Something about the combination of chillier fall weather and my recent love of throwback muzak is making me nostalgic these days. I had a long conversation with a random bodyguard at an event I was covering today, and he was telling me about all the artists he used to work for. We started chatting about who we thought were arguably today's biggest music moguls, and we came to the consensus that Mariah Carey still tops the charts both Stateside and internationally. Britney Spears has garnered some pretty hefty points in that department, but whether or not she has the same staying power is yet to be seen.
So I started thinking about just what it is about Mariah that's made her such a staple in our cultural consciousness. Voice? Well, eight octaves can't be a walk in the park. Image? She's gone through her low points (Glitter, anyone?) but has somehow always managed to rise above it all. So I think, glamor and tabloid fodder aside, it's simply hard work - but making it all look effortless in the process.
I mean, the reason why today's flash-in-the-pan celebs seem to just rotate in and out of the spotlight is because they're all capitalizing on their looks, their connections or their antics. But how much of it is based on simple hard work? The way the entertainment sphere works, with so many people constantly buzzing around you, helping you with your schedule, your makeup, your hair, your car door - how easy is it to become dependent on all of that, and to let your work ethic slide?
Random thoughts, I know, but I was thinking about this in these terms: Mariah's at the top of her game at 40, having just launched a new fragrance line and released a new album that critics praise as a throwback to the "old Mariah." She could have easily dropped out of the upper circles of celebrity after Glitter, or her meltdown, or a million other things. And yet she's managed to pick herself back up and recreate the kind of career she always knew she wanted to have - by no less than knowing what she wanted and going for it.
Strange to think that you can draw life lessons from someone as glam and notoriously diva-esque as Mariah, but I think there's something to be said for her concern over every meticulous detail of her career. She might have a million people handling her, but she knows what's going on. She knows how to see the big picture and work hard for what she's got.
Hmm. HANYway. End random thoughts.
Showing posts with label observation. Show all posts
Showing posts with label observation. Show all posts
29 September 2009
15 September 2009
Twitter this, twitter that
So things have obviously been a-buzz in the office as of late, what with film festivals and fashion week and awards shows to cover. Oh, awards shows. If there's one thing to be learned from the entire Kanye debacle (okay, so there's many things to be learned from the incident, but this one tops them somehow), it's that people are really starting to recognize the power of Twitter - and the dangers of it too.
It's a pretty interesting concept, being able to read all the reactions as they unfolded, both those of the celebrities in the audience and those of the people watching the show from back home. There's less of a filter that way, and as a result, I think people make themselves equal parts accessible and vulnerable.
Katy Perry saying that what Kanye did was the equivalent of "stepping on kittens" was pretty dang funny; reporters prematurely tweeting that the President called him a jackass, though, made me wonder about how careless Twittering might blur lines that are already poorly drawn.
Twittering, for what it's worth, humanizes people. When Joe the Plumber is Tweeting about his latest sandwich invention, Joe Zee of Elle could be Twittering his own thoughts on the latest Derek Lam collection at the same time. And people would actually want to read both. So I guess it's a good thing, being able to directly "talk to" your favorite musicians, actors, comedians. But once it gets to be politicians and bigger public figures who have a distinct public persona to keep up? Then it gets tricky.
Long story short, I never used to understand the point of Twitter. But now, I'm intrigued.
It's a pretty interesting concept, being able to read all the reactions as they unfolded, both those of the celebrities in the audience and those of the people watching the show from back home. There's less of a filter that way, and as a result, I think people make themselves equal parts accessible and vulnerable.
Katy Perry saying that what Kanye did was the equivalent of "stepping on kittens" was pretty dang funny; reporters prematurely tweeting that the President called him a jackass, though, made me wonder about how careless Twittering might blur lines that are already poorly drawn.
Twittering, for what it's worth, humanizes people. When Joe the Plumber is Tweeting about his latest sandwich invention, Joe Zee of Elle could be Twittering his own thoughts on the latest Derek Lam collection at the same time. And people would actually want to read both. So I guess it's a good thing, being able to directly "talk to" your favorite musicians, actors, comedians. But once it gets to be politicians and bigger public figures who have a distinct public persona to keep up? Then it gets tricky.
Long story short, I never used to understand the point of Twitter. But now, I'm intrigued.
16 June 2009
Heard on the train
A couple steps onto the train moments before the doors close shut behind them. The woman is pregnant, and the man is carrying about five large shopping bags. It's crowded, rush hour. Someone quickly gets up from his seat and shuffles to the side to let the pregnant woman sit down.
"Oh, I'm fine," she said, smiling. "He might need to sit down more than me."
She nods toward her husband's bags.
"We went shoe shopping today, I've been sitting plenty."
"Oh, I'm fine," she said, smiling. "He might need to sit down more than me."
She nods toward her husband's bags.
"We went shoe shopping today, I've been sitting plenty."
06 June 2009
Big spending
So many things come down to two factors: how much you spend, and how you spend, period. Time, money, energy, life. How you utilize your time is just as important as how much you dedicate to a given task. The quality of the things and experiences you pay for are just as significant as how much you dish out for tickets or a meal. I never wanted to see life as a transaction like this, but at a very basic level, I think I'm finding that it's true.
