Our heroine finds herself alone, eats sammich

I've settled it--this is my spot. It is just a blip of a walk, a microsecond away from my apartment, but its nearness has not tricked me into thinking a better spot could be found elsewhere. I sit on this bench, Italian sub half consumed, relishing the Keanu Reeves flair of my solitary, introspective meal.

Rutgers is a sometimes an unappealing mishmash of architecture, the most unfortunate buildings, I think, from the sixties (Loree and Hickman Hall on Douglass being the most offensive to look at or be in). But the oldest buildings, clustered behind me, which hold the offices of the university's most important people and who knows what else (Van Nest? Winants? What is in there?), are undoubtedly the most beautiful, though not related to the average Rutgers student's experience in the least. Indoctrination to the Rutgers classroom experience is more like having a class in the freezing basement of one of the river dorms--I had roughly a billion of those. The very fact that these old beautiful buildings of Rutgers' past have nothing to do with us meager students may be part of the reason this lovely grassy area nearby goes ignored and all these benches lining the path remain empty.

Across the path I can watch that huge building next to my apartment being constructed (that stupid effing building--I look out the bedroom window and see nothing but its parking deck head-on), the church undergoing some construction, and the platform of the train station. I feel like 500 Days of Summer's Tom sitting on his bench at Angel's Knoll, thinking this is my little under-appreciated piece of the city.

I look over at the trains and think how easy it would be to get on and be home in twenty minutes, or get on and be in New York in an hour. How simple, accessible. I could even hop on and find myself at the Newark airport, and I could fly to Berlin, or anywhere else I wanted to. Who says it's so hard to pack your bags and leave home for other corners of the globe? The way out is right there... I'm not trapped... but for now, I'm still trapped.

An old woman jogs across the street, a city bus screeches annoyingly until it halts at the train station stop, a tall, slender man in a brown corduroy blazer and exaggerated clothes hanger shoulders moseys along the bench lined path with his briefcase. The sun is setting, it's cold, everything is a 5:30 pm blue.

I'm not sure why I came here to begin with, but now I guess it's time to go home.

thoughts on the train, sunday 1:37 pm

There is something beautiful about this day, this moment teetering between noon and afternoon, between a laugh and a cry, between the cold rush of air on my cheeks, in my hair, and sleepy sun warming up my back and legs as I stand waiting on the train platform.

The train comes and I board it. I think about how I don't want it to get dark so soon, but even in a half hour's time the mood will have changed, time will have passed, and I won't be the same either. The lighting and the shadows cast from the trees and edifices that pass me by as I ride, backwards, to New Brunswick, won't look the same, nor will the lights and shadows of the objects in my autumn-edition heart.

Whether I should or shouldn't, whether reciprocated or not, I miss him. In this moment I miss him. I want to pull him into this world of mine, this world of diners and abandoned shopping plazas and reflective walks through the cemetery, and see how he'd fit in that space. There, that right there is my high school, this is the way I walked home for four years, even more uncertain of myself back then as I am now--if you can imagine that--my world then still so small and unaware of things an ocean away.

And here's my mother, one of the sweetest women on the planet, spoiling, self-sacrificing like your own mother. But mine wears too much jewelry, which sometimes makes me wince, though that's just a minor quibble about the woman who supports me in all that I do, even in pining for someone an ocean away, whether she should or shouldn't. My mother will ask you impertinent questions, and you'll like that. The funny thing about her is, she'll ask all these questions about people to make out their character, but already she quietly approves; if a person has already somehow earned my approval, that is enough.

But I think the mood has changed, the light has changed, and I shouldn't play with these thoughts anymore. I will save them for another flickering moment of passing light, of possibilities and impossibilities. I will try to leave the idea of you on the platform of the train, as much as I'd rather you sit here by my side, and soon enough it will be dark out, anyway.

for people who like staring dramatically out windows

Everyone knows that when your life feels so devoid of intrigue and romance and beauty, one of the best thing you can do is watch a good film. Especially a good period drama. The age we live in, unfortunately, is not one we equate with romance. What hope is there of locking eyes with a stranger in a crowded ballroom? Or writing to your lover off at sea? (okay, the latter scenario, ridden with sadness, is perhaps less appealing). I've complained a thousand times before about how unromantic modern dancing is (although I find "krumping" hilariously awesome, and mention it whenever I can. Also do not get me started on MC Hammer style dancing--Love.) So what we have... well, film, and books--our escape. And imagination.

But music too. Sometimes all you really need is a good movie soundtrack. Often heavy on the classical, the dramatic, the emotion-wrought, they're wonderful for getting introspective about your own life. Turn up the volume and let it sweep you away. As Jackie, longtime roommate, can attest to, I'm a big fan of staring out of windows dramatically. All the better, of course, if you're listening to heart-wrenching soundscapes, especially if it's on a train, watching the world around you speed by. (I heavily romanticize train travel and the age of steam, in general. Because when you are aboard a train, you almost aren't anywhere at all, but you're in a perpetual state of going somewhere. And you yourself don't control where the train goes--it's out of your hands--so you just sit there, turning over this thought and that, awaiting your arrival.)

Anyway, one listening recommendation I can make is from Ang Lee's 2007 film Lust, Caution, which I watched a number of months ago.  There is not only a great soundtrack but ESPIONAGE involved (everyone loves that) and it is based off a story by Eileen Chang. I read her short stories in "Love in a Fallen City" and just adored them, despite how truly pessimistic the woman is about love.

 (I love that during this time women were so astonishingly stylish in their body-hugging cheongsams and painted red lips, while men wore sharp Western suits. Of course, neither look is complete without cigarettes/cigars, glamorous and unhealthy).

Well, here--because wikipedia does such a good job of explaining the allure of Eileen Chang: "She is noted for writings that deal with the tensions between men and women in love, and are considered by some scholars to be among the best Chinese literature of the period. Chang's portrayal of life in 1940s Shanghai and occupied Hong Kong is remarkable in its focus on everyday life and the absence of the political subtext which characterized many other writers of the period."

I can't recommend her work enough. Although, because I am probably an eternal optimist at my core (people might not believe this about me. I do have pessimistic, cynical tendencies, I admit, but it's a shield of sorts), it is no wonder that my favorite story of hers is one that offers a "happy" ending for its characters. I should say, Eileen Chang's version of happy--dubious, transient, and unsettling happiness. Similarly, I love E.M. Forster's A Passage to India for an honors seminar I took freshman year ("Romantic Love, East and West") but I really love A Room with a View, which is considered his one non-pessimistic work. It's like I appreciate and understand the "let's face it, life is brutal and unkind" attitude, but when even the most hardened types can admit there's a flicker of hope and happiness sometimes, well... how can I resist? Talk to me about it again in 30 years, when perhaps life's gotten the better of me, and we'll see if I've changed my mind.

Oh goodness, there are a million digressions in this entry. I just get so excited about this sort of stuff. And I'm glad I can be excited about it, because it lets me know that I picked the right major. Even though I sort of picked "East Asian Studies" haphazardly, not really knowing what it would entail. And even if I'm not really sure what I'll do with this major, or German Studies, either.

So, sidenote #29382: I love something about British imperialism, whether in Hong Kong or, as with Forster's work, in India. Imperialism in general just intrigues me. I guess that explains my love for Out of Africa as well.

Without further ado, from the Lust, Caution soundtrack  by Alexandre Desplat (of course, if you're going to compose glorious soundtracks for films, you should be French).



The film, by the way, is good although rather sexually graphic. But I can save my discussion of Ang Lee films for the future, haha.