Kate Royals

nine favorite Marlon Brando pictures requested by —>...

Sun, 02 Oct 2011 10:29:20 -0400

nine favorite Marlon Brando pictures requested by —> sweetlittlerockandroller

wise words

Thu, 28 Jul 2011 09:51:33 -0400

On and on you will hike, and I know you’ll hike far
and face up to your problems whatever they are.

You’ll get mixed up of course, as you already know.
You’ll get mixed up with many strange birds as you go.

So be sure when you step.
Step with care and great tact
And remember that Life’s a great balancing act.

Just never forget to be dexterous and deft.
And never mix up your right foot with your left.

bawling like a baby in a Broadway play

Thu, 28 Jul 2011 09:36:50 -0400

Last night I went to see the Lincoln Center’s production of War Horse. I cried the whole way through. It was unashamed crying - tears and snot a-flowing, with no care for the poor audience members on either side of me. Not only was it an absolutely gorgeous story, it reminded me of all the human-animal love stories that were so dear to me as a child. The relationship between Albert, a young English boy, and Joey, the horse, is reminiscent of the relationships in “Old Yeller,” “Black Beauty,” and even the seal-girl story of the movie “Andre.” These were my favorites as a child, and here I was at 23, bawling like a baby in a Broadway play. And, of course, the play is set against the backdrop of World War I, and both Albert and Joey must endure the most heartbreaking of traumas. It was interesting also as a history lesson - learning about the millions of not only men but horses as well who were lost during the Great War due to the introduction of barbed wire (which the horses could not see) into combat, along with the machine guns and tanks and other weaponry.

All in all, a beautiful experience. Totally worth the mascara-smeared, red-eyed subway ride home.

sleepless in New York

Mon, 18 Jul 2011 04:32:22 -0400

It’s 4 a.m. here in New York, and I am awake, armed with my computer and some grapes and pomegranate seltzer. I have, in my time here, become addicted to this fizzy and delicious beverage and am a bit worried about going back to the South, where bottles of this commodity are not readily available in grocery stores. It’s a refreshing, carbonated, flavored drink that produces a pleasant burn as it goes down. As you can tell by my harping on the wonderful qualities of this drink, I love it.

I woke up a couple minutes ago (4 a.m.) and, after tossing and turning some in my tiny Ikea twin bed, decided to just get up for a while and try to tire myself out again. Yesterday was such a wonderful day, the perfect antidote to a malady that frequents me weekly: the Sunday blues. Victoria and I went to St. Bart’s Episcopal Church in the city for the 11am service, which required about an hour long subway and taxi ride but was well worth the effort. Rev. Buddy Stallings, previously of St. James in Jackson, delivered the sermon on a passage from Matthew that summarizes an allegorical speech supposedly delivered by Jesus about wheat and weeds, and how one day the spiritual “wheat” and “weeds” of the world will be differentiated, and those “weeds” of us will essentially burn in hell while those “wheat” do-gooders will enjoy everlasting life in heaven. Rev. Stallings offered the historical perspective that it is actually more likely that Jesus did not deliver this speech, but if he had, it was a dangerous and debilitating way of thinking, a mindset that fosters the us vs. them/saved vs. unsaved/infidel vs. believer mentality. He says that at different points in our lives, we are all pretty “wheaty” while at other times we tend to lean more towards the “weedy” side of things. The bottom line, however, is that we are still within the realm of God’s love, no matter what side we may be on during that day or phase of our lives.

After church, Victoria and I headed via bus to the Lower East Side to our free yoga workshop at Bikram Yoga. Bikram Yoga classes run 90 minutes in a 105 degree room with 40% humidity, and consist of 2 breathing exercises and 26 poses. I’ve never practiced yoga in such close proximity to other people, especially not while producing buckets of sweat. I have literally never sweat so much, or been so uncomfortable. However, the instructor continually urged us to “breathe through the discomfort” and “be present in the moment,” that “everything you may need is right here in this room.” So, I did all the poses, and didn’t even have to sit down or stop once through the class, which I thought was pretty cool. It was a little intimidating, especially since two of the teachers were on the mats 2 centimeters away from me on each side, and they were both cute gay men who were very long and lean. If there’s one thing sure to make you feel a little self-conscious it’s a man who’s thinner than you, and I prepared to angrily envy them until I realized how damn sweet and friendly these skinny little men were. They were chatting it up with everyone in the room while smiling and offering helpful advice and insight on what was about to go down. So much for the angry envy.

