfriend [cradle robber!], my voyage back to The Valley through Hollywood allowed me the joys of traffic and radio “seek” button pushing. The dial landed on the most sensual falsetto tones I had ever heard [take notes, Robin Thicke]. Years away from actually doing the deed, I imagined if it was done correctly, sex would make me feel similar to how mesmerized I was by his incredible harmonies and romantic lyrics. Needless to say, instead of driving straight home, my car found its way to the Tower Records [do they still have those?] near the Beverly Center Mall.

Now, before fancy-schmancy car radios displayed the name of the song & artist you are listening to, one had to wait for the DJ to tell you the name of the artists in the previous set, which could take ages if the set was particularly long and heaven help you if you had to sit through a commercial break. I hadn’t the patience. So, when I walked into the store, I found an employee and sang him the part of the song I could remember; he directed me towards the R&B section and asked me to re-sing it for his co-worker who happened to know Maxwell’s repertoire well because his girlfriend also developed swoon-y tendencies when his voice seeped through the airwaves.

I became a fan for life.

As a writer, sometimes you simply need to give credit where it is due and I feel the screenplay of Forrest Gump [one of the greatest films of my generation] sums up my sentiments well: You know, it's funny what a young man recollects. 'Cause I don't remember being born. I don't recall what I got for my first Christmas and I don't know when I went on my first outdoor picnic. But, I do remember the first time I heard the sweetest voice in the wide world.

While Maxwell can not hold a candle to Jenny Gump’s beauty, I completely understand where he is coming from.

To this day, whenever I hear a song from this particular album, every ounce of me is transported to the sweltering heat of that car, to the longing I had to feel about someone the way the lyrics described, to the contentment with all that traffic, prolonging the time I had to experience his music for the first time.

They say elements of life are cyclical. Music, fashion, and trends more generally are said to rise like a phoenix. Just when you never thought you’d see bellbottoms again, there they are on your teenage daughter. Remakes of films and recycling of other artists’ devotion to their craft are making current “artists” wealthy [ex. Michael Bublé, the poor man’s Frank Sinatra]. My hope is that whatever musical cycle we are in gets thrown off its axis soon because I miss music. I miss lyrics. I miss instrumentation. I miss helplessly turning into the parking lot of Tower Records because my soul refuses to go one more day without listening to that song I just heard. So to anyone reading this: If you are a lyricist, a member of an orchestra, a band member, a lover of real music or an in-the-shower-singer, do not stop creating.

With any luck, we are on the brink of a musical revolution and we all need to be warmed up when the time arrives.

~carter

THE DAILY VICTORIES PROJECT

I do not journal. 

I am fairly certain not journaling is the sole sin a self-proclaimed writer can commit. But, in the interest of complete honesty, there you have it: I am a jotter-downer, a blogger, and a list-maker mais je ne suis pas une journal-er. 

It is no surprise to all who have ears around me that I have embraced the world of weight loss and fitness. This past week, although I ate fairly healthily and exercised, I gained a pound. [I know, I know, call the waaa-mbulance. But to someone who has created a plan and weighs herself every week, on the same day, one entire pound felt like an abysmal failure]. Not only did I feel terribly, I felt terribly about feeling terribly in the first place. Mired in this foolish state, I decided to turn to writing because…well, it couldn’t hurt. I proceeded to write a list of positive occurrences from this week alone: 

1)   I am fitter than I was in high school. Getting better with age trumps peaking at 17.
2)   I have run the farthest I have ever run [in my life] without stopping to walk.
3)   I managed to go an entire day without spending any money
…etc. 

What I was able to deduce from this enumeration is that while I was blindly focused on a scale’s numbers, the life I was leading was not too shabby. 

[Cue The Epiphany] 

[Enter, The Daily Victories Project]

I know I am not the only person who allows herself to become utterly transfixed by one very specific issue of the day and lose sight of the fact that there’s actually a forest amid those trees. Amassing a list of daily positive occurrences is as close as I will ever be to becoming a successful journal-er and I do not want to do it alone. 

Consider this an invitation, blog reader, to join me in our daily affirmation that at least ONE event [no matter how small] has added a modicum of positivity to our own existence. 

