I wish the days to be as the centuries, loaded, fragrant.

I have wanted to be a writer for as long as I could write--even before my childhood obsession with dinosaurs and desire to become a paleontologist (a dream which partially materialized itself in the form of an evolutionary anthropology degree, oddly enough). After all of these years and life paths, the dream to be a writer has withstood the test of time.

Yet lately I have become to expect more out of myself when reflecting on my dreams. I am now 25, which somehow feels so much older than 24. Maybe it's because of the common statistical grouping of "18-24" being designated as "youth" and "25-45" often more plainly labeled as "adult." Although it is purely psychological (and not due to any true distinction between who I was last month at 24 and now), I feel a new urgency at this point in my life. I have always been motivated to work towards my future, but now I have a greater sense more than ever that the days are fleeting and it is possible to go through life without ever fulfilling your dream.

Let me repeat that. You can go through life perfectly content and making great strides in ways that you can feel proud of, but there is a very real possibility that the dream you carried through your life may not be realized.

This is why I want to sit down and ask myself, "What do you truly want to accomplish while you're here?" You really have only one chance to be great at something in a lifetime. And I consider that a beautiful, earth-shattering thought. Why be content to be mediocre? Why not take the chance and work feverishly towards what you really want to accomplish, until you find yourself truly there? I also think this reflection should also carry a component of a "reality check." It is not enough to say that you would really like to make it "some day." You would be cutting yourself short if you have anything less than a carefully concerted plan towards your goal, to which you apply yourself with earnest.

Ralph Waldo Emerson has a quote which resonates with me deeply: "I wish that life should not be cheap, but sacred. I wish the days to be as centuries, loaded, fragrant." Thus, I raise a glass to this beautiful sense of urgency I now have and hope that I may use my days with purpose towards fulfilling my dreams, and that my efforts are like perfume--filling the hours with beautiful desire.

Does Brooklyn need another writer?

There is something I should come clean about in terms of my motivation for creating this blog. As might be obvious from the title of the page, I would like in part to chronicle my transition to living in Brooklyn and urban life in general. Yet my more overarching goal, I confess, is simply this: I want to be a writer by profession.

I figured that if I could start somewhere--even with an anonymous blog with a loosely connected theme--after a year, I might have something to point to in terms of my talent and ability. A tangible product, so to speak.

I think this might really only work out if I dedicate myself to post every day for a year, let's say. I may not be able to post every single day--and that is fine for me--but if I try to make daily posts, even if they are only a line of thought, that is something I can move forward with.

Will you join me?

Keep your eye on that Michelle Phan--but you might have missed something, like I did.

Happy Friday Breukeleners. After a particularly stressful day in the office, I  enjoyed kicking up my feet and reading The Brothers Karamazov, which provides at least 2-3 good chuckles per page. You've just gotta love that Fyodor Pavlovitch.

After I realized that even this delightful tome is not enough to relax me after my harrowing work day, I decided to check out Michelle Phan's page on YouTube. For those of you readers who are not a member of Michelle's fan base demographic--which largely consists of females ranging in age from their preteens to mid-thirities--Phan is a YouTube makeup guru who created one of the top most subscribed and viewed channels on the video-sharing platform. As a byproduct of her ever-increasing brand appeal and clearly demonstrated ability to connect with youthful consumers, Michelle was also offered a position as a video spokesperson for luxury makeup line Lancome and gained the clout to spearhead a few entrepreneurial pursuits. The last I had heard Michelle maintains two bi-coastal business bases in LA and just across the river in NYC and jets from one to the other ever few weeks--something which boggles my mind.

Yet despite my knowledge of her business activities and sphere of influence, it somehow did not occur to me that by this time Michelle is a 26 year old millionaire. I thought about why I had failed to compute this, but then I realized that Michelle's most lucrative commodity is not the eyeliner she sold for Lancome or even the upcoming cosmetic line she recently launched. The most valuable product Michelle sells is herself.

Whether it's the cellphone captured shots of her riding the NYC subway like common folk on her way to work, or her video confessions of her love for ramen noodles, Michelle manages to maintain her girl-next-door appeal. She somehow makes herself incredibly relatable to viewers, despite the fact that she doesn't hide her business drive (and the necessity for a stockpile of under-eye concealer to "look fresh and perky" despite her lack of sleep). For lessons in creating an indelible brand without even realizing it at the outset and then maintaining its down-to-earth character despite meteoric success, look to Michelle Phan.

What kind of world will our children inherit?

New York Magazine published an article earlier this year featuring the conjectures of some economists about the kind of world our children will inherit. According to those who favor the "end-of-growth" model, the robust economic boom which has taken place since the industrial revolution--and as a result, nearly guaranteed a higher quality of life for each successive generation since the mid-18th c--is now past it's tail end (which in fact actually began petering out in the 60's-70's). It is likely, the end-of-growth economists portend, that we will soon enter a time when the inheriting generation will no longer be virtually guaranteed to be better off than their parents. The educational attainment and material wealth of one's progeny will be at similar levels to the generation before it, and will more closely resemble the growth patterns of the middle ages: stagnant. One can no longer hope that their child's quality of life will outshine theirs by a certain measure.

Although optimists on this issue argue that other technological advances could easy create new periods of growth in the future, for the sake of interest I'm going to bet my nickle on the end-of-growth folks. Let's say that the fantastic economic growth spurred on by the industrial revolution is over, done with, finito. Our children will inherit a dark-ages pattern of stagnation.