Also, at one point, I looked over and one of these SGY (skinny gay yogis) looked like this in the locust pose (the rest of our feet came about 6 inches off the ground, if that):

His shorts were also very similar to the man featured in the picture above. Impressive, on both counts.

After wandering deliriously out of the studio, Victoria and I headed home to shower our disgusting selves, order some food, and watch a film. I had forced Victoria to watch “Annie Hall” the day before (hello, classic New York movie) so last night we watched something a little more modern, “The Kids are All Right.” Well, I would say “The Movie is All Right,” also, a little strange and a little slow at times, but overall fairly entertaining.

This week includes a talk tonight at the Lincoln Center delivered by Paul Ekman, who has developed this Facial Coding System that became very popular nationally. The idea, I think, is to be able to tell a person’s emotions by specific expressions on his or her face. This is also used by Homeland Security officials in airports and whatnot to detect whether people are lying or acting otherwise terrorist-like. Pretty cool, I’d say. I’ll also be visiting the Frick museum, among other outings (I have a whole list to keep me busy). Helena will be in Cape Cod this week. Yes, it is very important for her to get out of the city and destress from the strains of 6 year old life, and this vacation will be good for her I know. What this means for me is that there will be no nannying, and my week is free to explore. I can’t wait to see what the week holds.

"Sheltering Arms" & Terrell

Wed, 06 Jul 2011 13:57:05 -0400

Yesterday, I had my first experience with a neighborhood community pool with the little girl I babysit. After much strife involving a locker lock we were unable to open, we finally made it to the “Sheltering Arms” pool on 128th and Amsterdam and safely locked our belongings into a locker with a newly purchased lock. This pool is located a little above Morningside Heights where I live, and is thus considered Harlem. While I technically live in Manhattan, Harlem is mere blocks away. One of the most fascinating things to me about New York is that one minute you’re walking along in an ivy league community neighborhood (Columbia, in my case), then you seconds later you are in Harlem in an entirely different environment.

The pool overflowed with small children and their mothers and then adolescents who seemed to mostly be there on their own. Then, there was me and Helena. After a couple of games of Marco Polo and a series of aquatic aerodynamics in which I threw Helena high into the air to come down with a gigantic splash (funny how these things bring back so many memories. I remember vividly how thrilling this simple act was as a child), we met a boy named Terrell. Eleven year old Terrell played a little Marco Polo with us, and when I announced I needed to go put on some more sunscreen (I felt the skin on my upper back and shoulders sizzling under the blazing sun), he became very interested in sunscreen and wanted some for himself. His skin is a very dark black, and apparently he had never used sunscreen before. Helena and I shared our SPF 50 with him and reminded him to rub it in as much as he could, since he put a lot on and it seemed to sit on his skin, starkly white against the dark ebony of his natural hue. A couple of friends poked fun, laughed and asked why he was bothering with that since he couldn’t possibly get any blacker than he already was. He really liked the sunscreen, though, and didn’t seem to mind the jokes.

He sat with Helena and me a while, and I noticed he seemed to like just being near an adult. We talked about where he went to school, what his favorite food is (pizza), what his parents do. His mother works for Parks and Recreation, and she usually works from about 10am to 8:30pm and he stays at the pool all day long with his 8 year old sister (who had gone home at this point). When I asked about his father, he said he didn’t know, that his father was far, far away somewhere. He said that he missed his father, and that he didn’t speak to him much. He knew his name was Rocky, and I said, “oh, like the fighter,” and he nodded emphatically to let me know he had already made this connection in his head. I imagined how he must think of his father, maybe how he had built him up in his mind to be a strong fighter like the Hollywood Rocky. I wondered where the real Rocky was and what he does, and whether he thinks often about this sweet boy named Terrell.

When we left, he seemed a bit upset, but we promised that we’d see him again soon at the pool. I was even hoping we’d go back again today, but Helena ended up leaving around 1pm to go with a friend out to her grandparents house in rural New York. I am now debating going to the pool to try to find Terrell to take him out for pizza. Terrell, for some reason, stuck with me, and has been on my mind ever since. I wonder sometimes why some people have such an impact on you, and it makes me believe even more that God plays a part in every day of my life, not in the traditional sense, but I see his role like a large hand moving the pieces around a chessboard. I see him picking up Terrell, Helena, and me, and placing us all gently at “Sheltering Arms” pool, under a blazing hot Harlem sun with a bottle of sunscreen.