I tell people that I've never really liked math, but I actually (spoiler alert!) do. Given that I've found a passion in the written word, in uncertainty and crafting out the "right" answer (as well as accepting that most of the time, there IS no "right" answer), math seems to be the furthest thing from that mentality. It's regimented, exact, defined. There are rules and theories and very meticulous steps to be taken. You can't solve integrals and create your own answers, really.
But I think so much of math and economics can be used in journalism and in figuring out the ins and outs of daily life. With something as purportedly "unstructured" as writing, it's necessary to create frameworks and lists and deadlines, else I would be completely lost in a deluge of ideas, projects and distractions.
Time.
In these past few days, I've had more free time than I've had in quite a while, and it's strange on so many levels. I can see now how simple it would be to just rest easy and watch one day slip into the next, dusk turning into dawn, curled up in bed just thinking about getting things done without actually doing anything. That was my first day of down-time, simply planning out what I had to do in the coming week, and then calling it a day. But then, the unsettled antsy-ness set in.
And then, what little analytical mind I have set in (I don't have much common sense, but if I scrounge I can feign some). If I want to justify the fact that I'm paying this much money to be in the city, that my parents are putting this much faith behind my endeavors, and that I've pretty much been working toward this goal for a better part of my academic career, then I would need to get myself in gear.
Input, output.
Money.
At present, I can see two months ahead of me, and how I spend those two months will greatly impact how the rest of the year/rest of my time in NYC plays out. I started thinking about all of this because I've opted to create a running excel sheet of expenses - you know, something old, "grown-up" people do. Just to see, honestly, how much I can afford to keep trying new restaurants around town.
And that's when I realized why sites like Yelp and Timeout reel in so many users, and why reviews will always garner readership. People want to ascertain that the money that they're spending is going toward good product, even if that means that they're spending more. The majority of the things I find I spend my money on (thank you, excel sheets), are experiences, not tangible things. Concert tickets, dining out, marathon fundraising (and here I plug for anyone willing to donate to a good cause).
Energy.
And maybe this is because with experiences, you can ensure that however much money you put into them, you'll always win out because you can choose to enjoy the moment. The same way internships are only as good as the effort and energy you put into them, most life experiences are only worth as much as you make them. Hence, the things in life that are most valuable are the ones that you have to work toward. The more energy put in, the more energy is given back.
Math speaks leaps and bounds more than numbers on a page - definite answers are reassuring sometimes because they prove that there is some semblance of equilibrium to be found in our daily efforts. Spend quality time, money and energy on a project, and it's bound to give back an equal return.
Or at least, that's the hope.
That's Life.
I tell people that I've never really liked math, but I actually (spoiler alert!) do. Given that I've found a passion in the written word, in uncertainty and crafting out the "right" answer (as well as accepting that most of the time, there IS no "right" answer), math seems to be the furthest thing from that mentality. It's regimented, exact, defined. There are rules and theories and very meticulous steps to be taken. You can't solve integrals and create your own answers, really.
But I think so much of math and economics can be used in journalism and in figuring out the ins and outs of daily life. With something as purportedly "unstructured" as writing, it's necessary to create frameworks and lists and deadlines, else I would be completely lost in a deluge of ideas, projects and distractions.
Time.
In these past few days, I've had more free time than I've had in quite a while, and it's strange on so many levels. I can see now how simple it would be to just rest easy and watch one day slip into the next, dusk turning into dawn, curled up in bed just thinking about getting things done without actually doing anything. That was my first day of down-time, simply planning out what I had to do in the coming week, and then calling it a day. But then, the unsettled antsy-ness set in.
And then, what little analytical mind I have set in (I don't have much common sense, but if I scrounge I can feign some). If I want to justify the fact that I'm paying this much money to be in the city, that my parents are putting this much faith behind my endeavors, and that I've pretty much been working toward this goal for a better part of my academic career, then I would need to get myself in gear.
Input, output.
Money.
At present, I can see two months ahead of me, and how I spend those two months will greatly impact how the rest of the year/rest of my time in NYC plays out. I started thinking about all of this because I've opted to create a running excel sheet of expenses - you know, something old, "grown-up" people do. Just to see, honestly, how much I can afford to keep trying new restaurants around town.
And that's when I realized why sites like Yelp and Timeout reel in so many users, and why reviews will always garner readership. People want to ascertain that the money that they're spending is going toward good product, even if that means that they're spending more. The majority of the things I find I spend my money on (thank you, excel sheets), are experiences, not tangible things. Concert tickets, dining out, marathon fundraising (and here I plug for anyone willing to donate to a good cause).
Energy.
And maybe this is because with experiences, you can ensure that however much money you put into them, you'll always win out because you can choose to enjoy the moment. The same way internships are only as good as the effort and energy you put into them, most life experiences are only worth as much as you make them. Hence, the things in life that are most valuable are the ones that you have to work toward. The more energy put in, the more energy is given back.