We're still better off than the Rockefeller dude.

Well, I'd be pretty happy for them anyway. I would rather my children and any future descendants I may have live in this time of "stagnation" than any period of explosive growth before it. Sure, during the early to mid 1800's, there was a greater mathematical chance for my children to become fabulously wealthy in the way of Rockefeller or Carnegie due to the opportunities presented by the industrial age, chances which may never present themselves again (or for quite a while). But in the same breath, my children would have also been more likely to be working in factories before they hit their teens. In any successive generation from now, no matter how stagnant the growth, I'd say it will likely be "good times" in the greater scope of living standards. I'm sure these generation-stagnation kids will be keeping more of their teeth in old age and dancing their way to being super-centenarians than Rockefeller or Carnegie themselves.


So based on current predictions conveyed by both the end-of-growthers and the optimists, my children will live a comfortable, well-educated life, as I did. Whether their material wealth or station in life eclipses mine is neither here nor there. I'm content that we have come this far.


If you've read the article in New York Magazine or are following this topic in general, what are your thoughts? Are you an optimist, end-of-growther, or an optimistic end-of-growther like I am?

Summer on the Sidewalk

It is remarkable how the people of Brooklyn make use of public space. 

I was going to start this post in a different way, but it sounded too much like dissertationese. Let me try again.

It was a hot afternoon late in August. I padded my way in sneakered feet down the sidewalk, past pleasingly lush trees erupting from the concrete. Everywhere there are people out and about: young, young mothers (who cannot be much older than I am, or perhaps who are my junior) pushing baby carriages down the street. The mothers wear shorts and flip-flops, or sleek body hugging skirts in the manner of orthodox women. Children no taller than my knees play basketball by shooting from the sidewalk to a hoop in their short driveways. Other kids scurry past on skateboards and bicycles, going round and round their neighborhood block.

I couldn't imagine a childhood in Brooklyn, until I witnessed it in motion before my eyes. I grew up in a rural/suburban setting, where summer meant an explosion of green all around you. There were no sidewalks to play on, because the cars were infrequent and they drove slowly. Instead, you could make full use of the street. I would ride my bicycle around the neighborhood until nightfall, or swim in the lake by my house. Then when it became dark out I would go inside and read late into the night, because there were no streetlights. It was an idyllic setting, according to my rosy retrospection.

Summers for Brooklyn kids must be dull, I assumed. I pictured listless young people languishing in front of the TV in stuffy apartments. Maybe they would go out for a brief basketball game with friends, or play video games to pass the time. What else would there be to do in this village?

And yet, as I strolled down these Brooklyn sidewalks, I saw something different. People were always out. They were enjoying themselves in parks, or playing ball in their small yards. Lately I had been making use of a nearby high school track, which I accessed by slipping through a purposefully tampered opening in the chain-link fence.

Here on this plane of synthetic rubber and AstroTurf, it does not matter what class you belong to, how young old you are, or your ethnicity. As long as you can skimmy through a hole in a chain-link fence, you have a space in which to compete. In which to strive for excellence. In which to push yourself just a bit harder, or a lot harder. So, it is here I join others in common athletic pursuit.

There is a middle aged guy in bright red shorts on the track today, doing laps at a steady clip. He might be an immigrant; he looks hispanic, with weathered olive skin and salt and pepper hair. I noticed how steadily he runs, how intent he is on keeping his pace. Is it to improve his football game? To strive for something which he was not getting in his life? Or simply to stay in shape?

I wonder what the story is for any of those dozens of people out on the Brooklyn sidewalks, or for that man doing laps. We come together in this public space to enjoy a summer day, and then retreat to our apartments. We eat dinner with our families, hidden by the curtains which cover our windows--windows which nonetheless sparkle like stars in the night sky. Perhaps this village isn't too different from the one I'm from after all.

Twinkling Apartment Windows

I was born and raised in New Jersey, where the air is clean and one can see the stars in the sky at night (so long as you live in the sticks, and not near the parkway Jersey is fondly known for). If you were to visit my hometown, you could make out any of the constellations you learned as a scout: the big dipper, the orion, and Cassiopeia. All the glory of the milky way.



Now I live in Brooklyn. The sky I see at night is milk washed and clouded with light pollution from the millions of apartments and high rise buildings of the city. The last time one could see stars at night in Brooklyn must have been long ago, when horses where still an acceptable form of transportation.

Tonight as I walked with my husband down the avenues of our neighborhood, I felt how different this new village is. Instead of twinkling stars, we have apartment windows that draw the eye with their light set against the evening darkness. They are the stars of this village.

As foreign as this is to me, these urban window stars, they do impart mystery. As I looked up at the rows of windows, I noticed that each one had its own character. One might have lace draping, which is partially pushed aside to reveal a potted plant. Others are tightly cloaked with curtains, preventing my intruding eyes from getting a peek of what lays inside. If I am lucky, I can see a full view of the living room of a ground floor house: sumptuous furniture, bookcases full of books, and paintings on the wall.

Long ago our ancestors looked up at the night sky and saw stories in the stars. They saw giant bears and dragons, a giant fighting with a bull, and gods with outstretched arms. When I look up at the sky of my urban village, I also see stories. These stories are in the form of the glimpses of lives I see between apartment brick and on the asphalt of my Brooklyn village.