Sunday, 11 December 2011

Home alone but not really

The only month in a year when New York actually does look like from the movies, is December. When the lights go up on the smaller-than-I-imagined Christmas tree in The Rockefeller Center. Oh the lovely impression of blinding, when you look at thirty meters tall tree covered with 30,000 lights attached to 5 miles of wires.  The familiar feeling of pain and anger, when somebody bumped into you again, while ice skating in Central Park (obviously you have just spent a fortune on it, and stood in an hour-long line). The impatience, when you’re trying to take a picture of one of the Bergdorf and Goodman’s windows and another bunch of tourists stops and stares, right in front of your camera. The sigh of relief, when after walking ten blocks in forty minutes, you managed to escape the crowds alive. The comforting feeling of being squeezed and pushed, when the whole Fifth Avenue shines like a mixture of gold and silver, red and green, cheesy and tacky. When the lights and decorations are covering the whole city, and the smell of piss and garbage is covered - occasionally replaced - by the smell of chocolate and coffee. And nuts from the cheap corner stall. When the noise at Bloomingdale’s begins to remind more of food market in Delhi, rather than 59th St. Yes, it is the time - the warm and cosy, family time, with the highest suicide rate within a year – The Holiday Season.

Christmas – I have always been a fan. My friends used to ask me why I would give presents, since I was never catholic; protestant until I was thirteen; and atheist ever after. I guess Christmas in the American way, has always worked better for me. At least the image of it. I pictured it as fun time of cooking and eating with Cole Porter’s songs in the background, fire place, presents under the Christmas tree, smell of cinnamon, all that cute, warm-colored bla bla bla. Here, Christmas is more an idea of celebrating free time with family and friends, over food and gifts, rather than anything else. Nobody pretends it has anything to do with the religion anymore. It’s a secular tradition. Even some Jews have Christmas trees in New York, and don’t need excuses for it. (Btw. Did you know, that there are more Jews in New York, than there are in Israel?)

At this point, you’re probably thinking I could have had warm colors and smell of cinnamon back at home too. Well…

It had all begun about the church – me teenaged raging against the hypocrisy; him – my father mumbling about the religion. There was something wrong about going to the Church twice a year (Christmas and Easter). You either believe and go. Or don’t believe and don’t go. It’s simple. Pick a side and stick to it. I didn’t have to say it twice to the pastor, who every year managed to sneak some nasty comments about homosexuals into his Christmas preach. The fight continues. The next stop - tradition. Wrong answer buddy - I stood there with cynicism painted all over my face – because I care so much? Point three – The family. It had always nailed it. I learned quite early that Santa Claus was my very pissed off Mother, trying to make decent Christmas for us, since my father didn’t give a shit. She was trying to do her best, but for a long time couldn’t save us from going to my father’s mother house (I refuse(d) to be considered a part of that side of a clan) and listening to my uncles offending anyone who wasn’t white and broke over the Christmas dinner. And my favorite – the annual choice between Home Alone and Home Alone part II on TV. I couldn’t wait to get out of there, and when I did, then came several hours at my Grandparents house. It was never idyllic, but it was just six of us, and my Grandfather always treated us with sweets and my Grandmother had table decorated beautifully. The only thing that always bugged me was why on earth, every year, did my brother get the supply of socks and underwear as one of the gifts.

My Grandfather passed away two years ago and I miss him dearly, and Christmas, as much as I don’t appreciate it – won’t be the same without him.

To survive it all we had to learn how to drink. And by us I mean me and my friends. We started a little traditions of our own. Like meeting in the local bars, right after we escaped evening dinners. We had many great Christmas Holidays simply thanks to being wasted. Rolling in the snow; kissing in the block’s cellars; smoking cigarettes while sitting on a windowsill,  looking at our town from 6th floor; giving each other 10$ gifts to because we couldn’t afford to spend more (can we now ?)

I’m not driving home for Christmas ; I don’t want to let it snow, let it snow, let it snow…Last Christmas I didn’t give you my heart, so the very next day you could give it away and All I want for Christmas isn’t you, but I could use a new mp3 player?

Last year I decided to ignore Christmas completely. Just to prove to myself that I could.

Things have changed over the past two years, and even though I still obviously don’t adore Christmas, this year I think, I am willing to give it a chance. I am looking forward to come home and drink a cup of hot wine with spices, (or two, or ten ?) with my Mum, fight with my little brother over  the TV remote, and see all those beautiful familiar faces of friends. Sometimes friends are more than family, because they are family that you choose.

