But even with the desire to downplay what I’ve done, I am sensible enough to realize this is a big moment. It’s a moment I may never get back, because it is “My Very First Novel” and as silly as it makes me feel to prize that distinction, I’m going to. This last Tuesday morning, at 3:09 am, I finished my seventh draft of The Ashes.

The Ashes is the story of 23 year old Chloe Wright, who follows her mother to the small town of Monarch to fix their broken relationship. Her mother grew up in Monarch and has come back after decades of absence to take care of her aging and death-obsessed mother, Anne. Anne was, at one time, the most influential woman in town, and her house where she lived with her husband Peter, was the most important house in town. Once in Monarch, Chloe forges deep relationships with the outcasts of the town and discovers deep hurts and rumors from her grandparents’ past that continue to affect the town and her family. Her struggle between figuring herself out and living up to a newly-discovered legacy pushes her family and the town to confront its own divisions. But the pull of tradition and past legacies may prove to be too much.

Keep reading after the jump…

It’s a novel about community, building it not just for the sake of the desire to be social, but because alone, we as people wither away. It’s about fighting the poison of bitterness and bigotry. The Ashes explores relationships between the generations, authority, individuality and the consequences of expressing hallowed traditions in new ways. And all throughout the town and the story, The Ashes is about love that never leaves a person, for better or worse, as the years go on, no matter the gender, the age or circumstance of departure. Love is both the pulse and the scar tissue in the heart of this community.

I first came up with the idea in May 2003. I am still shocked that it’s done, that a final grammar and spell check are all that’s left on the horizon. This story has been worked on while submerged under the glassy surfaces of lakes, on trains in Northern England, in the countryside around my house in Washington, in the Cascade mountains, driving at dawn with my husband, and of course, at my desk. It almost never happened for a hundred reasons, most of them health, school, stress and work related. But my husband Vasant was amazing throughout the entire journey. The book would’ve never materialized without him. I am, somehow, less ADD and tempestuous with him around. He’s a stabilizing force in my mind. His attention, his care, his encouragement and creative input give me a focus and a confidence I’ve never had in my life.

My parents and sisters have also been incredible. Their constant encouragement, whether it was reading the latest draft or coming by our place with flowers, food or back rubs, got me through the last tough year as I pushed to finally finish this. My parents were the ones who started my love of reading and story telling, who first encouraged me to write books when I was a kid. My sisters were willing participants in all the plays and imaginary games I staged, even the ones with over-the-top dramatic twists at the end. Throughout the years, my family has supported me as a storyteller and that’s no less true this last year.

I have only had a handful of weekends off for the last year and a half. My nights, my mornings, every free second has gone into a push to get this novel finally into concrete existence. It is now out of my head and into the hands of my family, and soon, hopefully, will be in the hands of many more. I’ve appreciated my husband, my parents, my sisters and the friends who have stuck by me through thick and thin in this last year. I’ve loved the interaction with other writers and readers on Twitter and Tumblr, and I cannot wait to share this book with the larger world.

Thank you to all the wonderfuls who have believe in me and more importantly, who told me emphatically that I could not give up on this book. That it needed TO BE. Thank you to all who never let me entertain the thoughts of giving up. This book exists because of all of us. I appreciate and love you all.

I’m heading to Rome this fall and I don’t just want to visit or sightsee. I want to wander and let the experience change me. I’m looking for things to read, thinking about what lies ahead, what Rome is, how it works and who built it. And if you’re here, I either begged you to read this or you googled a “Rome reading list”.

Traveling, whether it’s thirty minutes away from your house or thirty hours away, can be a transformative experience if that’s what you’re looking to have. I think the secret is giving yourself time to wander and reflect. For me, writing, reading, wandering around getting lost and seeing things you haven’t read about yet is the key to transformative travel.

My first time in London was a whirlwind four day trip. I saw the city, but I didn’t get to know it. How could I? By the time I’d adjusted from jetlag, I was back at the airport, boarding my return flight. My second and third trips to London, however, were nice and long. My husband and I took time to get ourselves lost in the city and towns we visited. We wandered foggy streets, read the works of artists who’d created there, visited spots that are hallowed to writers and book geeks like me, contemplating the history and culture of the place. Sometimes, this was done all from leaning against a bridge rail, staring at the Thames, thinking about Joseph Conrad’s reflection in Heart of Darkness:

“We looked at that venerable stream not in the vivid flush of a short day that comes and departs forever but in the august light of abiding memories.”

