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