I’ll try to have myself a merry little Christmas now


Tuesday, 27 September 2011

Out and about

So lately I’ve been out a lot.
From time to time I get into those party modes when I can be out almost every night, barely sleep and go on looking like a zombie, but feeling alive as never before. I get anxious, restless, exhausted and happy. Those nights to remember, except for the remember part.
When I keep having lunch for breakfast.

New York can be a really weird place sometimes. Tuesday Night. Four bars, Rooftop party in the rain, Rib-less vampires in the jacuzzi and Cindy Lauper hanging out in the club like no one’s business.

As sick ( literally ) and tired I usually am on Sundays (The eternal conflict between body and soul. When the spirit screams "go out!" and the body says "fuck you") I still can’t wait for another weekend. Two weeks ago, my friend and I drove to Long Island, where I drank who knows how many vodka-red bulls, stayed up till 5, almost had a heart attack, slept two hours. We got up, bought bagels and coffee and drove to Fire Island early in the morning, to have breakfast at the beach. I don’t have to tell you, how does it make you feel. Atlantic at 9 am…

Maybe it was the summer of poor choices, but oh well. Sometimes you need to dance stuff away.

The scars of your love remind me of us, they keep me thinking that we almost…

Keeping you posted


[1]  Pictures taken with my phone, Fire Island, September 17th.

Tuesday, 16 August 2011

No women no art ??

The history of all times, and of today especially,
Teaches that…women will be forgotten if they
Forget to think about themselves.
Louise Otto-Peters, 1849

When it comes to women artists, several names cross my mind - Frieda Kahlo, Georgia O’Keeffe, Lee Krasner, Méret Oppenheim, Artemisia Gentileschi…

Having bachelors in art history doesn’t make one Rosalind Krauss at all, but shouldn’t I know more? Back in college, I remember one of professors almost had a heart attack seeing a pad shaped as a vagina on a poster. I realized, I have put more time and effort in staring at Renaissance Madonnas (waiting for a miracle to happen so I could remember them all) than actually learning something on a subject.

It made me wonder, what did I know about female art anyway?

One of the reasons why I think about it, is tiny book that I have found under the Christmas tree.  Women artists published by The National Museum Of Women In The Arts. Museum was incorporated in Washington, in November 1981 as a private, non-profit institution. Collection included pieces gathered for over twenty years by art historians Wilhelmina Cole Holladay and Wallace F. Holladay. In 1983 the museum purchased a 78,810-square-foot Washington landmark, near the White House, formerly a Masonic Temple, and refurbished it. Since then NMWA had hosted countless exhibitions  devoted to female art, including most famous one -  American Women Artists, 1830-1930 – which took place in the spring of 1987. One of the countries most famous, feminist and art historian, Dr. Eleanor Tufts, was curator for the show. Museum had also commissioned Pulitzer Prize-winning composer Ellen Taaffe Zwilich to write Concerto for Two Pianos and Orchestra for an opening concert.
Enough with the facts. I’m going through the book :  
Middle ages – Saint Hilda of England and Hildegard of Bingen…Nothing, well… I hated medieval art anyways.
Renaissance - Sofonisba Anguissola – according to this book she is considered to be the first women artist to achieve international renown. Ummm yes, right…
Seventeen century – Lavinia Fontana, a daughter of Prospero Fontana. Judith Leyster with very much Franz Hals looking paintings. Rachel Ruysch and Clara Peeters with beautiful, but clearly influenced, by pieces of Netherlands still life masters.
Moving to 18th century, I learn about Elisabeth-Louise Vigée-Lebrun. With her very familiar sounding last name, become one of Marie Antoinette’s favorite painters.
In the 19th century famous female artist was Camille Claudel who studied At Rodin’s studio, and also Mary Cassatt who was discovered by Degas.
In the 20th century things get a lot better, still these names like De Kooning or Delaunay, bring more the sight of Woman and Bicycle and Circular Forms than Rythme ( by Sonia Delaunay) or portraits by Elaine de Kooning.