Other times it was done by wandering into a pub not listed in any guidebook, or wandering through an ancient graveyard. Giving ourselves time to reflect, wander and get lost, London became as much a part of us as our backyard.

So this fall, my husband and I head to Rome for 5 weeks to film a documentary for our cinema studies major, as well as several scenes of our first film. I want to have as much of an experience, and really, much more so, as I had in London. I was struck by the title of an early travelogue by 14th century Moroccan Muslim scholar, Ibn Battuta, whose book is literally entitled, “A Gift to Those Who Contemplate the Wonders of Cities and the Marvels of Traveling”. I thought, This is exactly what I want my trip in Rome to be. A gift to me for contemplating the wonder of cities and the marvels of traveling. I don’t just want to see Rome. I want to contemplate it and the act of traveling through it. I want to become a part of it and leave with a bit of it stuck in my soul. So, to that affect, I’ve been compiling a reading list before I head over, a Literary Journey before my actual one.

So it has become a focus as I prepare for this trip and will most likely affect the subject of the documentary: How traveling affects the city traveled in and the traveler within it. Specifically in Rome, tourism saved the city. The European Grand Tour became a revitalizing breath for a city that had been largely buried under debris and forgotten. While cities like London and Paris made it through hard times and retained their importance, Rome’s grandeur faded as the political and religious powers moved away from the city.

But when the Romantic artists went a’wandering, poets and playwrights resurrected Rome’s ancient ghosts and captivated the imaginations of the Continent. Soon many of the great writers that we know and love today had visited or lived in Rome and created art there. The list of expat artists in Rome is exciting (or exhausting, if you’re not into this and just reading this post because I begged you to): Percy & Mary Shelley, Lord Byron, John Keats, Charles Dickens, Sir Walter Scott, Nathaniel Hawthorne, Louisa May Alcott, Mark Twain, Goethe, Eliot, the Brownings, Coleridge, Joyce, Wilde, Wharton and so many others. The Keats-Shelley House, located in the Piazza di Spagna, has a lovely map showing where several of these writers lived while in Rome.

The act of looking and contemplating how civilization at the time was indebted to Rome, recalling its greatness and taking moral cues from its decline, influenced some of the most important art of the time. Even Thomas Jefferson visited Rome on the Grand Tour, and mused on its laws and philosophy when creating our own government. The Grand Tour and the attention drawn to Rome by the artists who illuminated it in their works gave a new life to the city. It was cleaned up, excavated (its still being excavated) and its old glory was polished up for the world to view once again.

Traveling doesn’t seem to be as important today as it once was, but when one looks at Rome, one can’t help but see that traveling and “contemplating the wonder of cities” influenced the Romantic age and brought Rome back to a place of prominence. I’m not advocating Puerto Vallarta-type American tourism here. I’m saying, the way the artists I’m pondering traveled, they immersed themselves into the area, let it soak into them and their art, considered themselves and their sense of themselves in that place, and gave the world a piece of that experience.

So, to write my essays and make the documentary about pondering Rome and travel as a necessity for the soul, I’m reading up on all the poets and playwrights who have traveled to the city before me, and trying to listen to what they have to say so I can a) figure out how Rome has been literarily framed before and b) NOT SAY THE SAME THING.