Now, this does not have to be fitness related or fall under a larger theme. Anything from I took a different route to work that shaved two minutes off my commute to My son actually brushed his teeth without my saying so to Nothing of note occurred today but a higher power was gracious enough to wake me can find its way to The Daily Victories Project. 

If you are like me and enjoy having a friend [or a few hundred anonymous internet viewers] to help keep you accountable, I would love to see your #theDVP entries grace the wall of the L.O.T. Blog Fan Page [http://www.facebook.com/lotblog] or in the comment section of this post, for you anti-facebookers.

Let’s do this together.

Let’s go viral. 

...And who knows, perhaps if we are all too busy pinpointing our daily victories, we won’t have the time to violently confront unarmed teenagers, plot the destruction of storied athletic competitions or look upon each other with disdain simply because our skin tones don’t match.
Join The Movement.
#theDVP
~carter 

...And Miles To Go Before I Sleep

Clad in businesswoman attire and sneakers, my heels remain tucked away in my messenger bag, situated near the umbrella, trail mix, Nalgene, and iPad.

I am a commuter.

Once a phenomenon as foreign to me as parallel parking, [see post dated May 3^rd] I have grown to admire the public transportation facet of my east coast way of life. While some benefits are monetary, an element that most commuters take for granted is the chance to engage with [and oftentimes literally bump into] those around you. During my Los Angelena life, the world of human interaction was stunted by metal behemoths linearly trapped on the 405. Any “bumping into” that occurs here is expensive, if not fatal, and altogether an unenjoyable experience.

On the T, however, [or Train to you non-Boston residents] a morning trek into the city becomes a series of vignettes that even the most cynical of early-risers could appreciate:

Thursday morning, I ventured underground to find an elderly guitar player whose voice [note for note and tone for tone] is indistinguishable from Steve Perry’s [lead singer of Journey]. At first I was hit with a mixture of surprise and intrigue, but before my train had arrived, these emotions shifted to heart-wrenching disappointment that this man wasn’t a San Francisco native in the early 1970’s when Journey ached for its front man. Who dictates that his fate was meant for the morning commuters’ enjoyment and not for sold-out arenas? I suppose destiny can be categorized as a future post of its own.

Next up, a tweenager with impeccable posture, high-bun, pale pink tights, loose shorts and wrap-around sweater seemed unforgivably late for her Center Stage 3 audition, as her frantic, doting and less well-groomed mother tried to follow her daughter’s long, elegant strides.

This people-watching Elysium is not simply marked by the ability to catch glimpses into the lives of others, it forces complete strangers to occupy the same space; a microcosm of the exterior world. Amid this congested study in human behavior, every individual’s patience, personal spatial relations, and varying levels of courtesy are tested for the duration of the journey. Class systems and racial homogeneity differ from stop to stop; a frequent commuter may recognize what part of town rests above by taking note of those entering or exiting the train car.

One easily concluded notion is that while on the train, every commuter awaits the start of his/her day’s activities. The commute is the means by which the above ground day can begin. But if we all remain on auto-pilot awaiting our final stop, we miss the fact that life and activity are happening around us.

The ballerina’s mother may not have had time to fix her own hair or check her own appearance in the mirror, but she did not forget a single eight-count of her daughter’s choreography which they recited together repeatedly until their stop arrived. While I will never know what monumental performance awaited her or how well she fared, I pray [as a daughter who has spent years and thousands of miles away from her mother] that this young woman remembers the most poignant moment of her day occurred as her selfless recitation partner put the needs and dreams of her daughter before her own. It is not the destination that matters most, kid, it is the commute. And if you are very, very lucky, you will get to disembark the train with the same loving person who frantically pushed others aside for you to make it there on time.

~carter

I Refused To Buy All New Bras [Or, The Catalyst]

Almost two months ago, I decided to make some life adjustments with the hopeful [read: skeptical and anxiety inducing] intent to shed some poundage. And on this blessèd day, I vowed to get my Carrie Bradshaw/Bridget Jones hybrid persona on and write about my first milestone: the mourning of 20 pounds. Well, here it is folks: Me, 20 actual pounds down from the first day I began my new life.

Ta-Da!

I have been looking forward to writing this post partially because I knew I would write it as a fitter, trimmer me, and partially because it has been looming on my Blog Topics To Write list and I do enjoy a good red-pen cross out session, complete with victory dance and relevant musical selection [Today's Choice: Part of Me by Katy Perry].