Math speaks leaps and bounds more than numbers on a page - definite answers are reassuring sometimes because they prove that there is some semblance of equilibrium to be found in our daily efforts. Spend quality time, money and energy on a project, and it's bound to give back an equal return.
Or at least, that's the hope.
That's Life.
31 May 2009
Seen and heard.
Had dinner with a friend tonight, and it was an interesting conversation, both of us trying to describe our experiences with the city thus far.
Me: I know this sounds really weird, but I don't feel like New York City is actually much of a ... physical place. It's more of a state of mind or something.
Him: DUDe. I know what you mean. It's more like ... temporary. Everything feels really transient - the people, the events, everything. It's like a city on speed.
Me: Doesn't seem like anyone's ever here for very long, except for the people who've already become a part of the city - the cops, the street sweepers, the beggars. It's one or two years and then PEACE out, NYC.
Him: But at the same time ... I can totally imagine the city standing here on its own even without the people. It's got a life of its own and sometimes I feel like it would breathe better if all the people weren't suffocating it so much.
Me: I know this sounds really weird, but I don't feel like New York City is actually much of a ... physical place. It's more of a state of mind or something.
Him: DUDe. I know what you mean. It's more like ... temporary. Everything feels really transient - the people, the events, everything. It's like a city on speed.
Me: Doesn't seem like anyone's ever here for very long, except for the people who've already become a part of the city - the cops, the street sweepers, the beggars. It's one or two years and then PEACE out, NYC.
Him: But at the same time ... I can totally imagine the city standing here on its own even without the people. It's got a life of its own and sometimes I feel like it would breathe better if all the people weren't suffocating it so much.
30 May 2009
Life in motion
Movement is key to this city and probably the best reason why people hate and love NYC so much. No one or thing is ever really stagnant, and it constantly feels as though people are surging toward some greater something that I can't, and even they can't, see. But this isn't Amsterdam on Queen's Day, when hoards of people stumble around high and drunk in literal circles (okay, half circles) in search of a happening party or reason to cram their faces with more fatty bliss. Nor is this Hollywood on a Friday night, when girls stuffed into too-tight dresses and guys in Ed Hardy gear take to the streets for nights of unplanned debauchery.
New York's movement is one that encompasses these two elements, sure, but also includes the kind of simultaneous uncertainty and confidence that only this city can create. Everyone's on a journey toward something, pursuing their dreams and sacrificing finances and practicality in the process - the grand difference being that they don't do so with blinders on.
The city's all about shortcuts and detours and having a general sense of direction while pretending to know what's up. I understand now why New Yorkers are notorious for being know-it-all and condescending (though this stereotype has only held true in a rare instance so far). Living in this city means having to build up an aura of knowledge, culture and self-assuredness. If you appear that way from the outside, people are more likely to treat you as such so that you can build yourself up to that level on the inside.
Fake it till you make it.
Not to say that people are fake, just that it's getting easier to tell who's from the city, who's been here and assimilated for a bit, and who's freshly transplanted from another town. The quick pace of NYC streets reveals this well enough - seasoned pros charge into traffic, dodging cars and buses while bobbing along to their iPods. Those who have been here for a few years attempt to get away with this internal calm, but usually balk at the last minute when an errant taxi bludgeons down the street.
The newbies - they wait. They look left and right and then left again for good measure and wait for the rest of the crowds to shuffle over to the other side of the street. Their movement is more about getting to their destination in one piece than showing off their street savvy. They're more willing to wait for the "OK, go" and ironically, don't notice as many things along the way because of this dogged concentration on the end goal.
Street numbers will jump from 42nd to 14th, and it's a question of what each individual will have processed in that numerical gap.
Uncertainty and confidence.
It's a lot to try to embody and learn all in the first bit of this journey, but it's amazing how inspiring and curious walks down NYC streets can be. Time to get me some moving and shaking, and I don't mean no chess or salt.
New York's movement is one that encompasses these two elements, sure, but also includes the kind of simultaneous uncertainty and confidence that only this city can create. Everyone's on a journey toward something, pursuing their dreams and sacrificing finances and practicality in the process - the grand difference being that they don't do so with blinders on.
The city's all about shortcuts and detours and having a general sense of direction while pretending to know what's up. I understand now why New Yorkers are notorious for being know-it-all and condescending (though this stereotype has only held true in a rare instance so far). Living in this city means having to build up an aura of knowledge, culture and self-assuredness. If you appear that way from the outside, people are more likely to treat you as such so that you can build yourself up to that level on the inside.
Fake it till you make it.
Not to say that people are fake, just that it's getting easier to tell who's from the city, who's been here and assimilated for a bit, and who's freshly transplanted from another town. The quick pace of NYC streets reveals this well enough - seasoned pros charge into traffic, dodging cars and buses while bobbing along to their iPods. Those who have been here for a few years attempt to get away with this internal calm, but usually balk at the last minute when an errant taxi bludgeons down the street.