Here is a list (SO FAR) of works crafted in Rome, after having traveled in Italy or travel literature written by those I consider literary geniuses, as well as links to these books, should you want to purchase them, via Indiebound.com (love their list feature!):

The Marble Faun (novel) - Nathaniel Hawthorne

“Roman Fever”        (short story) * – Edith Wharton

Italian Hours (travel literature)        - Henry James

Pictures of Italy (travel literature) – Charles Dickens

A Room with a View (novel) – E.M. Forester

D.H. Lawrence and Italy: Twilight in Italy; Sea and Sardinia; Etruscan Places (travel literature) – D.H. Lawrence

Indian Summer (travel literature) – William Dean Howells

A Tramp Abroad (travel literature) – Mark Twain (as well as Innocents Abroad, chapter 26)*

Italian Journey: 1786-1788 (travel literature) – Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

Rambles in Germany and Italy in 1840, 1842 and 1843 (travel literature) – Mary Wollenstonecraft Shelley

The Grand Tour in the Eighteenth Century (history)        - William Edward Mead

*Hyperlink to the e-text

Since list’s like the above are a little rare on the internet, I’d like help flushing it out. If you know of a book that should be added to this list (no Dan Brown or historically-based romance novels, please) then leave the title and description in the comments. I, and the rest of the literary nerds who travel the world, would be incredibly grateful.

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And again, if you’re in the mood to buy any of these books, here’s a link to the list at IndieBound:

One of the most annoying things I’ve ever been told is that I’m not a writer if I’m not writing every day.

This gem of wisdom was handed to me, six years ago, by a guy who used to come in and work on his writing when I worked as a barista at my local Starbucks. I was in community college, part-time, working at the coffee shop, and traveling. He asked me what I wanted to do one day, and I said I was a writer, and that I was working on my first novel. I confessed that, if all went well, I’d like that to be my vocation.

He immediately, and sharply, asked how many hours a day I spent writing. I replied that it was zero at the moment, but that the book was being worked on in different ways. Mentally turned over, again and again, hit from different angles when I was out hiking, driving, working or exercising. He shook his head, as most people several decades older than you, who spend their days in a Starbucks, are want to do, and said, “Sarah, Sarah, Sarah. You’re not a writer. Writers write. If you’re not filling up notebooks everyday with stories and essays, then you’re not a writer. You won’t be one until you do that.”

I told him I had a blog that I wrote on everyday. I carried a quotebook around with me everywhere I went and wrote down observations and poetry and prose… whatever crept into my head and pounced on my synapses as I was out and about. He shook his head again. Told me that I needed to be doing writer’s exercises and writing stories and working for at least five hours a day and then, and only then, would I be able to one day write my book.

I countered, inbetween making beverages for customers, that I’d been writing since I was 12. I’d written two books (neither of them anything to brag about) by fifteen and thousands of poems and short stories. But at that moment, in 2004, it was the time to casually write. I was focusing on living.

The older gentleman shook his head again and looked at me sadly, and pronounced his judgment, “You’re not a writer then. A writer never stops writing. A writer can’t. We’re addicted. And if we don’t write, we’re reading. If you can live your life without doing either, then writing is just not in you.”

To that, six years later, as I finish the novel that I’ve been working on for seven years, I have a hearty, well-thought out reply:

Bullshit.

Yes. Some writers do live by the creed the man in the coffee shop tried to foist on me (him, as well as countless others I’ve met). But that’s not for me. A storyteller has to go out and live life. Reading and writing (a lot) are necessary to write well. But a great writer isn’t just a wordsmith. A great writer is also a storyteller, and the only way to find stories to tell is to live. Now, coffee shop writer was right about what a good writer does. A good writer writes all the time. Every day, every week, every month and every year. When they aren’t writing, they’re reading. And they have a great grasp of prose, an excellent handle on grammar and man, do they ever know what narrative forms are “in” at the moment.

But what do they have to say?

If one stays in doors, writing and reading every single day, then what do they know of life? Good literature is full of universals that connect humanity. Literary fiction is composed of truths that dig at the soul of the reader. I don’t know how someone who isn’t out there in the real world LIVING claims to get these things on an instinctive-enough level to be able to make their readers feel it. My only guess is that they’re copying what other authors have had to say on love, life, loss, death, greed, failure, etc. Because if you’re not out there, risking your heart, getting it broken, traveling the world, getting in fights, getting knocked down and bouncing back, then what is there to say?