I have always been a broad [albeit well-proportioned] gal and my consistently sunny personality has never quite been tied to my dress size. So when I began this [ever-evolving] journey, I spent the first few exercise and veggie-filled weeks trying to envision what I would look like. Now that I am on the other side, I do not feel the contentment I imagined would await me; instead, there is a veritable hunger [ironically] for more. I recognize I am just beginning to form the habits that will keep me healthy for the rest of my life and that is what makes me most excited and inspires me to take on the next leg of my weight loss marathon. I would like to make it clear that 20 pounds ago, I did not like myself any less and I will not love myself any more 20 pounds from today. I have, however, discovered a certain pride that comes with keeping myself accountable. As a burgeoning blogger, I find moments in each day to add to my never-ending list of potential topics. However, it is a consistent internal battle when coming to the conclusion of how much of myself I am willing to share. No one wants to read a blog about privileged moments stocked with bunnies and rainbows, yet, exposing insecurities and emotional hardships can seem just as unappealing when it is your life projected across the screen. So it was necessary for me to make a decision: No matter how vulnerable I may feel, write it. Luckily, the inevitable sense of dread occurs for about as long as it takes to hit the SUBMIT button.

...and then there I am, out in the open.

This is the post I promised myself I would write. I wanted to take the mystery away and prove that weight loss is not some magician's trick others have been able to master. I wanted to do real push-ups. I wanted to fit better in my clothes. I wanted to buy new clothes. But I would be damned if my own body would force me to render my cute bras obsolete...the road to healthy living and weight loss begins differently for each individual.

As a writer, the ability to create a precise and well-developed character [from nothing] has haunted every blank page I cross. And for this creator, there is a me in my head that has yet to grace the scene.

Stay tuned,

~carter

Like Gertrude & Ernest

…and then I found myself furiously scribbling away in Paris. I would tote my journal along from the Luxembourg Gardens to every café my shrinking euro stash would allow to Père Lachaise cemetery [but mostly] to the quiet areas of the 6^th arrondissement that will always be my own.

In the heart and mind of a fifteen year old who had never even been to sleep-away camp, this solo summer sojourn meant the world. I planned on having Paris validate all my dreams of Paris. A place so far removed from the culture of home that I could not help but create an alternate persona. Someone who sauntered a little slower, savored even the most fleeting moments, and perpetually pursed her lips between sentences. Utilizing my French speaking skills, I spent my free time pretending I was a native parisienne, aiding tourists with directions or in taking a family photo in front of many a monument [in the age before the “selfie”].

As profound as I attempted to be at the time, I suppose it could be said that being fifteen anywhere in the world has its moments of growth, realization, and coming-into-one’s-own. But since I only have my own experiences from which to draw and since my coming-into-my-own happened to coincide with a once in a lifetime excursion, I am going to conclude that I discovered the sole enduring facet of my life as a teenager in Paris: I am a writer.

Pardon me while I quote myself, but in a school paper that year, I stated the following: Oscar Wilde said that, “When good Americans die, they go to Paris”. He almost got it right. I believe that when good Americans truly live, they go to Paris to find a home, find themselves, and to find a way back. [Boy did that fifteen year old know what’s up] But here’s the thing, to an idealist teenager, it seems every truth will remain so indefinitely and every talent will come swiftly without life’s inevitable intrusions. I was able to feel at home in Paris; the feel of pen and paper did not alter simply because I was 6,000 miles away. I was able to cultivate my creativity because I had the time and I uncovered a generative place within myself to which I could consistently return. I became more confident; while I may have felt a little too dark or too chubby under the Los Angeles sun, in Paris, I was one more Ooo la la away from not making my returning flight. [Shout out to the European men who consistently walked the fine line between respectful and kind of odd advances] see post below for more on my views of male/female interactions.

As I was saying, life discovers a way to try and thwart you from your desired path. I’m sure the fact that for the next seven years I was a slave to academia and did not even want to read a menu or write a grocery list had something to do with why my personal reading and writing took a back seat to more pressing literacy priorities.