The newbies - they wait. They look left and right and then left again for good measure and wait for the rest of the crowds to shuffle over to the other side of the street. Their movement is more about getting to their destination in one piece than showing off their street savvy. They're more willing to wait for the "OK, go" and ironically, don't notice as many things along the way because of this dogged concentration on the end goal.
Street numbers will jump from 42nd to 14th, and it's a question of what each individual will have processed in that numerical gap.
Uncertainty and confidence.
It's a lot to try to embody and learn all in the first bit of this journey, but it's amazing how inspiring and curious walks down NYC streets can be. Time to get me some moving and shaking, and I don't mean no chess or salt.
28 May 2009
Small world after all
They say New York City is a melting pot for people from all different races, backgrounds, ages, religions, cultures. People from all over the world congregate in this small corner of the globe with hopes of learning more about themselves and others via close-quarter daily interactions. Given this truth, then, I guess it makes sense that living in the city really makes you realize just how small the world really is.
Take, for instance, the fact that my roommate (randomly assigned) was best friends with my former USC roommate back in third grade, when both of them lived in Oregon.
Or the fact that at least two people I know are settled into the same apartment complex as me.
Or the strange happenstance that my apartment - nay, my room - nay, my BED - is the one and the same as the one my childhood friend occupied for 1.5 years as a student at NYU.
Too many coincidences, too much serendipity, to not reason that everything happens for a reason and that things turn out the way they're supposed to in the end. It's turned from a series of What if's to a steady parade of Can you believe it's? And I think being pleasantly surprised like this is a pretty dang good thing.
The other day, I was in line for student rush tickets for Billy Elliot, and it didn't look as though the theatre was going to be selling any due to poor planning. Having worked in a theatre as an usher (random, I know, but a great experience), I know that the policy is for each theatre to reserve a certain number of tickets as student rush - else it wouldn't be fair to advertise the possibility at all. This was not the case.
The management informed the 20+ students in line that there were only 15 tickets left for the entire show that day - and seeing as how there was still a trickle of last-minute patrons paying full price for the remaining tickets, it didn't look like any would be released to the students.
I counted the students ahead of me in line. Nine. It was a gamble. If each student bought two tickets, it would be pointless to wait. If each bought just one, I was guaranteed to buy the two (one for me, one for the madre) I needed, and thus beat the system, albeit wait in line for a while.
Now, given that student rush meant prime tickets for $24 (regularly priced $160), I didn't want to forfeit the chance of ridiculously cheap tickets by stepping out of line if there was a sliver of a chance I could score the tickets.
As luck would have it, one of the girls ahead of me in line happened to live in the same building as me - we'd met and spoken briefly in the elevator when we both moved in on Sunday. We started chatting (there wasn't much else to do while everyone around us was getting angry and feisty with the management) and realized we knew some of the same people.
We had a good conversation, something I wouldn't have expected from five seconds in an elevator ride and a familiar face.
That's when the ticket manager declared that all tickets were to be sold for half price, no student discounts, at $81.50 - take it or leave it. My friend in line decided to opt out - she'd been banking on student tickets and decided to swing by another time. She gave me her place further up in line and left.
I got the last two tickets.
Small world, huge chances. Strange circumstances, happy surprises.
It's kind of ridiculous, this kind of luck. But I ain't questioning it. (:
Take, for instance, the fact that my roommate (randomly assigned) was best friends with my former USC roommate back in third grade, when both of them lived in Oregon.
Or the fact that at least two people I know are settled into the same apartment complex as me.
Or the strange happenstance that my apartment - nay, my room - nay, my BED - is the one and the same as the one my childhood friend occupied for 1.5 years as a student at NYU.
Too many coincidences, too much serendipity, to not reason that everything happens for a reason and that things turn out the way they're supposed to in the end. It's turned from a series of What if's to a steady parade of Can you believe it's? And I think being pleasantly surprised like this is a pretty dang good thing.
The other day, I was in line for student rush tickets for Billy Elliot, and it didn't look as though the theatre was going to be selling any due to poor planning. Having worked in a theatre as an usher (random, I know, but a great experience), I know that the policy is for each theatre to reserve a certain number of tickets as student rush - else it wouldn't be fair to advertise the possibility at all. This was not the case.
The management informed the 20+ students in line that there were only 15 tickets left for the entire show that day - and seeing as how there was still a trickle of last-minute patrons paying full price for the remaining tickets, it didn't look like any would be released to the students.
I counted the students ahead of me in line. Nine. It was a gamble. If each student bought two tickets, it would be pointless to wait. If each bought just one, I was guaranteed to buy the two (one for me, one for the madre) I needed, and thus beat the system, albeit wait in line for a while.
Now, given that student rush meant prime tickets for $24 (regularly priced $160), I didn't want to forfeit the chance of ridiculously cheap tickets by stepping out of line if there was a sliver of a chance I could score the tickets.
As luck would have it, one of the girls ahead of me in line happened to live in the same building as me - we'd met and spoken briefly in the elevator when we both moved in on Sunday. We started chatting (there wasn't much else to do while everyone around us was getting angry and feisty with the management) and realized we knew some of the same people.