I’ve been hard at work on my book The Ashes for the last year. It’s been in development for a full 7 years, but come on. Don’t tell me I haven’t been working on it for the better part of a decade because it’s only been 13 months that I’ve spent chained to my laptop. The characters, the setting, the plot and many other details were all things I wrestled with fiercely on treadmills, forest paths, trains in England, classrooms and yes, behind the counter at the local Starbucks. And they changed as I did. Things happened to me in my life that affected the plot, the characters and the overall meaning of this book. Being out in the world NOT WRITING has made this book as emotionally-charged and powerful as I, and the several who have read it thus far, think that it is.

Ernest Hemingway, by the by, agrees with this particular line of thought:

“In going where you have to go, and doing what you have to do, and seeing what you have to see, you dull and blunt the instrument you write with. But I would rather have it bent and dull and know i had to put it to the grindstone again and hammer it into shape and put a whetstone to it, and know that I had something to write about, than to have it bright and shining and nothing to say, or smooth and well-oiled in the closet, but unused.” (Preface to The Short Stories, Scribner Classics)

I am the FIRST to admit that I don’t have the greatest grasp on grammar. I can work hard at it, sharpen my prose and edit like crazy though. I know that there are thousands of better writers out there in the world. But here’s the thing that Hemingway and I are getting at: it’s better to be a good storyteller, to have stories to tell from actual experience, than to be a first-rate writer. A storyteller can finesse his experience and his story into something. I was a great storyteller before I could write (ie child who makes stuff up). I learned, over the years, to be a good writer. But being a gifted storyteller and writer doesn’t matter at all if my ideas, my convictions, and my world-view are untested. Being talented has nothing to do with writing something that will matter to someone else. If you’re not living, you have nothing original to say and that is not who I want to be.

If that works for coffee shop writer guy, than glory be to him. But there are a lot of people propagating this myth that if you want to be a writer, than you should write, every minute of every day and if you’re not doing that, then read. And of course, I am all for writing and reading. But not all the time. Not every year. This last year has been a heavy writing and reading season for me. Sure. But it was preceded by more than a decade of weird, crazy, heartbreaking and amazing experiences that inform who I am, and what and why I write. And I read and wrote during that decade. But not every day. I was out living. I was out having adventures. I’ve been a bookworm from Richard Scarry to Dostoevesky. But living life is what gives me stories to tell, and then reading and writing sharpen my prose when it’s time to commit those stories to the page.

So to the coffee shop writer guy, and anyone else out there who feels they need to tell people who they are and how to approach what they are passionate about: Suck it. The only truth worth passing around is that we all only have ONE LIFE to live. Whether you’re an artist or a plumber or a politician, making sure that life is well-spent and lived in full, outside your claimed profession, will always make you better at what you do during the day.

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And for anyone who’s curious, since it is impossible to write well, when it IS the writing season, without reading great novels and stories, here’s a list of what’s been keeping me company over the last year while working on The Ashes: Reading List During The Ashes (compiled on Indiebound.com)

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Read more….

We were accepted into a program our major was offering for Cinema Studies students to live in Rome, study Italian cinema and produce documentaries while there. We’ve been attempting to get this worked out for the last four months with not only the acceptance part of the program, but also funding, grants, scholarships, etc. We haven’t wanted to jinx this by talking about it, because even now, having been accepted and all, going to Rome to film still seems surreal. Surreal or not, however, yesterday we received the funds, finalized our travel plans and therefore can officially announce that we’re headed to Rome.

We’re being put up in apartments overlooking Rome’s famous open-air market, the Campo de’ Fiori and studying films in the nearby Palazzo Pio. We’ll be there for five weeks from the end of August through the end of September, right before (a day before) starting our final quarter at the University back here in Seattle. The program will be part study of Italian cinema, part production course, and a whole lot of walking every day through the city, examining Rome and how filmmakers frame it within Italian cinema and how we as filmmakers think about framing space within narrative. On our downtime, Vasant and I will be filming part of our first serious film. I say serious, because Vasant and I try to knock out one or two short films between the two of us a month, to practice all the elements of our craft that we can. But those films aren’t anything but practice and experimentation. This film that we’ll be shooting in Rome is our first serious film. It’s in pre-production right now, and it won’t actually be wrapped until next March or April when we shoot the final scenes, which, for script reasons, can’t be shot until next Spring. I am so excited to announce details for that, but for right now, I can’t. I can just say that it’s coming down the pipe, and to be thinking good thoughts for us. We’ll have part of the script in place for the Rome sequence by the end of August, which we plan to shoot at the end of September once we’ve found the right locations in the city.