It took years to return to Paris-grade Me and I have you, the L.O.T. Blog enthusiast, to thank for my rejuvenated love of doing what makes me feel most at home. I may not be able to host all of you in my living room for bohemian events, but this is the 21^st century and the interwebs can be our salon. We are not the Lost Generation of our great-grandparents, but there remains a dire need to collectively share our thoughts. There must be a place where people won’t look at us strangely for using proper grammar and polysyllabic diction, and where putting your delusions and ingenuity into words can be valued, praised, criticized and re-worked. I thank you for this opportunity and invite you, just like Gertrude and Ernest did before me, to join the conversation.

#writeon

~carter

Excuse Me, Sirs, Who Raised You and Can They Demand a Refund?

Let me start by setting the scene: 
A man and I are walking together and a puddle is obstructing our next steps. If said individual removes any article of clothing to allow me a smoother puddle transition, I will giggle at him and his sodden outerwear. While you are appreciated, hypothetical person, your archaic gestures could use some updating. 

This is not a post bemoaning the absence of chivalry. Chivalry is alive and kicking for those who expect it and choose their mates accordingly. 

This is also not a post enumerating how the boyfriends and husbands of the world could do a better job at being more boyfriend-y or husband-y because quite frankly, ladies, these are the men you have chosen. I would assume you enjoyed something about the factory model so do not complain when they do not change. 

This is, instead, a post about the 21^st century men whose mating rituals leave something to be desired. 

Every bipedal female has experienced it. A catcall here, a car honk there and [for we dazzling urbanites] the occasional, clichéd, construction man hoot-n-holler. Sure, there is a time and a place to feel like a piece of ass, like when you are leaving the gym in your sweatiest sweat pants and someone still manages to find you attractive; that’s perfectly acceptable. Barring this very specific instance, however, women [on average] do not enjoy being treated or gazed upon like juicy burgers to voracious individuals. Flattery is not evoked. Hearts are not aflutter. And your chances of procreating with a woman steadfast in the knowledge of her self worth continues to diminish the moment disrespect masks itself as interest. There are only so many “Hey Baby”, “Let me talk to you for a minute”, “Can I holler”, “So, you got a man?”, and inebriated interactions one can take before she realizes no one has any idea what they’re doing anymore.

As someone without a husband or a son, I am making a pretty bold statement when I say: I believe mothers need to start demanding more of their male progeny. A man with a strong role model [male or female] will recognize that “having game’” is an ephemeral notion that is entirely dependent on current fads. Possessing the characteristics of a gentleman, however, will always be in style. While we are not expecting your best dinner jacket to line the intersection after a rainfall, similar sentiments such as concern, respect, and self-giving are pretty en vogue regardless of the century.  

It has been my dream to [one day] produce enough cultivated, driven, and compassionate male heirs to aid my Alma Mater’s ailing football program [GO BOSTON COLLEGE EAGLES!]. And while I am only somewhat joking, the truth is, I am excited by the possibility of producing strong-willed and strong-minded men who truly comprehend what “being cool” is: I will nurture men who will dress well, men who will look every person in the eye when they are speaking or being spoken to, men who disagree without being disagreeable, men who are proud of their flaws and work each day to contribute positively to the lives around them, and men who understand that their mother demanded to be loved respectfully and did not stop searching for their father until she found it. Strength is gender neutral. A real man has the strength of a woman who reared him and the strength of the woman standing beside him to thank for his ability to have swag [whatever that is] through the ages. And no matter how audible and deliberate the whistling or hollering, a real woman has the strength to keep walking.

~carter

Under Construction

Between the ages of 9 & 12, I managed to both break and sprain my right ankle. The break was clearly a backyard accident but the culpability of the sprain lies entirely on the head of that gargantuan sixth grade girl charging me as I tried to defend the hoop. She didn't get the basket and I didn't get to finish my season.

16 years (of ballet performances, volleyball games, personal training sessions, walking/dancing in heels, before school kickball games, treadmills, running after children, hopscotching and down right existing) later, I was told yesterday, I am missing an entire ligament that connects my ankle to the rest of me.

Sure, my ankle cracks, creaks, aches from time to time and hangs a little funny when I've got my feet up, but missing a ligament sounds kind of serious. Like when a trainer tells you she is surprised you can do everything you can kind of serious. As it turns out, my body [wonder that it is] has discovered a way to protect itself by overcompensating in some ways [tightening my Achilles tendon] to render and entire ligament unnecessary for more than a decade and [hopefully] ages to come.

