After 5 months, "I'm" Baaack

It's really weird to say "I'm back" because I'm not really back, I didn't die, I didn't go into an insane asylum or re-hab for 5 months-- what I think really happened was that I lost myself to... My Self? Nope, strike that. I became so focused on the DOING and ACHIEVING that I think I forgot the reflecting. So painfully Buddhist of me! Now, chained to my computer in an obligatory race to finish my last 12page paper of my college career, the mad thoughts start running again. Maybe I need to throw myself in ridiculous situations to get some good musings.

I guess a good place to start is the beginning of Nelly Furtado's "Do it." What an obnoxious and whiny start to a song: "Someone needs to, like, RAP off the top." I'm ashamed for having it on my ipod, if only for its mediocre workout beats.

I'm currently reading the second half of my Rhetoric of the Myth class from March 30th-present day in, literally, 2 days before writing my paper. My reflections on the transition from agrarian to industrial society in the Gilded Age are intermittently interrupted by the footsteps of roommates making food, cars driving in the rain, and distant airplanes. I hate the libraries and refuse to re-visit the caves of the Main Stacks, I place I thought I had to live freshman year.

I try extremely hard to curb my anger, along with my enthusiasm (though that's easy) at the tiny distractions inherent within any impending deadline. All noises seem magnified, and again I'm left to wonder: Is it really just me???

I found a 2 page musing in one of my class notebooks today and it never ceases to amaze me how sad I sound in my first-person ramblings about the stresses of being a twenty-something. This is the stuff of memories, am I right?

I'm noticing that each paragraph is tending to begin with "I"-- what a selfish move!

I wouldn't have it any other way though. At least not now.

I also think most of my writing comes tinged with bitter sarcasm, and I'm wondering if that's a symptom of my psyche, or a response to an absurd world? (See: some article in the New Yorker about definition of anxiety & depression). I suppose if I took Freud's advice, or called up a certified therapist covered by my blue cross plan, I could pay to hear some grounded scientific responses that would at least temporarily curb my worrying.

When you're tired, everyone annoys you-- but what if you're chronically tired, tired of this game and the ones who think they've "won"-- tired of the virtual social arena in which we're entrenched-- tired of the tired rhetoric of immanent "Real Life." Part of me wants to flee-- to rely on that ever-itching disease of movement, to mirror my thoughts-- but because of my plaguing sense of over-awareness, I KNOW painfully that fleeing is just an attempt to reach a new physical location where my mind may hopefully follow suit. The weight and heaviness of it "all" sometimes fades behind wafts of Star Jasmine, conversations with seemingly confident people, or warm twilight runs on my own.

I often wonder if my "I" is really a "me"--If my writing is worthy of incandescence, or merely symptomatic of my culture, my time, my psyche?

Do I write to protect myself from this feeling of needing to "go back," to return to a state more simple? Do the people in my classes take comfort in hearing themselves talk about anything that seeeeeeems relevant to the reading? With their flittering hands and detailed notes-- that used to be me. I become dizzy sometimes, dizzy from all the swirling emotions around me, and then the bell rings.

We sit at cafes, contemplating the rapid passage of time as if to somehow stop its continual spinning-- but the most we can do is talk of it slowly, sitting on stoops and walking the young Berkeley air-- fated attempts to place All of This in a time capsule.

"Just do your finals so you can advance in the social order." That's one social-darwinian approach.

"I have three finals, but whatever, on Thursday I'm getting blacked out." That's another escapist view from someone who seems to resist the System, but still succumbs to its ultimate shittiness by self-medicating.

I see albums on facebook of people beginning their careers-- very respectable careers as nurses or EMTs or even the beginning of law school and I think how miserable I would be in such positions. But for them it is a happy, happy time-- the dawn of a new era of adulthood for which they are excited and immensely prepared.

I, on the other hand, am 22 years old and still feel like I'm 19. Though my brain has millions more thoughts and patterns and information, my body still longs to play lacrosse all weekend for fun, to go to the beach and to write without obligation. Such is the dilemma of being pulled in two directions. Such is graduation.

Somehow this post turned from bitter to nostalgic real quickly, but I'll just go with it.

"To think in our culture is to have answers-- It's the American way. To see polarizations is to see divisions [...] but what exists under it all is a dynamic and creative tension..." -some quote overheard in some class, they all blend together.