It’s not a place for me here, to explain why things were the way they were. The matter of the problem has been solved by Linda Nochlin in her essay Why Have There Been No Great Women Artists?[1].
Clearly, women deprived of access to education and being put in the social role of look pretty and be quiet (treating the problem very superficially) weren’t able to create truly great art.
But I still get a feeling like we’re trying to prove history wrong.  
I haven’t got any problem with feminism and feminists. I do have a problem with any kind of radicalism. When it gets to the point, where I read that female art, actually was as great as male’s one I shake my head in disbelief, as when I read that rescuing children and women from the sinking ship first, is discrimination.
Maybe Copernicus was a woman, but as much as I’d love them to be, Giotto, Michelangelo, El Greco, Titian, Monet and many others, who changed the art within centuries – weren’t.

I’m asking myself another question though.

Where would be Krasner without Pollock, but would we know Pollock without Krasner ? Who would be Kahlo without Rivera, but would we focus on Diego’s murals, without even mentioning story of their marriage? Whose portraits would we admire, if it wasn’t for Rembrandt’s love for his wife Saskia ?

Maybe it is time to admit that female art isn’t better, isn’t worse, isn’t even equal, cause how could it be ?

Sunday, 14 August 2011

Stuck in the Hamptons

This month I changed my address to Sunny Side Av.

Well, to be quite honest, this month I got stuck in a nightmare called the Hamptons. 

A lovely place surrounded by the ocean, filled with sun, beaches and three million dollar houses. Where every corner on the street, is as clean as a baby’s bum and every car shiny. The place, where rich New Yorkers are doing exactly the same thing that they have been doing on Madison Avenue. It’s just here they can spend their money wearing flip – flops.

I had my first Hamptons experience last year, and I don’t really recall it with sentiment. I walked around staring at the windows of the shops that I wish I could have afforded. I was seriously looking for something to do. I have to admit there are some cute Victorian houses that I adore, and some beautiful views that I took pictures of. Eventually I ended up spending 10$ on a slice of pizza, jumped in the car and drove back home, bored to death.

Hamptons is also very WHITE. In every meaning of white. Starting with fashion. I have never, EVER seen such an amount of white shirts, pants and shorts put together with leather sandals and designer sunglasses. Apparently white goes well with the boats, pools and overpriced menus.

The Hamptonians keep their heads up high and wallets thick. They‘re tanned, play tennis and golf. Some New York habits can be seen, especially with honking and screaming at each other, while driving through the tiny crossroads. Yesterday I sat in a park and listened to a conversation of two women next to me. One’s ten year old son took an online test, checking his parenting skills and scored very high. I don’t know about the child of the other woman, but if things don’t go perfectly enough they can always sue the preschool for not preparing the children for Harvard properly ( which actually happened[1] ).

Settled three hours drive from New York, Hamptons seems like a different world. With no room for ugly, different, sad, imperfect and the worst - penniless. Since I’m stuck in here anyways, I’ll just lie on a hammock, counting that maybe in the future, my friends won’t abandon me, when after a nasty divorce I’ll lose my Upper East Side townhouse.

Wednesday, 20 July 2011

Greetings from New England

A week has passed, since I have left New York, in search of my New England’s adventure.
Last week, a new country of South Sudan was created, which made all the current maps of the world antique. In Mumbai, seventeen people were killed, over hundred injured, in the terrorist attack. In Spain descendants of Jews, who were forced to convert to Catholicism during the Inquisition, have been recognized by Israeli rabbinical authorities as Jews. New Harry Potter movie had its world premiere. Duke and Duchess of Cambridge travelled around California. In London News of the world was shut down, for hacking and corruption. 
And it’s just the scratch…

While the world continued its crazy ride, I started my own. Within one week I visited three states. I had Ghanaian dinner in Burlington. I learned that I’m allergic to cats. I practiced how to pronounce New York with the proper American accent. My feet got burning hot one night. I was told that moose are mystic creatures, like a unicorn – everyone knows about them but no one has ever seen them. I took a mushroom for a bug.  I’ve found out about the existence of the places with names like Worcester and Peabody. I sat in a rocking chair, on the porch of the Victorian house, listening to Ella Fitzgerald, thinking how great life was. I drank Irish tea in Plymouth, and ate almond croissant in Salem. I stood on the shore of Golden Pond. I got bitten by mosquitoes countless times. I cut my foot on a rock, swimming in Lake Chaplain. I tasted carmel ice-cream at Ben and Jerry’s factory even though I don’t really like carmel. I memorized Sigh no more. I wondered, what’s the difference between hip hop and rap. I walked the floors of Gropius’s House in Lincoln. I wandered the streets of Beacon Hill, and it felt like being in the XIXth century, in London. I rode a bike through a lovely town. I smelled Peruvian coffee in the morning, and had three cups of it for breakfast. I sent postcards to three continents. I had pillow thrown at my back from the second floor. I found my favourite word on an art gallery wall, and a wooden Coca-Cola box in an antique shop in Exeter, New Hampshire. I walked barefoot on the grass. I smoked cigarettes…Another Victorian house, another porch. New England je t’aime.