Self-healed…far from perfect… but completely functional.

We, as humans, spend a lot of time assessing the figurative damages and scars events can leave in their wake. Ankles are fortunate enough to get casts and splints while broken hearts, spirits and promises never quite get the physical therapy they deserve. Aside from the trite notion that hardships build character, it turns out, without lacerations [of both the figurative and literal kind] we would never fully comprehend the joys of how freaking cool it is to depend on yourself. We are constructed to survive; we were not created to depend on external aid for our protection. No ligament? No problem. A victim of infidelity? You will discover a way to love you more than he did and survive to tell the tale of that guy you knew once.

Don’t get me wrong, trusting in your own will and welcoming the unpleasant brings along its own set of challenges...mostly in the form of what is left behind. Just as I might be able to tell you when rain is on the horizon by my gait, an individual who has been disrespected one too many times may take much more convincing that the person confessing his love is genuine. When we are ruptured, we cannot expect healing to return us to what normalcy once meant. Instead, we must have faith that rejuvenation will take us to a place we could have never predicted.

We are undeniably works in progress. 

Walking Under Construction signs preparing for the next great project to give us a reason to uncover our strengths. 

I do not advocate underestimating the strength of a sixth grader charging for a basket nor do I advocate actively seeking relationships which only mean to cause you harm. However, I do recognize the value of a certain self-respect, which only manifests, as the bottom seems to let out from beneath our lowest moments. Because when you are the only one left, you start depending on the right person. Trust yourself to heal, rejuvenate, accept, move past, and ultimately re-enter the game. 

~carter 

Your Life Will Be Enriched and Simultaneously Ruined By Social Media: A Letter From The Future

Dear Child Of The 1980’s –

In what may feel like eons but is instead just a few short years hence, shit is about to get real. A phenomenon known as social media will pervade the consciousness of the world you find familiar now. It will have the ability to force every human closer in distance yet leagues apart in anything resembling genuine emotion. For instance, someone you have never met [nor will you ever have the displeasure of meeting] will discover a way to find you both intolerable and repulsive simply because you look content with your own life in a few photographs visible to the masses. Without warning, anything from enjoying a relaxing vacation to dating that guy becomes a silent competition no one has told you that you’ve entered. No matter how much you may think you are simply living your life, you are consistently moments shy of losing some ubiquitous and universally accepted foot-race towards Lord knows what: Seeming happier, thinner, or more in love than the next person? The truth is, Reagan or Daddy Bush Era Child, even as we upload photos and update statuses, those of us living in these uncertain times are vastly uncertain of why these daily actions are such necessities.

Sure, we could say we do it to stay connected with that friend who moved away in third grade, or to remove the creepiness of stalking celebrities [because if they shout it from instagram/foursquare/twitter, it’s fair game to know their whereabouts] but this voice from the future has a sneaking suspicion that while each of us may rattle off a disparate rationale for our obsession with virtual “likes”, it is the need to foster relationships without actually fostering a relationship that motivates us. In the same fashion that children born in this era will play “tennis”, “dance”, and “kick a ball” on a virtual screen rather than do any of these actual activities in three dimensional form, friends [as well as the derivatives, friended, unfriended and to friend] become loosely associated with the definition of friend that you might come to understand in your youth.

My advice to you is to enjoy the distance while you can. No matter how annoyed you are at that girl [two rows over] who keeps making fun of your Lisa Frank Trapper Keeper, trust me, one day you will be longing to engage in an argument over something tangible. Rest easy that with the advent of social media, you will never have to lose tabs on your best friend from ballet class [even if you do not speak to her for the next fifteen years and she gets married, this thing called Facebook will put her maiden name in a shaded gray color to make her accessible to old friends like you]. And whatever you do, do not become that 21^st century individual who has nothing better to do than flounder in her hatred of the happiness of others. Worst comes to worst, just click elsewhere, because anonymity within your animosity is an angry person’s sole companion in this brave new world.