To end this thing finally I must ask: Who am I writing for, if not myself? I don't have an audience to entertain.... I have a brain to iron out. But still, I will link this baby to the ultimate network of facebook in the hopes that some/many procrastinators will read such neurotic thoughts and perhaps think a little bit about why they're working and studying so hard--

What's it all worth?
Do well now so you can get a good job?
Or maybe it's become so ingrained that we don't even question the process of cramming anymore-- get hyped up on ritalin, learn a bunch of knowledge, and then forget it two weeks from now?
For me at least, I'll think these things for a little and return to the work I've chosen not to do for the latter half of the semester because I've actually started to realize what does make me happy: writing, creating, and producing comedic shorts-- a weird choice for such a seemingly "heavy" thinker. But notice I still return to the work. I will get it done-- we all do. Why?

The narrative equips us for modern life.

Coffee Gives You Wings, But Where Shall You Fly?

Sip back on the sweet earthly liquid of the Gods, inhaling and exhaling the speed of sound- because when sound sounds like the sound of a foamy latte, you know you've had enough or just enough caffeinated goodness for one bear. My goal is to speak as incomprehensibly as possible, but yet did I not still have to announce that? Attentional disorders and stimulus over-inclusion prevent flow because psychic energy is too fluid and erratic. Excessive self-consciousness prevents flow for the opposite reason: attention is too rigid and tight. So if the impediments to Flow come from the individual, does environment not matter at all? It does. One could say I've reached a state of Flow, at least for the time being, and I encourage you all to try it. Of course, I don't know who You All are, and I don't know what It is, but still- try it. Chances are you know what I'm talking about (no, not weed, for Bear's sake) - flow: a state of mental and psychological release in which you are completely and wholly engaged in one activity- not thinking, not judging, simply, as it were, NOOSHING. For a definition of this term, please see here: 

http://panrising.blogspot.com/search?updated-max=2008-09-03T03%3A10%3A00-07%3A00&max-results=7

Did that work?

When I go back to Berkeley, I will once again have to make linear, logical arguments. But that doesn't mean I can't drink some crack-cocaine-coffee and jump in and out of arguments. 

Alright, here's the deal. To be honest, today I witnessed a lady sitting next to me at a cafe, consuming straight up packets of Splenda. I thought she would stop at two. As I sat there with my ipod in, laughing to myself at this annoying but hilariously ridiculous situation, she opens packet number three, and four. What is this? I am not mentally and emotionally stable enough to handle a woman nearly 1 foot away from me, licking her fingers loudly from this cancer-powder, I'm just not. Maybe after a couple meditation sessions, I could- but was there a yoga instructor at that table? No. And she opens packet number five. Maybe she's homeless, I thought. That would be a shame. Then I would just be getting annoyed at someone else's attempt to attain sustenance, and that's really sad and deplorable. No, she had a nice bag with her, and also had bought a coffee, so this was impossible. Anyway, I had no way of knowing, so my only choice was to assume that she had an intense craving and perhaps addiction to Splenda. Packet number six- then seven. Alright, this is ridiculous. Is anyone else seeing or hearing this? No. No. I am alone in my misery. But it really wasn't that bad, more funny really. Who am I to judge? Who am I, really? That's a whole other question. But come on, I probably do some weird shit too- for instance, most of the time I speak in abbreviated words with the addition of animals for certain nouns, and that may very well seem certifiably insane, but everyone knows it's just my baseline mode of communication when I'm not writing and have to present myself at least decently for the Internet world. 

Thank G-d I got a call from a friend and could step away at least briefly from this episode of Curb. It's nice to be able to exit the TV. So we talk for a while, I explain the situation, and as I'm turning to go back to my table, Splenda woman walks by, eating what I could only assume was her ninth or tenth packet. At this point, I was genuinely worried for her health. If you have 10 packets of Splenda per day, that's seriously got to give you cancer in at least a couple years, tops. And if you talk on a cell phone regularly, then you're done for. [that last line is not supported by any concrete evidence]. My point being: there isn't one, really. Just another day in paradise. 