(you're never) alone in NYC

Fri, 01 Jul 2011 09:39:55 -0400

You know, I came to New York City in this interim between my “old life” (Jackson) and my “new life” (starting my masters at LSU in the fall). I knew I needed a new place, I needed new faces. I’d been through a rough break up in April, and sometimes it’s necessary to put thousands of miles between yourself and your past in order to have a chance at the future. You have to put yourself in a position where it’s possible to hope for new love and new life, instead of continuing to dwell in a realm from which you can’t see out. So, I decided to do that in New York City, and it was one of the best decisions I’ve ever made.

You’re never really alone in New York. There are always events to attend, people to talk to, art to see, culture to absorb, food to eat, drinks to drink, books to read, walks to walk. And that’s precisely what I’ve been filling my days with (when I’m not working, of course). Now that Victoria is out of town for the weekend, I have the whole day to myself, and I can’t wait. I’ll fill it up with a run, sitting in the park, reading, walking, perhaps a museum, and tonight, I’ll get dressed up as if I were meeting the man of my dreams (because who knows? This is New York, after all) and go to a bar to have a drink before I go to the theater.

And this city, for now, is the perfect partner.

Tiny pictorial update, t. rex included

Thu, 30 Jun 2011 09:06:28 -0400

Brian & me on a walk through Central Park.

St. John the Divine, the third largest cathedral in the world.

Hey, look, it’s my senior quote in St. John the Divine. Written at “The Poets’ Corner” in the cathedral.

Beautiful.

T. Rex at the Natural History Museum

"New York was an inexhaustible space, a labyrinth of endless steps, and no matter how far he walked,..."

Fri, 24 Jun 2011 09:50:00 -0400

“New York was an inexhaustible space, a labyrinth of endless steps, and no matter how far he walked, no matter how well he came to know its neighborhoods and streets, it always left him with the feeling of being lost. Lost, not only in the city, but within himself as well. Each time he took a walk, he felt as though he were leaving himself behind, and by giving himself up to the movement of the streets, by reducing himself to a seeing eye, he was able to escape the obligation to think, and this, more than anything else, brought him a measure of peace, a salutary emptiness within. The world was outside of him, around him, before him, and the speed with which it kept changing made it impossible for him to dwell on any one thing for very long. Motion was of the essence, the act of putting one foot in front of the other and allowing himself to follow the drift of his own body. By wandering aimlessly, all places became equal, and it no longer mattered where he was. On his best walks, he was able to feel that he was nowhere. And this, finally, was all he ever asked of things: to be nowhere. New York was the nowhere he had built around himself, and he realized that he had no intention of ever leaving it again.”

- Paul Auster

New York families & the Countess

Wed, 22 Jun 2011 10:19:44 -0400

Yesterday afternoon, after doing some mundane things made exciting by the fact I was doing them in New York (i.e. 3-mile run, dissertation editing, trip to Bed, Bath & Beyond), I went to Morningside Park to meet the girl I’ll be babysitting and her family. After wandering around the park, where musicians played their xylophones and symbols for a free music event, I finally found Amelia and Peter, parents of The Most Adorable and Smart Child Ever, Helena. Amelia works in administration at a charter school in the city (I had lots to talk to her about, considering I just spent two weeks researching charter schools at my former job) and Peter works at a book store called Book Culture. Immediately, I knew this was meant to be. I am interested in both of these things, and I was able to talk to Amelia about charter school practices and ask Peter for book recommendations since I just finished up “Garp” and am nearing the end of “Bossypants.” He said I should read some books set in New York and suggested Jack Finney’s “Time and Again” and Paul Auster’s “New York” trilogy. “Time and Again” is a sci-fi novel, which is a genre I admittedly steer clear of, but I think I could make an exception for Peter.

Within three minutes of meeting Helena, she was holding my hand and talking my ear off. She informed me that it was the longest day of the year (the first day of summer) and told me about her unfortunate accident as an 8 month old with a golden retriever. She offered such wonderful bits of information and descriptive anecdotes for a 5 year old, and at times I felt like I was conversing with The Most Adorable Adult Ever. We were walking hand in hand for most of the way to another park, Riverside Park, where we were going to have a picnic. However, in bursts of energy and noise, she would explode forward, running towards her father, screaming, “Daddy, Daddy, Daddy!” to ask him an array of questions, like “What happened when the golden retriever bit my neck?” and “How old is Buddy?” So, The Most Adorable and Energetic Adult Ever.