Monday, 20 June 2011

“The Dark eyes a year after”

He sat down, ordered a drink while searching for last dollars in his pockets. It felt like for the past two years nobody smoked in New York anymore. Where’s the gesture? He thought. What happened to the sparkle of a lighter, blinking through the gray wall of fog?
He saw T.S entering the stage, and the memory of passing him on the street of Warsaw appeared immediately. He didn’t dare to be one of the fans. The signs, the smiles.  A year ago. One year. At that time he knew every sound, every note. He listened to that album countless times, and yet it has still felt undiscovered.
The band started to play. Small round tables seemed to swirl in the air. One, two, three click, One. Two. Three click,.. Did he need anything else?
He felt the rhythm with his feet, the melody thrilling his neck. Magic of the lights drawing lines on the walls. Plain burgundy walls that will lose their charm in an hour. One hour of colors and shapes on their blank expressions. For one hour the whole place was set on magic. The magic of music, the magic of voices tearing the place apart. Where for this minutes passing the world would be gone and time would stand still. Disappeared in the small crowd. Disappeared in his own way. He let the sound in. Closed his eyes, just for a second, very much aware of his behavior. He wouldn’t like to look like one these serious people. Serious people that sit whole concert with their eyes closed and fingers held tight to the arm seat. One of those people that don’t smile at art, and make poses looking at books in bookshops.
He wished it was a movie. He’d watch it over and over again. Till scratches on the disc would start to damage the sounds.
Till vinyl breaks or till needle on the turntable collapses under the pressure of play it again.
Bass, the rhythm, the streets.
Drums, the rattle of trains.
Trumpet, the melody of pavements.
What if we put thousands of footsteps into one concrete sound?
What if we break the space into infinity?
There will always be color. There will always be energy.
He closed his dark eyes once again. A couple of hours before the dawn.

Monday, 9 May 2011

March 20th 2011

6:39 am. Back at the apt.

There is certain kind of nights in New York. Nights when the city kicks your ass so badly, that your own bed seems like a distant paradise. These are usually very cold nights, late trains nights, nights when you have nowhere to go to, and you know you have to stay up for hours, cause you have just missed your last train home. The nights when you realize that The City that never sleeps, is another myth. It does. Well, kind of. Between 3am and 5am almost everything is closed. The city slows down for just a while. You can see yellow cabs speeding through avenues, cause it’s the only time out of 24 hours when they actually can. You notice single lights in the skyscrapers windows, that are still on. You never see the stars though. You can hear and feel subway running right underneath your feet. Familiar sound, that will bring you Downtown. On your way to the next whiskey bar, where you’ll be safe form cold, for another couple of hours. The nights between crying of tiredness and looking for adventures. Random places, random people. Nights when you almost scream out of desperation. You wander around, you look, you wait. Cold, cold nights when you wish you would have stayed home but you didn’t and now you’re waiting in the line for a cheeseburger just to kill some time.
Nights that end up with early morning, when you get to bed and even though you don’t know if to say goodnight or good morning, you still can’t sleep. Moon tonight got 14 % bigger. Not 15 not 13,5  - 14 . I don’t know how they measured that, but yes, it does seem bigger.


