Plans For My 10,000th Day

I recently found out that sometime between one's 27th and 28th birthdays, we come upon our 10,000th day of existence. You can caluclate that day for yourself on this nifty little website.

So, while I'm hard at work today, the evening will be spent downtown with a dear pal, getting a facial at SpaBelles and then to Dip for girltalk and fondue.

Wheeee! Who says getting older is no fun? Not me!

28 before 28 (Read: Holy shit I'd better get my act together.)

I turned 27 about 6 months ago and it's freaking me out a little. Overall, things are pretty good. I have, however, become a procrastinator in my old age. So I thought I'd change things up a little and be proactive for the remainder of this year.

Here's a list of 28 things I'd like to accomplish before I turn 28. It's ambitious, considering that I've only half a year, but then timidity was never my style.

1. Take a trip, for fun.
2. Learn how to cook my favorite three Indian dishes.
3. Read the People's History of the US.
4. Get 5 articles published.
5. Get a handle on the internaional human rights framework.
6. Buy some paints and a canvas and make something fun.
7. Edit and revise my MA thesis.
8. Get all my books to come and live with me.
9. Do a financial assessment.
10. Actually decorate my office.
11. Create a home filing system and use it.
12. Start a youth health project at work.
13. Read all of Checkov's short stories.
14. Become a PPNYC volunteer.
15. Publish something in an RJ anthology/journal.
17. Read something by Alice Munro.
18. Get to know my parents better.
19. Go to 3 museums/galleries that I've never been to before.
21. Write some things that aren't for work.
22. Go see the Nuyorican Poets Slam.
23. Spend QT with Varun.
24. Take a dance class.
25. Send birthday cards on time.
26. Go home for Diwali.
27. Come up with a thoughtful 5 year plan.
28. Get cable.

Frida in Philly

On Saturday, I took an early morning bus to Philly, bounded up the same steps that Rocky Balboa did in 1976 and waited in line for 45 minutes (despite having pre-paid tickets) wringing my hands in the lobby of the Philadelphia Museum of Art.

Why all this drama on Saturday morning, you ask? Well, this was the last weekend of the Frida Kahlo exhibit in Philadelphia. Frida is moving on to San Fran in the fall and I'd have hated to miss her when she was so close to home.

Standing in line, the exhibit maitre'd told me that the exhibit was wonderful. "I won't give it away, but you're going to love it," he said. "There are a lot of photographs, I'm not going to tell you anything else." He smirked a knowing smirk and went off to corral another group of Frida lovers into an orderly line. Oh boy, was he right.

The exhibit was wonderful and I saw some of my favorite Frida works, as well as a ton of never-before-released family photos with Frida looking about as fierce as you can imagine. Once I'd become accustomed to the crowd, surprisingly enough, it was a very intimate experience.

The most interesting moment happened when I left the exhibit and wandered into other parts of the museum. It was almost impossible to appreciate the sometime coldness of contemporary and modern art after having been witness to art that was so personal. Dramatic and traumatic at times, but always personal and real. It was hard to relate to Cubism and Dada after that (and you all know how much I love the Dadaists and their funkiness).

It reminded me that intellectual art is always interesting and often beautiful, but visceral art can do something that the intellectual kind: reveal something true and human. That is Frida's legacy.

All in all, a Saturday very well spent.

For Hillary: On Being a Good Diva

Got this in my inbox today. Click. You won't be sorry.

Word.

The Winter [Spring, Summer and Fall] of My Discontent

Many seasons have passed since I last written. I've graduated from UChicago, and now, MA in hand, am working in NYC. Any of you reading this already know the details so I'll spare you. But I'm back here, in cyberland, because somehow, I've missed writing into this vacuum. It's strangely comforting to chronicle for strangers and friends alike. Gives the diarist's dilemma some depth.

With that in mind, I'll just continue to chronicle the life and times of a 27 year-old activist living in the big city. Some posts, inevitably, will recount tales from this previous year. There's some good material there, and I'd hate to lose it. I'm sure you understand.

Oh, and the blog title has changed. It's roots in cement these days, so sand metaphor just didn't seem to fit any longer.

Cheerio dahlings.