Words cannot describe how excited and TERRIFIED I am. We take our Italian final for summer quarter on the 21st of August and get on a plane two days later, land in Rome, start schooling, filming a documentary and our film, and that action pretty much doesn’t stop until the course is over on the 24th of September. Then we fly home on the 27th, after we’ve checked out of our apartments, and start our final quarter at the UW on the 29th. It’s going to be intense. The jet-lag, the culture shock and the immense work we have to do while soaking in the grandeur of the Eternal City is daunting. Of course, it is also thrilling. When Vasant and I got married, we did not have a college education, just a few paltry credits from the local community college taken out of a state of academic ennui. But after we began dating, we realized we wanted to make movies together. Once we got married, we realized the only way that we, personally, could do this and not feel like we were risking our futures to pursue this dream was to get an education. First an undergrad, then move onto a grad school that would position us to get into the industry. If it doesn’t work out, our educations will allow us to fall back on teaching, which both of us would love to do anyway, whether we find success in our fields or not. However, if I didn’t think we were going to be successful, we wouldn’t be pursuing this. I am always pragmatic though, and becoming filmmakers via great educations is, for us together and as individuals, the smartest thing we can do.

What’s incredible is that five years ago this summer we were getting married, with only a foggy sense of what we wanted to accomplish together. We knew we wanted to tell stories together but we had no idea what that would look like or how it would happen. In the last five years, we’ve gotten through four years of college, we’re two and a half quarters away from both of us receiving our double majors, Vasant’s built a place for us with my father, I’ve almost finished my first novel and we’re in pre-production on our first film. And trust me, I don’t say any of this to brag. It’s emotionally healthy for me to take the time, as I write a post about Rome, to write this out for myself. There have been plenty of people who, throughout the last four years, have been kind enough to tell us how stupid they think two married people in their mid to late twenties going back for an undergrad is. Apparently (wonder why we weren’t told this in marital counseling) once you get married, you are stuck in whatever career you’re in when you get married, with room for the occasional climb to the next ladder rung. You have to buy a house and get pregnant within your first five years and if you don’t, you’re obviously not doing “marriage” right.

I find this hilarious. Right now. You know, at this particular moment while I write this post out to Michael Giacchino’s excellent Star Trek soundtrack. I haven’t always found it hilarious when people think they’re being subtle but they really aren’t, telling us that they don’t respect what we’re doing, how we’re doing it, where we’re headed, where we’re living and so on. In fact, it’s been really difficult to discover just how unsupportive people have been because we’re not living the traditional suburban married life. At times, even though we have a good plan, and it’s right for us, it’s been really hard to believe in ourselves when so many people have laughed at two married people going back to get a four year education, living with my parents while Vasant finished our apartment, and well, pursuing storytelling. Trust me, as a pragmatic, I’m all too aware of the supposedly dying publishing industry and the myriad of people who want to make movies and the terrifyingly high percentage of people who never realize that dream.

So when I say going to Rome is surreal, it’s not just because I’ve never been there before. When I list all the things Vasant and I have been doing for the last five years in a positive light, I’m not showing off. It’s surreal to both of us to articulate just how much we’ve accomplished together in five years because, sadly, we get to hear from so many people, way more often than we would like, that we’re not doing anything worthwhile. But it’s just not true. And again, maybe the Star Trek soundtrack is giving me the courage to write this. Maybe it’s because I finally bought the tickets to Rome last night. Maybe it’s because writing all these accomplishments out in this post reinforces the positive truth that’s so hard to swallow: Despite the many aspects of our non-traditional life (according to married suburban norms), Vasant and I have accomplished so much together in the first five years of our marriage. We’re not just “excellent roommates” as Steve Carrell put it in his most recent movie, Date Night. We are adventurers together. We’re writing partners. Study buddies. Collaborators in a grand dream. And forgive me if this post seems emotionally indulgent, but I realized halfway down as the nice things became harder to write, that I needed to articulate just how much I love what we’re doing. I believe in what we’re doing and dammit, we’re going to be successful.