We had a good conversation, something I wouldn't have expected from five seconds in an elevator ride and a familiar face.
That's when the ticket manager declared that all tickets were to be sold for half price, no student discounts, at $81.50 - take it or leave it. My friend in line decided to opt out - she'd been banking on student tickets and decided to swing by another time. She gave me her place further up in line and left.
I got the last two tickets.
Small world, huge chances. Strange circumstances, happy surprises.
It's kind of ridiculous, this kind of luck. But I ain't questioning it. (:
13 January 2009
One day DOWN
I'm officially done. With the first night of production for the Daily Trojan, that is. Everything ran as smoothly as I could have hoped, though we did run later than expected because we wanted to make sure that we set a high precedence at the beginning of the year in terms of clean copy, solid design and quality content. Given that this is the first time a lot of my editors have really used InDesign and actually worked together to produce an issue, I think it was a success.
The dynamic of my staff is just incredible as well - I know that I actually worried more about interpersonal relations when selecting my senior editors than competency. Not to say that I didn't take into account how news-savvy and organized they were, but I recognized that how their personalities fit in with everyone else's was going to make a world of difference for the tone of the semester. Working in good company makes life pretty dang good, even with late nights and constant tasks to take care of.
Dedicated, passionate people make me happy.
It's funny how different the start of this semester is compared to the start of the fall, when I was scrambling from one thing to the next, always feeling one step behind and failing miserably at life, etc. Though I know the semester ahead is going to be a crazy hectic one, I can already tell just from the first night that it will also be one of the best - not for the lasts that are requisite parts of senior year - but for all the firsts that I'll inevitably experience these next few months as I step into this very different realm of college.
I love change and renewing and beginning again, and I think holding this position this semester means that I'll always be learning something new - about the DT, about the campus, about the many students and the lives they lead during their four-year tenure at USC. It's so intriguing, and I just want to write write write about everything I learn.
Things always happen for a reason, and everything falls into place in due time.
I hope it all works out.
15 August 2008
Change Change Change
Constant change.
It’s a term I’ve heard countless times before, but it’s also one that I never really deemed relevant to my own life – up until now. It’s not so much the actual concept of continuous change that’s foreign to me. Rather, it’s the juxtaposition of the two words – seemingly opposites – that didn’t really make sense to me until recently.
I’ve been busy these past few weeks with balancing work and my personal life – it’s amazing (and disheartening) to see just how easily the bolstering of one so often comes at the cost of the other. Not to say that having both is impossible, just that it’s a lot harder now more than ever to find a happy medium between the two. Being on the brink of the “real world” means having to distinguish between possible and impossible aspirations.
It means having to choose which goals to pursue, and which to abandon as pipe dreams.
It means having to keep up with the constantly shifting dynamics of life and rolling with the punches.
It means, in short, sacrifice.
Constant.
“So she’s an organic farmer now,” she says between mouthfuls of sandwich. She grabs at a napkin on the wooden desk between us, absent-mindedly brushing a few wayward crumbs from the side of her mouth. She’s having a PB&J sandwich on rye, same as yesterday and the day before that. Not because it’s her favourite, but because it’s quicker to make the same sandwich for her and Sophie each morning than to pick and choose ingredients when she’s rushing out the door. When you have a four-year-old, convenience always outweighs taste.
“Who?”
I turn from the computer screen, finally pulling my eyes away from the blinking text cursor that had been taunting me for the past 20 minutes. My writer’s block isn’t going anywhere, and neither, apparently, is my story. I can afford to spare five minutes away from assignment, and maybe even keep my sanity while I’m at it.
“My friend Becky,” she says patiently. “She’s always loved farming, so when she found out they were downsizing at the Times, she beat them to the punch and quit. To become an organic farmer.”
She repeats this last part because it’s just that important. She takes another bite of sandwich before continuing. It’s almost as though she thinks clearer when she talks around her food.
“She says she was floating. She didn’t know where journalism was going to take her, so she decided to pursue the one passion she’s always had in her life – farming.”
“And she’s happy?”
It seems like a silly question, because if her friend had given up a degree, a semi-stable career and the modest income that came with it, she must be happy. She had sacrificed what appeared on the surface to be certainty for what was, in actuality, more definite than anything else in her life – her first love: farming.
“Yep, she’s more than happy. She figured that working day in and day out at a job that only semi-fulfilled her just wasn’t going to cut it. Life is too short. You look for the things that really get you and grab all your attention and you go toward them. Think about what you always find yourself drawn to, your constants, and you’ll find a way to make it work.”
Being a journalist means sacrificing sleep, family time, personal time, and perhaps most importantly, a bit of your sanity. No two days are ever the same, but in the whirlwind of responsibility and reporting that is journalism, there is always that one constant: passion. Or at least, this is what I hope.
Change.
“The market’s horrible right now,” he says, leaning back in his tall leather chair, stretching his arms up and out in feign relaxation. I don’t envy him these days. What used to be a pretty steady, reliable career has now become little more than a waiting game – play with numbers and hope that your company makes it out on top to see another day. Each day is another round of Russian roulette, and the stress of it all is obviously taking its toll.