So one of my internships ended, and maybe that's why I find myself writing again with no purpose, argument, or initiative. Out of college, money spent, see no future, pay no rent. Strike that, edit: still in college, money spent, see some future, parents pay rent. Yeah, I'm grateful, but I'm getting a job my last semester in Berkeley, so it's okay! Either that, or I will resort to singing over-enthusiastic Destiny's Child's songs on the corner of Dwight and Telegraph, much to the dismay of my friends, who would probably film it and put it online. I have no shame. That's a lie- I have much shame, and only wrote that line as if I were a character in my own book - a female holden caufield- capable of living spontaneously. Who knows, if I had the energy and ballz (uterus?) to dare to dream and live like no one was watching while I dance, I could be the change I wish to see in the world-- problem is, I don't really want to see the addition of spontaneous and over-indulgent displays of freedom manifested through song. If I wanted that, I'd just turn on Glee (which I do, every Wednesday). Everyone can hate on Mr. Shuster's hair, but I think it's sexy.

Anyway, here's what I WOULD want to see. Ladies and gentlemen, prepare yourselves for a brief, *brief*, intro to the Philosophy of Chillness (an addendum to The Art of Panooshing). To begin, there are two types of people in this world: Those who are Down, and those who are Not. Those who are Not frequently go by other names such as Vampires and Truth-Mongers, and pride themselves on chastising others, using words such as "should/n't" following a personal pronoun in command form ("You know, you really shouldn't do that..."). Those who are Down, on the other hand, wear Nike Airs and skip across the streets [metaphorically], refusing to "believe" in a Philosophy of Chillness and instead choosing to LIVE it. They're Nooshers, plain and simple. If you ask a person who's Down if they're Down, they'll probably respond, "Well, For Sure I'm Down." Although many outwardly identifiable hipsters may seem like they're Down, a lot of them are not, as evidenced by the anger and or incredulity they experience when asked if they are a hipster. A person who is Down doesn't care what group he/she fits. But isn't that the anthem of hipsterdom? Not really. If you look closely, behind the clothes and witty remarks drenched in satirical pop-culture references that embrace otherwise shunned-VH1 shows, hipsters are just hesitant people who are NOT Down to Chill, unless they are in familiar surroundings. Therefore, while a person who is Down may happen to dress like a hipster (wardrobe doesn't matter), a person who is a hipster by all visual and auditory accounts may not necessarily be Down. 

If you find yourself struggling to follow this logic, you are not down. You see, Chillness knows no boundary and does not need supported "facts"-- there are no rules, really, besides all of the ones I just mentioned. The Philosophy of Chillness is just a phrase that represents an ongoing and evolving flexibility WITH and affirmation OF life's twists and turns. Shit may, in fact, get difficult- as it always does in life-  but in the end, those who are Down are always going to be Down, and those who suck the blood out of an otherwise innocent and self-sufficient population of fellow human beings, are not Down. Too harsh? Let me try that again. Those who are Chill don't drink on the hater-ade, and those who are not Chill need the hater-ade for energy to make it through the day.

Enough of this, I'm starting to preach. Maybe if I had an angle, see. That's what you need kid, a theme. Enough of this Felbs and the City- it's false advertising! Do I ever talk about the city? Does it even really matter where I'm writing from? So I live in New York City, the greatest fuckin city in the world, big deal. In a couple weeks, I'm moving back to Los Angeles- who will win the battle of the coasts? Find out after these messages. Truth is, I was changed by living here, but I also would've been changed if I have moved to Detroit. Point is to keep moving your feet people, never settle. Complacency is the breeding ground for mediocrity. Or maybe it's the reverse. I wouldn't know because I just made that up. 

Alright, I hope you all have had a colorful journey on the Felbs Train. Join me next time when I de-bunk the myths of self-proclaimed "bloggers," people who use all-caps in the third person, often in conjunction with a popular societal phrase to express a self-aware sense of irony, (GET A LOAD OF THIS GUY, AM I RIGHT?!), and finally the purpose of doing physical jigs mid-conversation (There is none, so spare us). 

I'm KT Felbs, I'm just a *little* neurotic, and anything you say can and will be used against you in the Court of Life. 

Never too Late...Always, Always too Soon

We all know it's never too late for a blog entry, for a last-minute wedding gift, or for an impulsive drive to Mexico for authentic tacos. But what most of us don't know is that's it's always, always too soon to say, do, or act in any way, shape, or form that might resemble, invoke, or call to question the relevancy, importance, or seriousness of a recent turn of events, activities, or breaking news. If you think I like to type in lists of threes- first of all, you're correct. Second of all, you may be wondering: how can something be too soon? And finally, to answer your question: I won't.  I am merely the gateway- the provoker- the teaser- of thoughts, ideas, and emotions. Think about it though. Most of the stuff you say will, within minutes- even seconds!- becomes too soon to have even thought or said it. And I'm not talking about your typical Michael Jackson reference. Have some class, people. I'm talking about any sickness, health discovery, birthday, anniversary, sentence, grocery store trip, celery stick, yoga session, congratulatory remark, mistake, swimming pool adventure, or failed math test. Basically, all of life is too soon. Once it happens, POOF it's out there! Out where? There. We're not ready for it. We just aren't.