Going to Rome the year I finish my novel, we start our film AND graduate from University just seems to be a fitting and an amazing way to commemorate what we’ve done so far together and with the support of our family and friends (the ones who have chosen to stick by us on our non-conformist journey). It is surreal and it’s an amazing opportunity. But I guess at the heart of this new development, it’s simply and most importantly, affirmation.

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An aside for people like us:

For anyone out there who’s dreaming, who’s doing something non-conformist, or merely entertaining the idea- don’t let other people’s censure get you down. Affirmation moments may come everyday for some people, or for us, it’s coming five years into our journey. But it doesn’t negate how right something is. And “rightness” doesn’t negate how hard something may be. The thing you may be meant for may be the hardest thing you’ve ever committed to in your life, and there will be plenty of months, if not years, when it doesn’t seem possible, when it seems like nothing is working out. The harder it feels, the more momentous it will be when you get to those moments of affirmation. And this moment of affirmation may only be a pit stop for us, but I’m going to savor it. It’s going to be years more before we even get a toehold, let alone a firm footing in what we want to do. But we love telling stories. Our hearts, our minds, our bodies ache to tell stories. It consumes every hour of every day.

If anyone out there who is reading this loves something like that, find the wisest way of securing a means of doing it. Be pragmatic, and yet boundless in your imagination, and let pragmatism and idealism duke it out until there’s a middle ground. But once you find that path, which may take a while to find, commit to it. No matter how hard it may be. Surround yourself with people who get you and if there is no one around you like that… watch a Pixar documentary on any of their movies, but most especially, The Pixar Story on the Wall*E bonus features. Even if you don’t want to make movies, like we do. I kid you not. Watching the story about how many rejections were dealt to the gang at Pixar early on- specifically following their story from its roots in the seventies until it coalesces as the animation studio we know today in the mid-nineties, you’ll feel uplifted. I know this addendum to my post may seem silly, but if there is anything we’re looking forward to as we get more successful, it’s encouraging other people to dream. We need that encouragement, and when we get it, it feels like a responsibility to turn around and do the same for others. I am aware, or rather the cynic in me is aware, of how painfully mushy this part of the post is, but really – it’s hard to take hold of an intangible. It takes planning, commitment, encouragement and endurance. And all of those things can be hard to find. Just know, if anyone who is reading this feeling akin to what I’m describing: hold on through the rough seasons. Moments of affirmation may feel like they’re far off, but if you hold on, and stay positive, focus on what you love no matter how hard it is to pursue, you’ll get there. Until one day, hopefully, those moments of affirmation give way to realizations of the dream. And that… that is what we working hard to take hold of.

Not only was Jack lead to the lighthouse by the dynamic duo of Hurley and Jacob, he was meant to do what has pissed off thousands of fans worldwide. Now, I know that there are a lot of people who cared more about how the lighthouse would work, but I’m one of the few who seemed to care more about the fact that Jacob smirked at Hurley’s concern. Jacob seemed to not only have intended Jack to have a freak out, smash the mirrors and storm off, it seems he also got a big kick out of it.

Because in my opinion, Jack is the not only going to end up as the new Jacob, but he, Jack, is also one of the people whom Jack is going to help get to the Island.

(If I maybe just blew your mind, or if you think I’m absolutely nuts, or if you have nothing else to do, read on…)

Jacob confirms to Hurley that Jack was meant to see his house in the mirror and that Jacob doesn’t really care about what happened after that. Now remember that Jacob is himself a master of time. He flashed select people back to 1977, while others landed safely in 2007 on Ajira 316. He’s drawn people to the Island who are not only candidates, but useful to candidates. He saw his enemy, the Man in Black, had found a loophole a long time ago, and had set to work to remedy the loophole. He brought Widmore to the Island, Jack made the call, got the Oceanic 6 off the island in order for them to be able to come back, brought to a certain time to detonate a bomb that split the thread they were on that will, soon (in my opinion) be reconciled somehow.

Does anyone really think that this demigod was surprised by what Jack did? Or would’ve let Jack near the lighthouse if the lighthouse was the only means to drawing someone to the Island?