Monday, 2 May 2011

I'm back

I’m back. Almost like Arnold but, no, not really.
For the last months I haven’t actually been in a New York state of mind. My days were blessed with routine and lack of doubt. I do blame cold for this.
When I first came to NY I was told that the winter here is short (two months) and warm (-10 degrees Celsius) which for European standards seemed like a spring breeze. It didn’t quite work out this way. First the Blizzards…blizzard here equals more or less a week, of not being able to leave the house. Unless you want to end up a as snowman (snow woman?) within couple of seconds. Then it got cold, wet, humid, awful cold.
When most of my friends in Europe celebrated first day of spring I was sitting forth month in a row under the blanket with my feet over a radiator. It was snowing. I have worn out my winter boots already and they licked.
I hate cold. I hate cold almost as much as I hate math. Well maybe not as much but close. When somebody asks me to go out and play in the snow they could have just asked me “hey do you want to do some fractions and then compare the results?” I have absolutely no tolerance for it, and I find it as Carrie Bradshaw finds botox – “painful and unnecessary”. When I moan about cold ( and I do it all the time) I often hear “but you’re European!” “yeah, so ?” I have a friend who is Puerto Rican and he despise the summer, cause he hates to sweat. So?
Apparently Eastern Europe is boiling in the same pot as Siberia. Wearing huge fur hats and drinking vodka. Do even Russians wear those hats anymore?
It seems like short and warm New York’s winter is like American myth itself – great marketing.
Anyway, I’m back, and I’ll keep you posted with news from The Country of Bullshit and Whatever.

Wednesday, 26 January 2011

Jackie Black "Last meal"

One awfully hot, August day I was driving with two friends around Shelter Island, in search of another studio to visit. We did what’s called Open Studio Tour, and it was brilliant to see interiors of summer houses and studios of some famous and not-so-famous Shelter Island artists. It was our sixteenth studio that day. We got inside and next to the cute pictures of chicken there they were. Twenty-two pictures of last meals of twenty-three individuals, who were tried, convicted and executed in Texas for capital murder. Picture of last meal ; date of execution ; education and occupation of convict and his/hers last statement. When I imagined what last meal could look like, it was always the movie version : bloody steak, whiskey, cigar…and all that I saw were set on plain black backgrounds twenty-two ordinary meals. Fries, pancakes, eggs, cupcakes, pickles, hamburgers even one single apple. Basic stuff that most Americans eat every day, and it’s available absolutely everywhere. One convict refused his last meal and asked for it to be given to homeless person. Request was denied. The idea of last meal itself has always seemed absurd to me. It’s outwardly gracious. Like the sentence of death penalty itself wasn’t enough. The consciousness of your last hour, last quarter, last minute. Consciousness that within definite amount of time your life will be over. Your existence done. And the fact that what’s on that plate will be the last meal that you will ever taste. Don’t get me wrong, I realize that these people deserve to be punished for what they have done. But the awareness of the situation like this is horrifying enough. The tradition of feeding a last meal to the condemned dates back to ancient Greece. No dollar limit is placed on an inmate’s last meal request but food items must be readily available in the prison kitchen. Under Texas prison regulations alcohol and tobacco are denied, even though they are often requested, last meal is served exactly two hours before execution.                                                                                                              
Since 1976 when death penalty was reinstated in the United States, over 1000 men and women have been executed. There are twelve states that do not employ capital punishment. They are Alaska, Hawaii, Iowa, Maine, Massachusetts, Michigan, Minnesota, North Dakota, Rhode Island, West Virginia, Wisconsin and Vermont. These states don’t have higher homicide rates than states with death penalty. In fact, 10 of 12 have homicide rates below the national average. Texas has executed over 300 men and women since 1976. Far more than any other state and about a third of the country’s total.
Ironically USA has got third (after China and Democratic Republic of Congo) highest record of executions. Next on the list are: Iran 66 ; Egypt 48 ; Belarus 33 ; Taiwan 32 ; Saudi Arabia 29 ( 1998 Amnesty International documented cases. Actual figures are likely to be much higher.)
I reached out to some of my friends for their opinions. I’ve noticed that there were no black-and-white, yes//no answers. Many questions though. What about costs? What about human error? What about racism? What about  serial killers cases?
When it comes to costs of execution, Studies in Florida, North Carolina and Texas show the estimated average cost of an execution to be 2.5 million. The Georgia Department of Corrections states that 18,000 dol. is the cost per year to house an inmate in maximum security. It turns out that the monetary cost of a death penalty case is far higher than a lifetime of incarceration.
No white person has ever been executed in Georgia for the murder of a black victim. Statistics compiled by David Baldus who was barrister in Mcleskey v. Kemp case[1] showed that in 2000 murder cases in Georgia in the 1970s, people charged with killing whites were 4.3 times more likely to get death sentence than those who killed blacks.
What about human error during investigation? David Wayne Stocker’s case[2] exemplifies many of the things that can go wrong :
·         The prosecution’s star witness was paid by a crime - stopper program and had drug charges against him dropped.
·         The district attorney’s investigator and the police gave false testimony.
·         Less then two years after Stocker’s trail his lead attorney surrendered his law license and pleaded guilty to criminal charges.
·         Stocker’s other court – appointed attorney had been a lawyer less then a year.
All of these factors seem to ask, how many prisoners were wrongly convicted? Many reversals haven’t come by virtue of the normal appeals process but through diligent discovery by journalism students, investigative journalists, DNA evidence and through work by experienced attorneys-all avenues that are rarely available to the typical death row inmate. DNA testing has contributed to freeing at least 12 of the wrongly convicted. However, DNA evidence is not always available. Often it is not found at the scene of the crime and therefore not available to exonerate defendants. Sometimes evidence was destroyed after trail.
Jonah Lehrer, in his book How we decide[3] claims that psychopaths are dangerous because they have damaged emotional brains. Areas of the brain responsible for experiencing different emotional states, [if it’s happiness or rage] are not developed properly. They are incapable of experiencing regret, sadness, or joy. “Psychopaths have fundamental emotional disorder” says James Blair, a cognitive psychologist at the National Institute of Mental Health “they are missing the primal emotional causes that the rest of us use as guides when making moral decisions”. Neuroscientists are beginning to identify the specific deficits that define the psychopaths brain. According to Lehrer’s research the main problem seems to be a broken amygdala, a brain area responsible for propagating aversive emotions such as fear and anxiety. As a result, psychopaths never feel bad when they make other people feel bad. Aggression doesn’t make them nervous. Brain-imaging studies have demonstrated that human amygdala is activated when a person merely thinks about committing a crime. This emotional void means that psychopaths never learn from their adverse experiences. The absence of emotion makes the most basic moral concepts incomprehensible.
I have found that deep hidden conservative side of me demanding its attention – hey these people murdered, with cold blood, several times. Nothing to be doubt.
Do they deserve to live after what they have done ? Do they deserve to die ? Who are we to play God ?
Twenty-two men, one woman. Small pictures of their faces are placed on each page. Jackie’s black Last meal is a contrast of inhumanity of death penalty and humanity and individuality of those in a death row. One of my friends had written : Justice is a human invention which is in reality rarely achievable, but many will not hesitate to destroy lives demanding it. The only thing I knew for sure after leaving the studio, was I didn’t feel like eating that dinner anymore.