His health is waning, the bags under his eyes more pronounced, his entire demeanor more ragged. Nothing is certain except that nothing is certain. The stocks do their daily dance and bankers everywhere can only watch helplessly.
“So you should switch out, try your hand at something different if it’s so stressful,” I offer.
“Nah, it’s not that horrible…yet,” he laughs. “For now, the unpredictability’s kind of exhilarating, it makes work exciting. I mean, it used to be that every day was exactly the same – no risks, just plugging away at numbers. Now….now there’s something at stake. My job. Everything I do counts.”
Constant change.
So if this is the case, then maybe it isn’t consistency or change that fuels people who are stuck in otherwise chaotic or stagnant jobs, respectively. Maybe it’s just knowing that, at the end of the day, you can count on tomorrow being as unpredictable as today. Maybe knowing that you need to be on edge all the time is the key to happiness in a career.
Maybe.
At the risk of sounding cliché (who am I kidding – I only write in clichés…), change is inevitable. But now I know that trying to establish a healthy balancing act between past and present, personal and public, is actually not only inevitable, but healthy as well. Life is all about change and adjustment and advancement, and the moment you stop learning is really the moment you stop living.
Constant. Change.
It’s a term I’ve heard countless times before, but it’s also one that I never really deemed relevant to my own life – up until now. It’s not so much the actual concept of continuous change that’s foreign to me. Rather, it’s the juxtaposition of the two words – seemingly opposites – that didn’t really make sense to me until recently.
I’ve been busy these past few weeks with balancing work and my personal life – it’s amazing (and disheartening) to see just how easily the bolstering of one so often comes at the cost of the other. Not to say that having both is impossible, just that it’s a lot harder now more than ever to find a happy medium between the two. Being on the brink of the “real world” means having to distinguish between possible and impossible aspirations.
It means having to choose which goals to pursue, and which to abandon as pipe dreams.
It means having to keep up with the constantly shifting dynamics of life and rolling with the punches.
It means, in short, sacrifice.
Constant.
“So she’s an organic farmer now,” she says between mouthfuls of sandwich. She grabs at a napkin on the wooden desk between us, absent-mindedly brushing a few wayward crumbs from the side of her mouth. She’s having a PB&J sandwich on rye, same as yesterday and the day before that. Not because it’s her favourite, but because it’s quicker to make the same sandwich for her and Sophie each morning than to pick and choose ingredients when she’s rushing out the door. When you have a four-year-old, convenience always outweighs taste.
“Who?”
I turn from the computer screen, finally pulling my eyes away from the blinking text cursor that had been taunting me for the past 20 minutes. My writer’s block isn’t going anywhere, and neither, apparently, is my story. I can afford to spare five minutes away from assignment, and maybe even keep my sanity while I’m at it.
“My friend Becky,” she says patiently. “She’s always loved farming, so when she found out they were downsizing at the Times, she beat them to the punch and quit. To become an organic farmer.”
She repeats this last part because it’s just that important. She takes another bite of sandwich before continuing. It’s almost as though she thinks clearer when she talks around her food.
“She says she was floating. She didn’t know where journalism was going to take her, so she decided to pursue the one passion she’s always had in her life – farming.”
“And she’s happy?”
It seems like a silly question, because if her friend had given up a degree, a semi-stable career and the modest income that came with it, she must be happy. She had sacrificed what appeared on the surface to be certainty for what was, in actuality, more definite than anything else in her life – her first love: farming.
“Yep, she’s more than happy. She figured that working day in and day out at a job that only semi-fulfilled her just wasn’t going to cut it. Life is too short. You look for the things that really get you and grab all your attention and you go toward them. Think about what you always find yourself drawn to, your constants, and you’ll find a way to make it work.”
Being a journalist means sacrificing sleep, family time, personal time, and perhaps most importantly, a bit of your sanity. No two days are ever the same, but in the whirlwind of responsibility and reporting that is journalism, there is always that one constant: passion. Or at least, this is what I hope.
Change.
“The market’s horrible right now,” he says, leaning back in his tall leather chair, stretching his arms up and out in feign relaxation. I don’t envy him these days. What used to be a pretty steady, reliable career has now become little more than a waiting game – play with numbers and hope that your company makes it out on top to see another day. Each day is another round of Russian roulette, and the stress of it all is obviously taking its toll.
His health is waning, the bags under his eyes more pronounced, his entire demeanor more ragged. Nothing is certain except that nothing is certain. The stocks do their daily dance and bankers everywhere can only watch helplessly.
“So you should switch out, try your hand at something different if it’s so stressful,” I offer.
“Nah, it’s not that horrible…yet,” he laughs. “For now, the unpredictability’s kind of exhilarating, it makes work exciting. I mean, it used to be that every day was exactly the same – no risks, just plugging away at numbers. Now….now there’s something at stake. My job. Everything I do counts.”
Constant change.