To most of you who don't know me (aka zero, because who reads this anyway?) you will demand that my argument makes NO sense. None! What does she mean "all life is too soon?" What is the premise of this claim? More importantly, soon compared to what? On time? Perhaps. But when nothing is on time- when is it too late? Starting with the observation that everything will always be too soon (because, let's face it, things are unfolding at a rapid pace, even Steven Hawking can't keep up)- then by default, it can never, ever be too late. You can always make up a missed opportunity, a high five, a meal, a workout-- in fact, we have to capitalize on Things Never Being Too Late because, as we learned above, it will always be too soon to do, say, conclude anything. So, with no choice but to jump on the train after-the-fact, you simply wait for the 'too-soon' moment to leave (it will... give it time!), and then do whatever it was you were supposed to do. As a result, "Too late" becomes "On time," and because the present moment is Always Too Soon, it simply fades to dusk (copyright dashboard confessional lyric). The stakes? Well, us robot-humanoids have no choice but to surrender to the limbo-land of recycled time and elastic deadlines, constantly on edge, but on the edge of nothing. Hmm?

I wouldn't trust anything I type if I were you. Do you want some reality-speak? I have a month more to go in this amazing city called Nueva York, and know that I will return eventually. So while the leaves rustle change, and the homeless man asks for change,  I think that it's about time to compose some nonsense. To begin, when nonsense can also be sense, what is right? More importantly, do you tie your scarf in a knot, or wrap it around your neck loosely? These are pressing issues that you will have to answer at some point in your life. Gain detergent comes in regular wash, AND fabric softener- which do you choose? Diet snapple, or regular? Would you want to risk the extra 110 calories to know that you've lowered your chances of getting cancer from Aspartame?

Alright, let me ask you a serious question. Since when does Pandora play a commercial every time- EVERY time- you switch channels? It's beyond me. I'm gonna stop paying them. 

Don't you just sigh a nice sigh of relief when you hear "Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robot?" I do. It speaks of young, youthful times- carefree times. Nothing like it. Where was I -- ah yes, the sun setting. I think that's why some feel it's necessary to go out and soak it all up in the winter, because it'll just be gone in a couple hours. I might stay inside all day though. It's tempting. Speaking of tempting, a dream of mine is to interview a series of top executives or Very Important People and ask them their views on life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. In terms of happiness, do they have it? Know it? Feel it? 

Let's talk about love for a second or two. Nietzche-- oy, Nietzsche! Would you get a load of this guy? "For the most part, [love is when] two beasts find each other." But even your best love is merely an ecstatic parable and a painful ardor. It is a torch that should light up higher paths for you. Over and beyond yourselves you shall love one day. Thus, LEARN first to love. And for that you have to drain the bitter cup of your love. Bitterness lies in the cup of even the best love. 

Sip.

I have a dream. I have a dream that one day I will speak solely in a newscaster's voice, going about the trivialities (is that a word?) of my day, but making them seem 10x more important by adding dramatic intonations to every word, exclamation, and observation that comes out of my mouth. Passersby will be intrigued when they overhear my chatter in the clothing store; the bus driver will be on the edge of his seat when I double-check the fare: "$2.50? For ONE ride? Well, you heard it from the source, it's not 1929 anymore, and I in fact, need a job to continue to afford this absurdity." 

I'm almost 99% sure that if people took whatever was in their brains and splattered it out onto paper, half of the finished product would be stupid society-induced stresses, and the other half would be pure genius. I just noticed a leaf floating outside very slowly- I wonder if it has a driver: maybe a small bear navigating it safely toward the ground or on top of a man's hat. 

The muted trumpet is a very, very good tactic to evoke an old-city feel on a low budget. Then again, I'm not sure how much a trumpet costs, or a muter for that matter-- or lessons to learn how to play it. But I'm sure it can be done. 