Because of the order of the questions, one might assume she was referring to a dog named Buddy. Her father did also.

“Buddy the dog?” he asked.

“No,” Helena responded, exasperated. “The man!”

Buddy was one of her father’s friends, who she considered one of her best friends, along with Izzy, the child Victoria nannies. She was at this point giving me a laundry list of best friends along with some background information on each.

When we got to the park, we enjoyed a meal of a baguette and Brie cheese, roasted chicken, quinoa, salami, avacado and tomato salad, and watermelon. I proudly informed them, with a twinge of unabashed pride that surprised me, that Mississippi lays claim to the Watermelon Capital of the World and that we have some great watermelons. They appreciated this tidbit, and Helena’s older sister asked why I hadn’t brought them a watermelon.

We laughed and joked, and I felt like we shared similar senses of humor. We talked about the natural disasters plaguing the South right now, and they spoke openly about global warming and I didn’t feel like I needed to watch what I said because I was around people who value science.

After the picnic ended, I walked to meet Victoria at an organic restaurant called “Community” at 112th and Broadway. Let me preface this by saying that I have repeatedly (though facetiously) commented during my 6 days in New York that I want to meet a Real Housewife. Now, judge as you will, but the Real Housewives are the one reality show I keep up with and it is my ultimate guilty pleasure, and for that I will not apologize. I’m not reading Twilight and it’s a step up from Jersey Shore, so let me have my Real Housewives and leave me alone, OK?

So, I’m walking along and I see an attractive, dark-haired foreign man in a blue shirt sitting at a table outside a restaurant. I notice that his long face, slim facial features, and lustrious dark hair look quite familiar. So, as I pass by, I turn my head to see the woman whose eyes he is staring lovingly into across the table. And who is it? It’s Luanne, the Countess. So I stare. And I stare some more. And I think at this point I am at a complete standstill on the sidewalk and groups of people are stepping around me to get past this body that’s acting as a road block to their destination. I know what my mission is. Luanne has noticed my obvious and rude staring, and I can only imagine what she has to say about my “manners, dahling.” I approach the table and wait for them to acknowledge the hulking figure hovering over their romantic dinner.

“I am so sorry to interrupt your dinner, but I love you on the show, Luanne,” I say, and she smiles. I got a smile!

“Would you mind taking a picture with me?”

She looks the slightest bit hesitant, though she’s still smiling, but thank God the foreign boyfriend is extremely nice and says, “Of course! I am a professional photographer, I take picture.” The Countess and I laugh.

Jacques takes the picture with my phone, and after apologizing profusely for interrupting, I say, “Thank you both so much, I hope y’all have a wonderful dinner.”

And do you know what she says and does as I walk away? That my accent is beautiful, she can tell I’m from the South, and she beams a big, sweet smile. I return the smile, feeling like I just came home with an award from grade school and my parents are lavishing me with attention and calling me the greatest child ever. I am that proud in that moment, and it is absolutely ridiculous. Ah, the power and influence of the rich and famous.

I’m playing matchmaking with Alley and Mr. Kitty. I know...

Mon, 20 Jun 2011 21:07:30 -0400

I’m playing matchmaking with Alley and Mr. Kitty. I know long distance relationships are tough, but I think their hypothetical bond is strong enough to make it work.

Don’t they look good together?

back to the city

Mon, 20 Jun 2011 14:32:51 -0400

After 3 days in Princeton, New Jersey, I am back to the city and had my first grocery shopping experience today. It was a mixture of the young and old, multiple floors, organic and non-organic, way too many selections (which I simultaneously loved and hated), and chaos. But I like it. Thank you for the experience, Upper West Side Fairway.

This apartment feels very alone after the full on family time I just had. I honestly have the best family out there, and I don’t care what you say or how great you think your family is. Because mine is better. We love each other, a lot, and I’m feeling their absence right now in a very serious way.

Maybe a nap will help after my night of partying with recently ordained Episcopal priests.

new level, new devil... day one

Sat, 18 Jun 2011 15:38:45 -0400

As I sit on my friend Victoria’s couch celebrating my arrival in New York City with a tall, bubbling glass of alka seltzer, I can’t help but laugh (however deliriously) at the events of the past day. I woke up yesterday morning in Jackson, Mississippi, after a night of a going-away sushi dinner with a friend and some packing. An enthusiastic sushi consumer for most of my life, I have never thought twice about a nice dinner of raw fish the night before travel. I still am not even sure if the sushi is to blame for the hellacious 24 hours I will remember as June 15, 2011, but needless to say sushi is not on the top of my “can’t get enough” list at the moment.