Good Luck,

carter [of 2013]

chronomentrophobia

Recently, the phrase, "I bookmarked your blog URL so I’ll have something enjoyable to read" has replaced the phrase, "You look beautiful" for most enjoyable words to hear. As it turns out, one way to demarcate the passage of time is to recognize what compliments make your heart soar and when. "Cool Tamagatchi" turns to "Nice Ass" which turns to "You’re the kind of person I want to spend my life with" and "Your baby has your eyes" [For those of you who do not know what a Tamagatchi is, you are missing out on countless hours of weird fun]. Still reeling from the fact that I am bookmark-able, I began thinking about other ways in which the passage of time is measured. 

Jonathan Larson could give you an exact number of minutes that occur within the Earth’s orbit around the sun, while others might measure their time by a series of stagnant moments that aren’t Friday yet. Before I could tell time well enough to grasp how long a span of time felt, my parents would create units I could understand. "We will be leaving in about as long as it takes to watch Saved by the Bell" [30 min.], for example. Yet even after I could construct meaning from looking at a clock, minutes and hours never seemed to possess great importance to me. As long as I can remember, my measure of time has been marked by Septembers and Junes with a few months of freedom interspersed. Life as a non-student, however, brings a unique perspective to the complexities of time. 

I have found, that as an adult, time is often measured by the entrances and exits of certain individuals. Those who were once as integral to your quotidian activities as breathing may seem a distant memory, while someone you never thought you would see again is [three years later] the best thing to ever happen to you. It would be most helpful if some sort of omniscient formula existed. We could input the names and characteristics of those in our lives and a specific calculation would determine if it's worth our time to cultivate worthwhile moments or let them tell their story walking. But that wouldn’t be life at all, would it?

Because even after the most calamitous friendships or relationships have ended we are socialized to believe it was not a complete loss of time; there is something to be learned. That “something” can be anything from I’ve learned only weirdos are attracted to me to I’ve learned I am actively projecting a signal that it is okay for weirdos to talk to me. Whatever the case, someone somewhere recognized that to keep us all from a perpetual state of depression because of all the misused time, that it would be a good idea to pretend like something good can come from it. As a Pollyanna optimist, I would like to believe no time is lost time. Sure, my life might not be enriched by a “Keeping Up with the Kardashians” marathon, but in those four to six hours, I made a conscious choice and stuck with it. That’s just good character.  

How time is measured and what we find essential is evolving just as we are. There is still the occasional Sunday when I feel a heart palpitation trying to remember if I’ve finished all my assignments for the week. And come each May, I’m still surprised to find myself not relocating from a dormitory. But even with these conditioned temporal elements, maturity has brought with it a few valuable lessons.

1. My body has somehow been able to ascertain how long just thirty more minutes feels while utterly asleep and sans snooze button.

And

2. Although I am fully aware that those who I care for today might not find their way to forever, I would not be completely living if I did not live and love as if the rest of our lives was the only unit of time that existed. 

~carter 

Martyr Hill

According to French lore, St. Denis, the Bishop of Paris was beheaded on Montmartre (the hill of martyrs) in 270 A.D. Picking up his own head, the beheaded St. Denis is said to have preached a sermon for two miles before he fell.

I had been propositioned seven times before noon. This one’s name was Geneviève. As my hand grazed her graceful leg punctuated with stubble, I was reminded that Montmartre never disappoints those with low expectations. Mozart’s Requiem floated out of the window of the above appartement. Geneviève began tapping her foot as if it were Hendrix and not the most beautiful mass ever written. Disgusted, I put my pants back on and left.

The overly bohemian and artistic atmosphere of the 19^th and 20^th century hadn’t yet become obsolete. Painters and peddlers lined the streets along with the Middle Eastern duo that insisted on singing selections of Sting’s repertoire. After the second verse of ‘Eeenglishmaan Eeen New York’ I stood from my seat on the steps leading to the Sacre-Coeur; my wife once loved the way the top of the cathedral seemed to touch a cloudless sky.

“Denis, with one ‘N’?” She asked when I wrote down my name and number on the napkin stained with her lipstick.

‘My mother was a bit of a Francophile. She named all of us after important or literary French figures. My sisters are Héloïse and Jeanne.’

‘Jeanne?’ She asked.

‘After Jeanne D’Arc, Joan of Arc…my mother was odd.’