Do you feel guilty for staying inside? Do you ever feel like there is a world full of eager people "enjoying the day" outside and you must do the same? If this sounds like you, you may be suffering from seasonal holiday guilt, caused by images of people in pea coats, laughing with their pets and holding starbucks cups as they stroll down the street below you. But fear not, there is a cure! Just remind yourselves that they're cold, or tired, or experiencing fleeting happiness that will soon turn into hunger, relieved by a trip inside a restaurant. So just order in! Cut out the middle man and go outside tomorrow. You'll be fine. 

Ok I'm convinced that NO ONE has read until the end of this, so I'll just stop now. What am I thankful for you ask? Here it is, my Thanksgiving list, in order of importance:

1. Bears

2. Friendly Bears

3. Goats

4. McGoats

5. Goats in Coats

6. Soymilk Lattes from places that aren't Starbucks

7. The opening scene of Woody Allen's "Manhattan"

8. Father and Mother

9. Brother, when I see him

10. Peanut Butter Puffins 

11. Free food at work

12. Andy Samberg (he would be at #1 if I met him, but for now he is just a part of my imagination)

13. Zabar's 

14. kick-ass Pilates classes

15. Throwback 90s songs

16. Running by the Hudson River

17. Bear-Goats with Labrador Retriever Faces 

18. The sound of Music (not the movie, but the actual sound)

19. Getting my back cracked and/or massaged

20. Making little kids laugh (this should not be interpreted as creepy, pls) 

And with that, I'm out. Speak to you all soon, but maybe not, because long-form blogging is on its way out and you probably prefer "the twitter," am I right?

PAYCE

Sickness Overshadowed by Fall in New York

I'm not sure anymore who cares to read this, but for me at least it helps clear my mind. Can't believe the last entry was September-- today's October 19th and life is still beating here in the city. I'm taking a preemptive strike against a rising chest cold by downing cup after cup of throat coat tea and catching up on my online television. 

The last couple weeks have been a whirlwind of nothing much really. I'm kidding, it's been great. Walking to work, venturing to Cleveland for a wedding, seeing a live taping of SNL, and doing a lot of thinking and observing. It's weird to not be in a college environment where my mind is constantly stimulated by new theories, and so I find myself falling into a familiar rhythm that I think a lot of "working" people experience. Note to self: cultivate life OUTSIDE of work, lest you will turn into a stomping vampire in high heels with ungrounded feelings of grandeur and a sad caffeine addiction. Not everything is bad, though. I still dig walking through the park, and playing in an indoor soccer league on weekends. Maybe that's why I've been a bit off: I got hit in the face last week in my game, suffering what I thought to be a minor concussion but what the ref called "just a bump." Hmm. Hypochondriacs prevail, evidenced by my recent google searches of swine flu symptoms, aftermath of concussions, and homeopathic treatment for nasal congestion. Wow, does living in New York really have to increase my neuroticism? Yes. 

But there are gleeful aspects of this all. I'm meeting really cool people at my internships, and experiencing little subcultures of the city. On November 8th I shall see my husband-to-be Andy perform at the New York Comedy festival. In the meantime, I'll be working on my own sketches for next spring. Is it weird I can't wait to be a student again? The pulling pressure of "what to do what to do what to do" now and after college needs to disappear, because if I remind myself to step out of this cutthroat world, all I see is time. Time's arms outstretched, nothing but time (and when time is not greater than or equal to money, the world seems golden). 

Apologies for the despondent entry. But I guess I had to at least write something to make it look like I'm alive and breathing (check) and am enjoying the greatest season of all: Fall in New York.  Inspiration is tricky- usually something bad or extremely good needs to happen to me in order for me to have that burning desire to write... maybe I need to read more. Probably. All I know is that all the leaves are brown and red and golden and it's exquisite. 

Five Billion Theories Under the Sea

Hey. Sup? I'm trying out a new format of blogging in which I don't sound like a Carrie Bradshaw-wannabe and conclude every entry with a nugget of wisdom and a tale for Hollywood to sell. For the three people who read this: I know its been nearly 3 weeks since I've written- so sue me. Susan Sarandon me. I give you all the news that's fit to print and worthy of being published. Strike all of that. In all honesty, it's been hard to write considering I can't say anything about my jobs, so from now on you all will be reading a fiction novel, brought to you by Katie Felber with all names, places, thoughts, and feelings made up.  