I knew when I woke up yesterday morning something was askew with my insides, without being too graphic or gross. I’m not a person who normally enjoys hearing about others’ abnormal bodily functions, and I’m sure you’re not either. So I will avoid detail in that area. However, despite my haze, I imagined vividly and earnestly the bright lights of the big city in my mind, and with that goal, pushed onward to the airport. By the time I made it through security (including the violation I endured after being selected for a “random security search”) and got on the plane, I had the feeling I might should have stayed at home and waited this thing out. Hindsight’s 20/20, right?

The second plane ride from Charlotte to LaGuardia was more eventful than the first in that more happened than waves of nausea resulting in my sprinting down the aisle toward the tiny bathroom. I sat next to a girl pursuing her masters in acupuncture (yes, there is such a thing - news to me also), and when I warned her that I may be having to make sudden movements due to food poisoning throughout the flight, she responded, “Darn, I wish I knew some points to do on you!” She was, however, very nice, and very understanding of my mostly unconscious state during the entirety of the flight.

There was one moment, however, that I was very conscious: during our descent from the heavens in preparation to land. I was bent over at the waist, my head on the convenient tray table used for enjoying beverages, cocktails, and peanuts, and for people like me to lie shamelessly across. I somehow managed to raise my heavy head and look out the window at the water outside (planes fly over this body of water and onto the landing strip of the airport). I stared outside in wonderment of our close proximity to the water, and suddenly heard a loud noise of acceleration followed by a strange sensation. I realized the nose of our plane was directing itself upward, as if we were all in for Take Off Round 2 (one take off per flight is plenty for me, thanks). We had shifted from what seemed to be mere feet above the water to ascending back into the skies. The passengers drew a collective intake of breath. The woman directly across the aisle from the acupuncturist was wearing a surgical mask circa Swine-Flu-Scare-2009 that revealed only her eyes and forehead. As her forehead creased with worried wrinkles, I noticed her eyes simultaneously widening more and more. It was as though not being able to see the other features of her face - nose, lips, chin, cheeks - exaggerated the size of her eyes until they looked as though they would pop out and roll down the aisle like tennis balls with irises.

After what seemed like 5 minutes of chaos and increasing ascent, the pilot finally came on the speakers and apologized for the “drama,” that there had been some “confusion in the air trafficking” and we needed to make a quick little round before coming back to land. Was that code for “Woops, we almost ran into another plane that was also trying to land?” Who knows.

Nevertheless, everyone seemed relieved, yet still slightly suspicious. But we all wanted to believe that all was right with the world, in that way that we humans have of avoiding anything that may be too unpleasant or frightening. So, we went back to our travel chatter - you know, the get-to-know-you questions, the light comments here and there on unfolding events around us, the knowing looks about strange or obnoxiously loud individuals and/or babies, etc.

“Well, I don’t know what that did to you, but it was definitely nauseating for me,” remarked Seat Mate, M.Acu candidate.

I think I nodded, but I was mostly tuned in to the snarky comments of the New Yorkers behind me. I love New Yorkers with snarky comments. They make me laugh, and it’s nice to get away from the South where I sometimes feel like a cold-blooded murder could happen in plain sight in a women’s clothing store and none of the women would say anything for fear of being “impolite.” They would just continue folding $170 Seven Jeans with blank looks and vacant smiles. New Yorkers pay attention, and they call people out on their shit. I like the accountability of it all.

“Well, this experience really gives me full confidence in our air trafficking pilots,” one SNY (Snarky New Yorker - are those synonymous?) commented with an eye roll I could almost hear.

Luckily, though, all was well on U.S. Airways flight 1182, and we landed (Landing Take Two) with no further problems. We even got to exit from the aft of the plane, meaning us backseaters didn’t have to wait an interminable amount of time to reach land.

While I considered my day at this point to be sufficiently chock full of adventure, I had no idea where the rest of the night would take me (St. Luke’s Roosevelt in Morningside Heights, specifically). However, that portion of the night is another blog post entirely. I needed to at least get that portion of the day out of my system before confronting the hours of 10pm to 5am of June 16. Stay tuned.