TWENTY FOURTEEN CAME SOONER THAN LATER. IS IT MAY ALREADY? I DON'T KNOW IF I AM EMOTIONALLY READY.

   To share my life with the rest of the world has always been satisfying, almost a necessity, I would say. My memory is working in quite arbitrary ways, and what I end up remembering seldom turns out to be worthwhile. Writing helps, of course, and I would be lying if I say that my journals at home aren't part of my open bookshelf, at your disposal, if you feel like coming over. The last time I wrote about taking chances, and I took quite a few since then. I ended up in a new city and continued studying, met a hundred few new people and made a myriad of staggering friends, got an apartment and a black Spanish cat, an almost functioning bicycle, and on top of it all managed to find a shampoo that makes my hair more shiny. It's really not that bad.

   The Hague is an ambiguous place. You turn into a cobble stone road and see tiny brick houses with dark blue, crooked window frames, you look inside and want to take part in what seems to be sole contentment, transpiring behind the glass. People know how to live well in these parts of the world. The Plein and Grote Markt are filled with untroubled minds, and drinking in the early afternoon sun has become a less unorthodox phenomenon. You stroll around a corner and the cobble stones keep leading the way, more Ikea-colored drapes and unwilted flowers gracing serene window sills (I am thinking that I haven't seen anything blossoming inside my home ever since I moved in), and then you realize: everything that's missing in your life can be found behind that glass. You turn a corner and another one, and here you are, surrounded by government constructions and less entrancing livelihood. The big white town hall structures, the unforgiving reality of the Turfmarkt being everything but "turf", the city center that is desperately drowning in modernity. The Hague is an international city, it has the responsibility to be representative and to appease to the outside as this really competent place. In the meantime, I moved into a small one-bedroom apartment close to a gracht, and a 5 minute bike ride from campus. Pink walls, a necessity, flower patterns, candles, golden mirrors, long white curtains covering those bay windows, and, of course, cat toys scattered all over the living room floor. I've made it quite cozy, but I am missing a stable income and a book shelf. For now, things are working. Almost 10 months it has been, and I can hardly believe that the time has been running by so quickly. I wish there was a way to share all of what happened in those 10 months in one blog post. But it is impossible, and I can only pretend to try. Being creative when extremely happy is difficult for someone like me. So I have been too happy, perhaps. And it rains a lot in the Netherlands. A lot.

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NEW YORK ISN'T REALLY NEW YORK. // GETTING OLDER.

Tomorrow is Valentines Day. What does that mean to me? Do I give myself a gift? Do I wait until next year to acknowledge this capitalist holiday? Perhaps it only means more red and pink in New York City. It means more heart shaped objects wherever I go, dangling from ceilings, staring at me from the backs of newspapers that people read on the subway. It means glitter, smiles, PDA and stressed out guys in suits walking to the subway with a bouquet of flowers in their hand while checking their watches. No flowers for me. That's okay. I don't really like flowers anyway. I see no beauty in watching beauty decay.

Oh, good old grey and cold Brooklyn. I am in a new neighborhood. Bay Ridge. It's not that much better than Bed-Stuy, except I haven't been mugged or harassed yet. I guess that is better. These last few cold winter days surprise with a bit of sun, but I keep wondering why it is not making me happy. I am not enjoying it, but don't hate it either. Perhaps it's just me getting used to the madness, used to the stress, the bad air, the noises. The hectic. The smell of pizza and laundry detergent on busy street corners. The car alarm that goes off at 5am. The old Italian guy and the Chinese lady next door yelling and complaining about the car alarm. The police sirens. Everyday. I missed all that, in those six months of Amsterdam. Now that I am back in New York I am empty once again. The refreshing feeling I get when I breathe Western European air is gone. It's all grey now.

I spend my weekends taking trains upstate. Escape. Grand Central and the New York Public Library have become my second home. I discovered secret corners between bookshelves, where I hide and wait for the last train to take me to the snowed-in North. New Rochelle. Pelham. Yonkers. The Raceway Diner. America. I might miss this somewhat. The people. Genuine, kind, smart. Rare. We play music until 3am and have pancakes for dinner. Heaven.

Seven more days until I turn 26. Thinking about it gives me goosebumps. It makes me wonder who I have become. Honestly, I am starting to like myself. Perhaps I am going to be an amazing 26-year-old, and it is a convincing thought that I will become even more amazing with every year going by.

When I was twelve, one of my Dad's friends came to visit and brought his new girlfriend, who was 24 at the time (their age difference was a touchy subject). Suzy was her name. Of course, to me she was so old, and her peroxide blonde hair made her look even older. After all, a grown up like everyone else. And she wore vests a lot (something grown ups do?).  Suzy always smoked cigarettes in our kitchen. Sometimes I would sit with her and listen to her exhaling smoke. One day she complained: "I'm 24 now. That's almost 30. What am I gonna do with my life?!"

What am I going to do with my life? 26 in one week. It can only get better from here on. A plane will take me back to Europe in two weeks. A new life. Stress. A lot of it. Wrinkles. They suit me. No complaints. No grey hair yet. Ok.

My cat is sleeping on the laptop cable.

SUGAR BABY

You can make a mistake over and over again and not learn from it. It happened to me, and it keeps on happening. I am aware of the things I do oh so wrong, but the damage I do seems inevitable, most likely I am doomed to be a sad old cat lady in a one bedroom apartment of a grey suburban town.
Aside from that, I am in love again, and this time everything makes sense. I am crossing the canal every other day. Mundane walks through wet grass. Never more than twenty degrees, too cold of a Summer. What did I do wrong this time? Maybe it is because I am home. Home was never a good place for me to be happy. I am 25 years old, and still waiting for my own home. A place that I made, not a place someone else made for me. I am not close to any of that. Give me another year, I'd say. Uncertainty is one of my true enemies. I started baking again.

LOST TREASURES

So at 1.03 AM on February 19th 2012 I decided to eat a whole pack of peanut butter M&Ms and contemplate about the things that surround me. Two days before your 25th birthday, a lot of things really stop to make sense, and other things start to make a lot of sense. For example, the fact that I write  a lot started to make great sense. It's the only way I can live. Whether it is a song or a story or a rather bad drawing with an awkward description, its very much all I am. There are a few other things that make sense. Like pistachio ice cream. Or fried bananas. 

Last week I saw somebody wash their MetroCard at the laundromat.

I thought that was sweet. That way they can re-use it without having to worry about Bed-Stuy germs in their jeans back pocket. But Brooklyn doesn't make sense. There is nothing beautiful about it during the Winter. It is just senseless. Hot ciders, heating blankets, a sketchbook, those things can make it better. You know what I'm talking about.

These strolls along the river make me think. I am silent. Sometimes I talk to the squirrels or the various birds that hang out under the Manhattan Bridge. They know me there. Some of them even call me by my name. "Anna, you seem out of it today", they wonder. "Don't worry", I say, "I am fine!"...

Sometimes I find angels on the street. I wonder where they come from. Who lost this angel? Who would purposefully lose an angel?

One must never stop wondering.

GOING HOME

To Germany for the Holidays... or for what's left of them. I haven't seen my family in over a year, so this should be wonderful. Not like last year, where I spent my entire Christmas season HOME ALONE, and Christmas eve at a Chinese take out restaurant on Lexington Av on the Upper East Side, together with a jaded old couple that sipped their jasmine teas for two hours slowly and without ever saying a word. Then I went home and drank root beer and ate candy until I fell asleep to the sound of mentally ill pigeons bashing their heads against my window. This year will be all different, of course.

Home Alone (Columbus, 1990)