But what is "made up" really, but traces of our subconscious wants and desires? (Holler Freud, I'm not sure I believe anything I type, ingest that skepticism plz). More importantly, I would like to ask: why do I feel contractually bound to an invisible Internet land to present my hopes, dreams, and realizations in written format with a 3-act structure worthy of telling and delivering an eventual catharsis?  Let me answer that with a sentiment from Charlie Kaufman's "Adaptation" -- namely the scene in which lecturer Robert McKee rips Nick Cage's character apart for wanting to resist telling a story in film:

You write a screenplay without conflict or crisis, you’ll bore your audience to tears. Secondly, nothing happens in the world? Are you out of your f*cking mind? People are murdered everyday. There’s genocide, war, corruption, everyday somewhere in the world somebody sacrifices himself to save someone else […] people find love, people lose it—if you can’t find that stuff in life, then you know nothing about life!

 

Yeah, Ok, we get it. Stories sell. People want meaning. They want linear causes and explanations for the inexplicable madness of pure existence-- and a film or story without that seems counter-intuitive to what we're taught to crave (and buy at the box offices). Yes, brothers and sisters, Nietzsche knew this, called it Sickness, and urged for a re-framing of experience as one large process of Becoming-- Flux, Change, Pure and Innocent Unfolding Experience grounded in this world and its day-to-day happenings. And although I paraphrase greatly and probably painfully to any rhetoric majors reading this now, dig this: what if the meaning comes through the process, even if the author never arrives at a POINT or has his characters grow?Pretty shitty entertainment, or pretttttay cool? Would that be boring? Watch Punk Drunk Love and soak up the rich tones and colors apparent with each camera movement. I have no idea what the movie was "about" and did not really care after watching it. Some things in life can be talked into the ground, and still remain mysterious-- so recognizing this, what happens if we/it/you/he/she/us (f*ck all these signifiers) strive to create Art that unfolds moment-by-moment? I tell you what would probably happen: whatever chaos and seemingly absurdist result emerges from this approach will probably be analyzed by Meaning-Mongers anyway--because how can you intentionally create an Art that is "meant" to be viewed in a certain way? You can't. So maybe it all comes down to what happens AFTER the creation- the viewing: a re-framing of your eyes before you look at an image, letting go of the desire to "have it all make sense" and simply soak up the movie or novel for its immediate inner-workings, how it moves, how it makes an argument, how it leaves you feeling empty, or hopeful, or ridiculously in love. 

YEAH, I'm a rhetoric major, suck it, I know I've been corrupted by the "will to re-frame" rather than the "will to truth," but you know what? I'm chill with it. I'm not saying looking at something for a meaning is "bad"-- I'm just saying there may be a more interesting way to view it. Yo, there have been (and still are) many times I will examine films or texts for what they mean to me, and I often take this analysis straight to my own life and the steps I choose to take day by day. But that internal smirk-- that smiling, colorful, tempting switch that says: "STOP. REVERSE. Let go of societal expectations of what you think you're supposed to feel about this certain thing and instead DIVE IN"-- is so so beautiful and often so out-of-reach in my everyday life. It exists only (and usually) on paper and through my hopeful ramblings about the way in which I'd like to appreciate life. Doesn't mean that it's not present, but it is a struggle to rid myself of the vampiric want and need to attain, succeed, and make a name for myself.

Because in the end, isn't it all about the people? The little moments? (** <-- you like that??! I had to throw in a cliche moral). It's probably not about the people, but maybe that's part of it. I like to think that what "it's all about" is THIS. This is what it's all about. This moment. And this one. My brother has some sage-like wisdom, because half the time he DGAF's (doesn't give a f*ck) and chooses to vaguely exclaim, "this is what it's all about," leaving his listeners with a somewhat confused smile. But think about it. The "thisness" of life-- this very moment, man DIG.  Very hippie now, very post post modern. The fact that I even recognized those labels and my pattern of thought right now also speaks to the internalized norms of our culture, a culture that likes to separate, label, and situate certain schools of thoughts and theories. I probably went through about 5 of these approaches in this entry, and I'm DOWNN with that. Blend 'em up. Spit 'em out. 