[1]. McCleskey was sentenced  for armed robbery and murder. He was African American; his victim was white Atlanta Police Officer Frank Schlatt.  Warren McCleskey was executed in Georgia's electric chair September 28, 1991.
[2] David Wayne Stoker was convicted of capital murder for the murder of 50-year-old convenience story clerk, David Manrrique, while in the course of committing a robbery. Stoker was convicted on October 26, 1987, and sentenced to death the next day in the 242nd Judicial District Court of Hale County.
[3] Jonah Lehrer, How we decide, 2009.

Wednesday, 5 January 2011

// 1.1.11.//

On the first day of the year, afternoon becomes morning. This morning is always gray and blue. I can’t really recall a sunny one, it’s like the weather is sick from cheap champagne too.
I’m writing this piece sitting in a old-fashioned diner in Queens.
It’s very quiet. Streets are nearly empty. The snow is melting and makes pavements look shiny and colorful form streetlight reflections.
The City is recovering from its hangover. It is getting dark, as I’m ordering my breakfast.
Theoretically it is just the number. Nothing has changed since Friday night to Saturday morning.
But there’s certain amount of hope in this grayness. Certain sound of joy in this silence.
That after this one night, the future, once again,  stands wide open. And you’re a part of it.
Countless possibilities, but what about the fear?
Of the unknown, of the future, which, yes, stands wide open but who knows what is there for you.
Fear of the failure. We all know, that new years resolutions don’t last longer than a week, if you don’t really desire a change. And even if you do…We can go like this forever.
When I think about past year., places that I had seen, people that I have met.
It makes me feel a little less scared.
To look life in a face[1], remember ?
Last year I made my life, my own.
This year, I feel like quoting Calvin Klein Be commercial, as a deep source of knowledge :

Even if it’s screaming fun, anything but indifference, you know, when its not love, it’s not hate and it’s not sex, it’s not anything really. Just one more bad habit you’ve got to break.

Break your habits on a gray morning


[1] One of the most significant lines, M. Cunningham, The Hours :
 To look life in a face, always, to look life in a face, and to know it, for what it is.
 To know it, to love it,, and then to put it away.
(…) always the years between us, always the years, always the love, always the hours.