No? Good. Neither do I. ;)

Here’s the deal. I think Jack is destined to become the new Jacob. Jacob has a plan for reconciling the timelines, as do, apparently, the show creators who said they hoped the timelines would be reconciled by the end of the series as well. Those theories in and of themselves are not that earth-shattering.

But what is earth-shattering is “The Lighthouse” references to Alice in Wonderland.

Now, Lewis Carroll has made many appearances within Lost. So many, I’m sure, that I would be wasting my time to recount them all to you. That’s what Lostpedia is for, right?

But just a few recaps: we have had two Jack-centric episodes named “White Rabbit” and “Through the Looking Glass”. So here in this episode, the action begins off-Island, with Jack looking into a mirror, and realizing something is different. He has an appendicitis scar that he doesn’t remember receiving.

The episode finishes with Jack seeing his own house within another looking glass. But here is where we bring in the literature so often referenced in conjunction with Jack, Through the Looking Glass. Jack was looking through a looking glass- not at it. But what world was he looking at? His own, or another? One, that like Alice’s experience, is almost identical, and yet different in many key ways.

And who is it that has to come back to the Island?

My theory? I know the favorites are Desmond, Widmore and the name at 108˚, Wallace. But I’m going to hazard two guesses. More than one person is coming to the Island and one of them is Jack himself.

And Jacob, being prescient, knows that the way to get Jack to this place is for him to break something. Because the way to motivate Jack is to give him a situation to fix.

Now, I think the time lines can and will be resolved. Jack seems to be aware of being in two places at once, and seems to be the only one. He’s so far the only one to have noticeable deja vu when meeting other Oceanic passengers from the first timeline. Now, with his scar, things are starting to pop in to his conscious mind, disrupting the sense of peace he has existing in this other world/timeline.

This is not unlike another character. Desmond has had two experiences within the Lost storyline akin to this. One happened in season four, when his consciousness skipped backwards and forwards, while his body in both the present and the past stayed in one place. That experience was brought on by breaching the electromagnetic perimeter around the Island. But in season three, we saw a different event, one that involved his physical body moving (he woke up over a mile away from the blast site, naked, unharmed, having been transported from underneath a ton of concrete and metal). So bear in mind, his first trip to the past was not just his consciousness.

To recap for those who didn’t rewatch the series last summer (my sister hadn’t seen it yet), at the end of season two, Desmond turned a failsafe key in the Hatch. The sky turned purple, much like it had when Ben and Locke moved the Island in seasons 4 and 5. But before the Island could move, Desmond discharged the electromagnetic energy. He woke up in the past. He had similar experiences as to what he had in the past, except for a gnawing feeling that he was reliving the past with minor differences. He told Penny he felt like he had deja vu. This was all fine and well until he decided to make a decision that was different than the time before (or on the other timeline).  He decided to go through with purchasing a ring for Penny and was yelled at by Mrs. Hawking, a woman who we later found out was once a leader on the Island, operates an old Dharma Station under a church in LA called the Lamp Post that can locate the Island and has a time and space conquering physicist for a son. Mrs. Hawking was inexplicably there at the jewelry shop, waiting for Desmond. She knew about his destiny in the future with the Island. She was there to make sure he made the same decision and when he insisted on making a different decision than the one she said he’d made in a previous timeline, she took him to watch a man in red shoes die and told him that nothing he could do could prevent the universe from course correcting. Of course, if that was true, what was she doing there, desperate to make sure he made the same decisions? Why was she so afraid that he wouldn’t end up on the Island if she didn’t talk him out of proposing?

But most importantly, what, why and how was she there at all? Armed with knowledge of the future, knowledge of the fact that Desmond was in the middle of reliving events on a different timeline, explaining to him that if he didn’t comply, that everyone would die?

Consider those questions. If the Island jumps through time and space and Mrs. Hawking has a station that can tell where and when it will be, it stands to reason that she used that station to find Desmond in the episode “Flashes Before Your Eyes” and talk him out of proposing. And it stands to reason that Jack, who is experiencing deja vu in both episodes in this different timeline, will be getting a visit from Mrs. Hawking (and from many others- as I’ve also theorized, I think Team Jacob and Team Smokey are still alive and well off-Island).