‘I think it’s fascinating’. Theresa smiled, squeezing my hand. ‘It was very nice to meet you, Denis.'

We had been dating six months when Theresa finally learned of all the quirks my mother imposed upon my sisters and me.

‘You really had to celebrate Bastille Day?’

‘Every July 14^th…you have no idea how humiliating it was. We were the only kids perhaps in the world and surely in New Hyde Park that were forced to wear those tri-color bonnets and parade around in front of our house.’ Everyone wondered why my mother was almost comically obsessed with everything French. I didn’t learn until years later that she once fell in love there.

‘…to my father.’ I told Theresa as we sat in Central Park one afternoon.

‘She met your father in France?’

‘Yes. Apparently she had an affair with a French man who was already married. When she found that she was pregnant with me, he stopped speaking to her. She decided to come back to New York and it wasn’t until after I was born that she met Héloïse and Jeanne’s dad who became the father I know.’

‘Absolutely fascinating.’ She would say constantly, ‘I would think being jilted by a Frenchman like that would make her hate them all.’

‘I think she still loves him.’

‘That’s the kind of love I want, one day.’ She started, ‘The kind that couldn’t die no matter how much time has gone by.’

I stared at Theresa for an uncomfortable length of time then and when I think of her today, it is that same image I see. The soft, auburn waves of her hair gently grazing her shoulders, her blue eyes piqued with interest and the green sundress she would pack with her on every vacation. Albums are filled with the image of Theresa standing in front of countless monuments in countless countries wearing that damn green dress.

We were happily married until Paris. Years of my mother’s insane obsessions and romantic ideals had penetrated Theresa’s thoughts until all she could think about was the City of Lights. Standing in our understatement of a fixer-upper on the Left Bank, I was in awe of a woman who had forced me to another continent.

‘You come to Paris to fall in love not to stay in love’ I shouted.

‘Always the pessimist, Denis, just open up and live a little.' So we did. We lived every day and spent every euro in an effort to live up to Theresa’s expectations of what Paris was supposed to offer. It was our lack of funds that led us to Montmartre on Saturdays and Sundays. Luckily, sitting and watching the tourists as they marveled at the view from this unassuming hill was free of charge. We met Laurent one Saturday morning in between his tours of the Sacre-Coeur cathedral. Laurent, a certified tour guide of French cathedrals, would rotate from the cathedrals in the heart of Paris throughout most weekdays to the Sacre-Coeur in Montmartre on the weekends.

‘I went to school for it.’ He told us one Sunday afternoon. ‘Tour guiding was a major at my university. It was much harder than one would have you believe, the final examination is gruesome.’

‘That sounds fascinating’ Theresa would say after ever word he uttered.

‘What isn’t fascinating in your opinion, Theresa?’ I muttered.

After over a month of between-tour-meetings on the steps of Montmartre, and café lunches, Laurent began to realize we didn’t know anyone else in France. His less than stereotypically French benevolence surprised us, when he asked if we would enjoy a visit to his home. Laurent's cottage on the outskirts of Paris convinced me I took up the wrong profession. The surrounding countryside alone implied that the money in tour guiding must have been better than free-lance journalism. Acres of greenery surrounded a small cottage home that added to the pastoral notion that Goldilocks was moments from being escorted away by her three friends.

‘Beautiful stuff you have here.’ I said slamming the door of the small Citroën Picasso.

‘Thank you, it is very old. It has been in my family for generations.’ He said as only Europeans can. We entered, and the smells of authentic French cooking imbued the air. A tall gentleman stood at the stove. Dressed extremely well, the apron covering his elbow-patched blazer and khaki pants seemed somehow out of place. Ladle in hand and cigarette dipping from his lower lip, he turned to us. I saw Theresa’s face and I suppose, had I been a woman, the look on mine would have been similar. Rugged and professorial, this man in his mid-fifties must have personified every co-ed’s dream. His strong jaw was punctuated with the manicured scruff expected of the wise -even if slightly pedantic- aging Frenchman. His hair was finely trimmed and peppered with gray. As the sides of his mouth began to wrinkle into a smile, his eyes grew bright and I saw the resemblance.

‘This is my father, Auguste’ Laurent mentioned stepping in behind us. ‘Papa, voici les-’ his father interrupted him in lilting English.

