hollister, nyc.

Welcome to Hollister, NYC. The muscly man pictured here is one of two models hired to stand outside the opening that wafts regular clouds of stinky perfume into the street. I've tripped over their flip flops as I dodge European-tourist-oglers to reach the door to my building (which is right next door.)

On sunny days they apply zinc to their noses. On colder days, they wear hoodies. On mild days, the hoodies go unzipped.

It feels absolutely absurd to me that they help bring traffic to the store, but they must. They're there, all day, everyday, unless it's stormy.

It feels like advertising stripped down to a banal level; like you're actually watching the ground beef being extruded and shrink wrapped and you eat the burger anyway.

Sometimes I feel bad for them; like if their modeling careers were really taking off they wouldn't have to stand in the sun all day and posing with old ladies having pictures taken in their arms. I try to hide it now when my laughter erupts.

graffiti sunday.

Sundays in New York involve enjoying the free art.


(this one is right next to gowanus canal on union st. [that i catch on my bare-footed walks home from church.)
Saturdays involve playing at the park.(compliments of Josh Brown's iphone.)

girl power!

I'm finding the Hynynen sisters to be more inspirational all the time.
From Suvi
From her sister, Vilja.
P.S. The blue text above links to videos for your watching enjoyment.

still hate cats.

but this photo stole my heart.

best!

I often hear my mother's voice. I hear her when I've been too loud at parties, if I treated someone with a lack of consideration, or when I notice that the toilet needs a scrubbing. She is my voice of good will and I often hear her imagined encouragement to do the right thing. I like it most of the time.

My mother is also my greatest earthly constant. She has treated me with more encouragement, forgiveness, and patience than anyone in the face of my simultaneous lack of kindness toward her. In the absence of friends, boys to date, money, and success, she always available for meaningful conversation and a meaningless movie.

I hope to understand this kind of love someday.

I need to marry someone who takes care of me only half as well as she does.

Thanks mom.

work is good, but dinner is better.

My internship:Oh wait, that's Nate's dog, Uintah.

My desk at Modern IDENTITY:
The view out the window:
It's been really busy. Modern IDENTITY has been working on rebranding this, which you can tell has been a lot of work. (don't worry, it looks much better now.) I've been working until about 7pm everyday and then have had a lot of freelance work to do when I get home to Suvi's apartment.
Last night, after freelancing, Suvi and I ate here. (everything has a website in nyc!-- except Modern IDENTITY [but don't worry, Mim. The point of my internship in large part IS to put some key things in place in order to launch their website.])Dinner was fabulous. Restaurants provide an atmosphere most conducive to conversation of any I've encountered in my life. And I think it's probably even better in New York than places with more space. The extra volume of a metropolitan setting adds privacy/anonymity and the limited space ensures greater intimacy as it enforces sitting in closer proximity to your dining companion. And when your dining companion is as pleasant and patient and wise as Suvi it becomes a memory; a profound moment when you gain a greater perspective on where your life is really at; and remember that feeling gratitude is the only real way to be happy in life.

brooklyn noises.

I have been famous for my ability to sleep. It used to be my cure for all bad moods, R-rated films, and boredom. I could sleep anytime and anywhere and in almost any position. I once fell asleep while Tom was hanging sheet rock with a nail-gun in the room next door. I once slept through an entire Mogwai concert by inserting a pair of earplugs and resting my head on the bar toward the back of the venue. The truth is, I grew up in a nosy home. When things are too quiet, it means I am alone. When I am alone, I am more likely to feel lonely.

When I finally got my own bedroom at age 17, I acted excited. The truth is, I was a bit scared of sleeping downstairs by myself. I couldn't hear my mom vacuuming or the clank of her dish-washing in the middle of the night; only the vague, creepy noises that sounded through the heating vents overhead and occasional branches scraping against the windows at the provocation of the wind.

I arrived in New York at 5:30am after a sleepless night on the plane. Dylan met me to lug my bags through the urine-scented subway stations that led me to my new apartment. Suvi let me sleep in her bed for a hours and then woke me for church at noon. My legs were noodles as I ran to catch the bus in my best high heels. (I honestly feared that the entire lower half of my body would give out on me.) And church was enoyable/ torturous because of my enthusiasm at my own arrival and my simultaneous want for sleep. After church there was no time to return to the apartment. There was a fireside and meal in only a few hours, so I opted to sleep in the Relief Society room in the little Park Slope, Brooklyn church building. I lined three padded chairs in a row in front of the window and found a quilt meant for humanitarian aid in the unlocked closet.

There was so much noise! People filled the sidewalks in their shorts and sundresses and cars blared hip-hop songs as they stalled at the intersections. It felt wonderful.