Change is only possible through re-arrangement (moral, check mate) and Art is only Art if...   I don't know (!)..If someone is touched by a conscious intent? What is Art? Isn't this question already expectant of an answer? What do YOU think? Is THIS art? Is art a dog taking a piss on a sidewalk, captured by a stop-motion camera and ingested onto the Internet? Or is Art only Art if it meets certain criteria, above this world, independent of different artist's approaches? (See: Plato- Ideal Forms. Don't really dig that). This is just food for thought my babies, and some food that I've been chewing on for a while.  For all I know, the process of digging into my brain and nooshing out all of the above very well could be considered Art. 

Eh, for now- I'm gonna go buy some tickets to the New York Comedy Festival to see my future husband Andy Samberg perform. Andy, if you're reading this, I would just like to say: Supz. 

Thank you for listening to my long, painful, glorious, and annoying rant. This is unedited, hot off the press, and straight into your 2009 brains. 

-Kfelbz

Endless Energy, Blisters, and Censorship

This entry is going to be a real treat. Now, I know I said this blog wasn't going to be tasty, but: define tasty. The reason I say this is because I am actually writing in THE MORNING, which, if any of you know me, is unheard of. I'm the kind of person who writes all her papers between the hours of 1 and 4am, after years of being forced to wake up early for sports, so me--awake now and writing!-- is quite the anomalie. 

[sidenote: it's actually 11am now, does that count as morning?]

I've been in the city over a week now and am quickly catching on to necessary tricks to staying alive (or at least on time for work) like: downloading an app for subway times on my phone, packing necessary food so I don't die from hunger walking 4-5 miles a day, wearing sneakers and changing into heals upon arrival for work, and carrying a 10 foot machete. 3 truths and a lie? Yes. But before I go on to speak of my internships, let me tell you that I cannot. Sadly, I am legally and physically bound by the good folks at NBC-Universal and MTV Viacom from saying anything potentially incriminating about the shows I'm working on, so if you'd like to gossip, you can fly out to New York and I'll meet you for a cup of coffee in a dark alleyway-- wear all black, and don't look at me.

What I can say is that adjusting to this pace of work has been taxing, but nothing I can't handle. I'm up every morning around 7, catch a train to midtown, and am at work until 6 or 7pm. During that time I get a short lunch break, but other than that am walking around all day doing errands, with a smile of course (oy). My other mode of transportation is by foot, and I've gone through 3 pairs of shoes thus far. By "gone through," I mean disposed of because they've eaten my feet alive and left blisters (ladies: flats are dangerous! They look innocent, but when you least expect it they will dig into your heals leaving you searching for a purpose to live or a place to sit down). So, I finally found some good kicks, and my boxes from LA have arrived.

But this is tedious madness. Allow me to talk of this brilliant, crazy city called Manhattan. At all hours of the day, unless you live in the center of Central Park on a pond, you will be surrounded by people, listen unintentionally to interesting conversations, ingest a new and spectacular smell on each block, and brush shoulders with countless strangers. At first I was resistant, but after being forced to commute underground, packaged like a sardine amongst other humans just trying to get by, I've (happily?) left my claustrophobia behind because frankly, there is no time for it. Finally exhaling, I've learned to pick my head up and go with the maddening pulse of millions of strangers, existing in a sea of humans and for once feeling safe. 

This process is unlike anything I've ever experienced. On the LA freeways, commuting seems a bit more isolating: traces of self-important anger shining through the hoods of expensive cars as they push to get ahead of the next SUV-- but here... here, everyone seems to be bonded together, shuffling through the streets from all directions in one resounding beat of insane energy and relentless drive.

Don't get me wrong, it's not all magnificent. People shout things at you, cabs nearly run you over, and rain in this city comes with WIND, unlike the chill Berkeley rain that falls upon scurrying students who seek solace in their nearby apartments or houses. Everything seems to be bigger and more magnified here. If you're tired, you walk outside and are reminded that even at 2am people are out walking, talking, laughing. Truly great.

Today I'm taking a crosstown bus to the train to go to YOGA TO THE PEOPLE, where just last week, Drew Barrymore and Mary Kate Olsen were spotted in the front row. This is, of course, the sole reason why I'm going (..not). And finally, later tonight I will celebrate my 22nd year on this planet and an upcoming semester of new experiences. If I had any doubts before coming here, a lot of them have faded, as I again realize that the most learning comes from throwing yourself head first into a new place with new people. Now, to save money for Europe... 

More to come, le'chaim, good night and good luck.

A Disclaimer from Los Angeles

If there’s any real way I can open this blog, it’s with a warning:

This is not going to be tasty stuff.