So if this is the case, then maybe it isn’t consistency or change that fuels people who are stuck in otherwise chaotic or stagnant jobs, respectively. Maybe it’s just knowing that, at the end of the day, you can count on tomorrow being as unpredictable as today. Maybe knowing that you need to be on edge all the time is the key to happiness in a career.
Maybe.
At the risk of sounding cliché (who am I kidding – I only write in clichés…), change is inevitable. But now I know that trying to establish a healthy balancing act between past and present, personal and public, is actually not only inevitable, but healthy as well. Life is all about change and adjustment and advancement, and the moment you stop learning is really the moment you stop living.
Constant. Change.
10 August 2008
Post-its and Lists
If there's one thing I know all too well about myself, it's that I don't do multitasking. I've been blessed and cursed with what can best be dubbed a "one track mind."
It's not that I only have one thing on my mind at all times (i.e. What it means for guys to have a "one track mind"). In fact, I usually have 5 million thoughts racing through my head at any given moment. Rather, it’s more that I've trained myself to never divert my attention from the task at hand, for better or worse.
I cannot type and talk in multiple conversations; walk and eat at the same time; or perhaps most unforgivable, fully invest myself in a new project if I’m in the middle of another one. My mind just doesn’t have the capacity to work that way, har har.
But I’ve figured out recently that thinking this way works for me.
This is why I move through tasks relatively slowly, ensuring that everything is done to a certain degree of completion before even being able to think about the next step.
Or maybe that’s just the excuse I give myself for being so single-task-minded.
In reality, I think the truth is a lot simpler than that: Nothing makes me happier than crossing things off my never-ending to-do list.
My life is made up of post-its strewn throughout my room, spilling out of my notebooks, stuck carefully on the edge of my dashboard. I look at each day as a post-it, each part of my day filled with bulleted lists and checks and arrows – what’s the priority and what isn’t necessary? How can I break down the overwhelming flood of responsibilities into bite-size, manageable items on a list?
The method’s worked for me thus far, but I’ve been wondering recently if this is the best way to go about each day, working endlessly just to complete tasks but not necessarily enjoy them. So I’ve started adding other things to my lists, interspersing the need-to-do’s with the have-to-do’s (initially seem to be the same concept, but there IS a subtle difference between the two).
Need to do:
Finish scholarship applications.
Have to do:
Return personal emails and phone calls. Catch up with old friends.
Need to do:
Copy-edit incoming stories and return them to my writers.
Have to do:
Start pitching story ideas to begin freelancing.
Need to do:
Drop off laundry, pick up books, buy groceries, clean room, order tickets, write thank-you cards, wash the car, get my ish together.
Have to do:
Breathe.
My lists are getting more focused as I start to realize just where my priorities are. It’s all about balancing the personal with the professional, private with public, and I think I’ve struck a happy medium. Life’s been really good to me lately, and I’d like to think I can attribute this contentment to the new additions to my list.
My life story is written on a series of post-its, and I love it. It’s a form of temporary adherence – no permanence, just a few notes and reminders and a few scratches along the way to make sure my thoughts (and my ink!) are still flowing.
Forget about getting stuck in a rut or dwelling on the negative aspects of being “one track minded.” Living my life this way means that I literally only have to worry about one thing at a time, and if I have a bad day, I know I can paste over it tomorrow.
One list, one item, one step at a time.
It's not that I only have one thing on my mind at all times (i.e. What it means for guys to have a "one track mind"). In fact, I usually have 5 million thoughts racing through my head at any given moment. Rather, it’s more that I've trained myself to never divert my attention from the task at hand, for better or worse.
I cannot type and talk in multiple conversations; walk and eat at the same time; or perhaps most unforgivable, fully invest myself in a new project if I’m in the middle of another one. My mind just doesn’t have the capacity to work that way, har har.
But I’ve figured out recently that thinking this way works for me.
This is why I move through tasks relatively slowly, ensuring that everything is done to a certain degree of completion before even being able to think about the next step.
Or maybe that’s just the excuse I give myself for being so single-task-minded.
In reality, I think the truth is a lot simpler than that: Nothing makes me happier than crossing things off my never-ending to-do list.
My life is made up of post-its strewn throughout my room, spilling out of my notebooks, stuck carefully on the edge of my dashboard. I look at each day as a post-it, each part of my day filled with bulleted lists and checks and arrows – what’s the priority and what isn’t necessary? How can I break down the overwhelming flood of responsibilities into bite-size, manageable items on a list?
The method’s worked for me thus far, but I’ve been wondering recently if this is the best way to go about each day, working endlessly just to complete tasks but not necessarily enjoy them. So I’ve started adding other things to my lists, interspersing the need-to-do’s with the have-to-do’s (initially seem to be the same concept, but there IS a subtle difference between the two).
Need to do:
Finish scholarship applications.
Have to do:
Return personal emails and phone calls. Catch up with old friends.
Need to do:
Copy-edit incoming stories and return them to my writers.
Have to do:
Start pitching story ideas to begin freelancing.
Need to do:
Drop off laundry, pick up books, buy groceries, clean room, order tickets, write thank-you cards, wash the car, get my ish together.
Have to do:
Breathe.