‘These must be your American friends. Please, come sit.’ Placing the ladle onto the counter he came over to Theresa and kissed her once on each cheek. Assuming I was next, I stuck my hand out. He shook it firmly.

‘I simply love a good American greeting, don’t you?’ He said, shaking my hand once more. ‘What are your names?’

‘Theresa,’ my wife said breathily, as she was the only one of us he was looking at.

‘Ah, after the saint?’ He inquired.

‘No, actually, I was named after my grandmother. But Denis is named after a saint!’ She gestured in my direction.

He looked to me, ‘The man with no head?’ he said condescendingly.

‘The one and only’ I uttered.

‘Well’ he paused, looking for the right words, ‘how nice for you.’

Possessing the uncanny yet formulaically feminine ability to force me to do anything that I detested most, Theresa and I ventured out to Laurent’s cottage once or twice a week. One morning, however, I received the most positive news of our Parisian sojourn. 

‘Theresa!’ I shouted after setting down the phone. Theresa looked up from the journal she had started upon our arrival. ‘I got the job with the magazine.’ La Vie Americaine, a new magazine for those interested in American life had found their newest journalist. Luckily, for my sanity, working for the magazine would require long hours on my part to help get it off the ground.

‘I’m not sure I’ll be able to travel with you as often to Laurent and Auguste’s home’ I mentioned, trying to seem unenthused. Looking down at her journal I thought I saw Theresa hide a smile.

‘That’s alright,’ she said clearing her throat, ‘I won’t mind going alone.’

‘Sounds perfect.’

She scurried off into our bedroom. Leaving the door ajar slightly, she began to slip on the green dress that made the red of her hair brighter and the blue of eyes more striking; I should have known.

We spent four more months in Paris together. I, busying myself with the magazine and Theresa began busying herself with guided tours and the homes of tour guides. One evening in late autumn, I came home to one of her many notes that read: Off to Laurent’s for dinner, will be back soon.

I went to the kitchen in search of the Cup o’ Noodles I had Jeanne send me from the states. Its fascinating the kind of things you start to miss when living abroad. While adding the hot water there was a frantic knock on the door.

‘Denis, ou est Thérèse?’ He began again in English ‘Where is Theresa?’ Laurent stood before me sweating profusely.

‘She’s at your house.’

‘Which one?’ He asked matter-of-factly.

‘You have numerous homes, now?’

‘I have my apartment in Paris for work and my cottage near Fontainebleau with my father. You’re saying she is at our cottage?’

‘That’s what I thought all these notes meant. She’s there once every few days.’

‘How does she get there?’ He asked.

‘Laurent, what the hell is going on? You drive her, you take her to your cottage, isn’t that what has been happening for the past few months?’

‘Denis,’ he said stepping into my apartment and shutting the door, ‘I have had a lot of tours lately; I have been living in Paris and haven’t returned to Fontainebleau since I took the both of you.’ The noodles fell to floor.

‘So where is Theresa?’ I asked, collapsing to the couch. Stepping over processed American noodles, Laurent handed me a small brown envelope with my name on it.

‘I came to give you this’ turning it over, I saw Theresa’s signature next to the words: Please give this to my husband.

‘I do not know why it was delivered to my apartment but I was hoping she would be here to explain.’

I only read the first few words of her handwriting before I began to tear it the pieces: Auguste is the type of man I have always…

I walked to the window throwing fragments of paper to the street below.

‘She’s run off with your father.'

Just as my namesake had centuries before me, I stumbled. Dragging my broken body along the seedy streets of Montmartre, I realized I would have rather lost a head than a heart. No one has ever been canonized for possessing a broken heart. It’s the beheaded guys who get all the recognition. Staring downward for a significant portion of my journey, my feet had led me to Geneviève’s apartment.

‘How long has your wife been gone?’ She asked adjusting the sheets.

‘How did you know I was married?’

‘They always are.’

She said ‘They’. Geneviève was not speaking about me specifically. She instead referred to me as another, one completely disconnected and removed. I wondered how Theresa refers to me, now. Her former husband, Denis with one ‘N’ or perhaps as the man who should be revered for his ability to stumble along with his heart in his own hands and still manage to stay alive. 

~carter 

[a work of fiction]