This is not going to be a blog charting my “experiences” with gleaming photographs and pretty borders, proof that I was indeed in New York, and taking slightly off-angle photos to prove my artsy street-cred.

I know who my audience is, and I could give you pre-packaged, snarky commentary on the trials and tribulations of being an intern on two of the most prestigious shows on American television. But I won’t do that. Most of you already see that side of me on CalTV, and though I love entertaining the people, only few of you know the other side to “this all.” Look at me, I sound like a voiceover from a Britney Spears MTV Diary segment.

Scratch that, a lot of this will be entertaining, I’m sure. Amusing in the sick sense that you’re not dealing with a stable author, but as this guy I’m “seeing” retorts, who’s stable anyway?

Back to the solemn real-nasty ill shit of this blog: Sure, I’m more than grateful for where I am, the opportunity I have, the people I’m going to meet, but what I care about most is how this whole “New York” experience is going to do more than teach me valuable career lessons, or make me appreciate chill Bay Area transportation.

It’s gonna force me to finally grow up.

Yeah, this is dangerous. All of it. Self-publishing a pseudo-diary, a short virtual novella, that will probably come back to me some day in the future. But I told myself that I wasn’t going to drift through the motions of living in a new place without taking the time to make something more out of this.

Art? Life? A cure for the disease that is now found on all aisles of CVS and your local college library: over-thinking?

But over-thinking implies that there exists one specific, safe level and pace at which to think. Is there? Can you just think about something enough, be satisfied, and thusly be deemed a “thinker”? I guess so. But because I already thought and typed that, it’s too late for me.

As always, words remain when reality, family, hopes, dreams, and speech fail me. I’m just lucky such slick macbooks* exist so I can chart my thoughts at the light-speed in which they develop (and then change.)

*[No Macbooks were harmed in the making of this blog]

The fancy labels and the entertaining stories will still come—I’ll still write about how I fucked up Stephen Colbert’s coffee, or how I camped out at 30 Rock to catch a glimpse of Andy Samberg and we exchanged a couple words (*this will happen*); but the majority of this stuff will be Panoosh—

(disclaimer for anyone who doesn’t know me, in the roughest and/or smoothest sense of the word, the act of panooshing, at least for me, involves taking in all the menacing, wonderful, simultaneously confusing aspects of life and mixing them up, studying them, dwelling on them, and then letting them go. It’s a purported effort to not try so hard, so that by the end of your self-indulgent rambling that probably no one other than bored young employees on facebook will read, it will be time to get some coffee and marvel at the nonsense that you just spewed out all over the computer screen.)

Well, if anyone knows me, you know I love this shit. And if you don’t-- now you know, and maybe you’ll find snippets of sentences or memories in here that spark some thought so that you may, too, become a gloriously prodding over-thinker, a label once reserved only for neurotic Jews and/or Virgos with obsessive compulsive tendencies. But I apologize, that’s wrong. Acknowledging the aforementioned stereotype only perpetuates it, no? I take back everything I just said.  (Possibly).

Alright, shit’s getting too real, and by real, I mean personal. Although I’d love to share everything that goes through my mind, let’s be honest: no one cares.

So I’ll talk about stuff people can all relate to: tooth extractions! We’ve all feared them, experienced them, and if you’re lucky, avoided them. Well, it happened to me three days ago when Dr. Ozaki reached into my beautiful mouth and extracted 4 of the most lucrative sources of my young-adult wisdom (teeth). That’s why the first entry of this blog is being composed from my home in California, as I rest for two more days before heading to New York.

And so, while many of my friends have been or are currently abroad, soaking up a completely new culture, I have some business with the domestic abroad agency: headquarters: My Mind; CEO Mayor Bloomberg.

Time comes full circle anyway, so maybe I’ll be in Italy the next time I think about time. And because Twitter was too small for the overflowing words I have, I invite you to sit back and experience a slower form of publishing: the weirdly colorful and tragically maddening world of FELBS & THE CITY (f*ck you Carrie Bradshaw).

Oh, and because this is a family channel and I run the risk of my actual family reading this, I’ll try to keep it somewhat kosher with the addition of only-necessary astricks and other forms of syndicated censorship taught at Internet etiquette class.

One more question: Can I be in a New York state of mind, when New York only exists as a PLACE in my mind?

I'll let you know when I get there in three days.

NOOSHES,

Kfelbs