My lists are getting more focused as I start to realize just where my priorities are. It’s all about balancing the personal with the professional, private with public, and I think I’ve struck a happy medium. Life’s been really good to me lately, and I’d like to think I can attribute this contentment to the new additions to my list.
My life story is written on a series of post-its, and I love it. It’s a form of temporary adherence – no permanence, just a few notes and reminders and a few scratches along the way to make sure my thoughts (and my ink!) are still flowing.
Forget about getting stuck in a rut or dwelling on the negative aspects of being “one track minded.” Living my life this way means that I literally only have to worry about one thing at a time, and if I have a bad day, I know I can paste over it tomorrow.
One list, one item, one step at a time.
28 June 2008
Isolation and Solitude
It’s a shame that more people don’t walk in L.A. It’s too bad that the convenience of speeding from one location to the next outweighs the therapeutic effects of a casual stroll down Wilshire.
It’s dusk and as I shuffle along the sidewalk, only glancing up at every third car horn, I notice that I’ve already passed five cars in the span of 20 steps. I’m counting. They haven’t moved. I have. I shift my eyes to the right and study the face of a businessman mouthing angry words into his Bluetooth headset. Fancy car, fancy man. Everything about him is clean in a way that is uncomfortable and, moreover, unhealthy.
It looks like he’s washed and pressed his shirt a thousand times before donning it, a pristine disguise meant to conceal his very human flaws.
I wonder how many times he scrubbed his hands at the sink before leaving the office, purging himself of the germs he no doubt contracted from one handshake after the next.. Human interaction, washed down the drain.
Do his kids run out to greet him when he gets home, I wonder?
A large sedan tries to merge in front of his car. Red light. No one is moving, and yet the man in the pressed shirt inches forward to prove a point. Do not pass. Every man for himself and damn the rest.
Isolation. I know nothing about this man, can only judge him based on this quick snapshot of his life. It’s not his best moment. I momentarily catch his eye, and I quickly pretend as though I’m looking through his window at a point just beyond his head. Behind my sunglasses, I close my eyes quickly in a silent apology.
It’s wrong to stare.
I continue on my walk down Wilshire, and I’m all too aware that I’m the only one out on the barren L.A. sidewalk. It’s too much. The smell of car fumes finally gives way to the overwhelming scent of pines as I make a quick left to start the steep ascent up a hilly residential street.
Escape.
People say they need therapy to figure out what’s wrong with them, what other people have that they don’t. Money. Happiness. Sanity. Time. They want a quick fix, a diagnosis and a pat on the back and reassurance that everything will be okay – they don’t have time to dig deeper toward the root of the problem, nor do they want to admit that their dissatisfaction might stem from a problem within themselves.
Generally speaking, people are always in pursuit of a kind of simplicity they claim to have achieved at some point in their lives. The reality, though, is that this simplicity still resides within them, and always will.
But it takes a certain kind of calm to find it again. The kind of calm they can only find in solitude, but never in isolation.
Walk it out.
It’s dusk and as I shuffle along the sidewalk, only glancing up at every third car horn, I notice that I’ve already passed five cars in the span of 20 steps. I’m counting. They haven’t moved. I have. I shift my eyes to the right and study the face of a businessman mouthing angry words into his Bluetooth headset. Fancy car, fancy man. Everything about him is clean in a way that is uncomfortable and, moreover, unhealthy.
It looks like he’s washed and pressed his shirt a thousand times before donning it, a pristine disguise meant to conceal his very human flaws.
I wonder how many times he scrubbed his hands at the sink before leaving the office, purging himself of the germs he no doubt contracted from one handshake after the next.. Human interaction, washed down the drain.
Do his kids run out to greet him when he gets home, I wonder?
A large sedan tries to merge in front of his car. Red light. No one is moving, and yet the man in the pressed shirt inches forward to prove a point. Do not pass. Every man for himself and damn the rest.
Isolation. I know nothing about this man, can only judge him based on this quick snapshot of his life. It’s not his best moment. I momentarily catch his eye, and I quickly pretend as though I’m looking through his window at a point just beyond his head. Behind my sunglasses, I close my eyes quickly in a silent apology.
It’s wrong to stare.
I continue on my walk down Wilshire, and I’m all too aware that I’m the only one out on the barren L.A. sidewalk. It’s too much. The smell of car fumes finally gives way to the overwhelming scent of pines as I make a quick left to start the steep ascent up a hilly residential street.
Escape.
People say they need therapy to figure out what’s wrong with them, what other people have that they don’t. Money. Happiness. Sanity. Time. They want a quick fix, a diagnosis and a pat on the back and reassurance that everything will be okay – they don’t have time to dig deeper toward the root of the problem, nor do they want to admit that their dissatisfaction might stem from a problem within themselves.
Generally speaking, people are always in pursuit of a kind of simplicity they claim to have achieved at some point in their lives. The reality, though, is that this simplicity still resides within them, and always will.
But it takes a certain kind of calm to find it again. The kind of calm they can only find in solitude, but never in isolation.
Walk it out.
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