I Am Thankful...

for hitting the jackpot in the lottery of parents, even if they think blogging is a bad idea.

for Victoria who convinced me to start this thing.

for Rob and the fact that he had his picture taken in only his briefs the first day i met him. 

for the sound of rain. It's my favorite thing in the world. Sometimes I'll close my blinds turn on my hour long soundtrack of a thunderstorm and just pretend.

for Steven, who's given me the tools to begin chipping away at that all consuming thing known as ego.

for my love and indulgence in verbose and histrionic language.

for books, books, books. Most especially those by Pat Conroy.

for travel. It just doesn't get any better than that.

for Greg, my second brother, my childhood tormenter, and my great love affair across the Atlantic all in one. 

for Connor my actual brother who's going to make millions in the next five years.

for those few glorious years we had Jared. 

for chocolate, coconut haystacks. You haven't lived until you've tried one. You'll find them at the sweet factory in Port Authority.

for NYC and all its eccentricities. Even if I feel like I need a break from it every two days. 

for my huge four poster bed. A girl could get lost in there for days. In fact, I have.

Or So I Feel...

"A poet is somebody who feels, and who expresses his feelings through words.This may sound easy, but it isn't. A lot of people think or believe or know they feel -- but that's thinking or believing or knowing; not feeling. And poetry is feeling -- not knowing or believing or thinking. Almost anybody can learn to think or believe or know, but not a single human being can be taught to feel. Why? Because whenever you think or you believe or you know,you're a lot of other people: but the moment you feel, you're nobody-but-yourself.To be nobody-but-yourself -- in a world which is doing its best, night and day, to make you everybody else -- means to fight the hardest battle which any human being can fight; and never stop fighting. As for expressing nobody-but-yourself in words, that means working just a little harder than anybody who isn't a poet can possibly imagine. Why? Because nothing is quite as easy as using words like somebody else. We all of us do exactly this nearly all of the time - and whenver we do it, we are not poets. If, at the end of your first ten or fifteen years of fighting and working and feeling, you find you've written one line of one poem, you'll be very lucky indeed. And so my advice to all young people who wish to become poets is: do something easy, like learning how to blow up the world -- unless you're not only willing, but glad, to feel and work and fight till you die. Does this sound dismal? It isn't. It's the most wonderful life on earth.Or so I feel."

e.e. cummings


This is absolutely one of my most favorite things in the world. Ever. When I heard this I was in my first year at Juilliard. It was the first month of school, I had just moved to New York and life seemed endless. And now its done. It was way too fast and entirely too long. I lived a million different lives in those four years. And if I could do it all over I wouldn't change a thing. But I wouldn't do it all over. Not for anything in the world.

Before I'd Even Begun...Just to Get Things Rolling

A Little Wonderland in a Not Always Wonderful World...

"I can't believe that!" said Alice. "Can't you?" the queen said in a pitying tone. "Try again, draw a long breath, and shut your eyes." Alice laughed. "There's no use trying," she said. "One can't believe impossible things." "I dare say you haven't had much practice," said the queen. "When I was your age, I always did it for half an hour a day. Why, sometimes I've believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast."

Hmmm....

Victoria and I have just created a blog. Who knew?