If Jack is the new Jacob, if he has followed the White Rabbit throughout the series, and since “The Lighthouse” had him looking into a looking glass twice and noticing something odd (his scar and his house) than I would wager that Jack is the one to find a way to reconcile the two times. He’ll need help. He’ll need to find a constant. He’ll need to bring others with him. But it will be Jack who leads, who fixes, who saves the rest of them. Just like it has been since the first episode.

The broken glass may have angered a lot of viewers, but I beg those viewers: put aside your anger and focus on that smirk on Jacob’s face. This was meant to happen. And I’m betting, if what happened was part of Jacob’s plan, then whatever Jack has to do because of the broken mirrors will be far more awesome than it could have been if he had simply turned on the lighthouse in the fifth episode of the season. Personally, this may be the first time I’ve been this much behind Jack as a character since the first episode.

LOST STARTS TOMORROW.

I’m not going to get into the intricate theories until after I see the season premiere. Honestly, since the producer’s said they won’t be focusing on DHARMA and a lot of other aspects, I want to wait to see the first two episodes to even get a feel for what Lost WILL tackle in their final season. There is so much for them to do plot-wise and character-wise, and a good fan will be accepting that not all areas of interest will be explored in the 18 episodes we have left.

But one piece of plot exposition I’m confident of seeing is, of course, the mysterious The Black Rock: how it came to the Island and WHY.

We’re all pretty sure this is the ship we saw on the horizon at the end of season five, as Jacob and the Man in Black discussed the nature of man and an age-old battle waged between them over who was right. But what we don’t know is, if it is the Black Rock, how did it get into the middle of a mountain-filled, densely forested island looking like this:

That ship was not blown there via tsunami or hurricane. It would’ve been ripped to shreds.

Well, I believe the answer came last week during a Lost recap on ABC. You know, those annoying pop-up episodes that say things like, “This is Kate. She is also a survivor. She likes to run away from things” or “This is Jack. He is also a survivor. He likes to fix things.” I know a lot of fans skip those episodes, but if you’re one of those people, you’re making a mistake. ABC throws a lot of redundant information in there, but every so often there is a gem.

Keep reading to find out what…

Last week, during Jacob’s conversation with the Man in Black, aka Hairy Man the information was slightly redundant, “they don’t like each other” kind of statements. However, when Kate’s childhood shoplifting scene occurred a couple minutes later, the green box flashed up on the bottom of the screen saying, “This scene takes place on the island over 140 years before the present day.”

?!?!?!?!?

Listen up, Losties: The Black Rock set sail in 1845 from Britain. We know from the Lost Experience and the fictitious yet factual Rachel Blake that the ship was last seen in 1881. The ship sailed east from Papua New Guinea, instead of west, as it was supposed to have.

What’s this have to do with the ABC factoid?

Kate was born in 1977. She is at least ten in this encounter with Jacob (she would make the time capsule out of the same lunchbox she steals in this scene at age twelve). This encounter must’ve been between 1985 and 1989, when the capsule was buried. I’m guessing 1986, to be conservative.

This means the conversation we saw takes place ON THE ISLAND circa 1867.

It’s definitely not 1845, and it’s definitely not 1881, as Kate, a hundred years later, would’ve only been four at the time.

There’s a temporal difference occurring here. That, or ABC forgot that Lost fans are rabid “check up on that” fans. My theory: the only way to get the Island and the ship to sync up is to do it the same way that Ben got it to disappear at the end of season four.

BLOOP.

That’s right. It gets moved in both time and space. And where it pops back up again, the ship is catapulted up from the surface of the sea onto the middle of the island, all at once in sync with the land and the time of the Island.

It’s the only way to explain the lack of damage to a 160 year old sailing vessel that is smack dab in the middle of a very large tropical island. And thanks to the information on ABC (as well as Lostpedia for its database on Kate and her timeline) we now know there is a gap in the timeline between the last sighting of the Black Rock in 1881, and the conversation on the beach between 1885-1889. When exactly, as in the day and hour, the conversation took place may not be too important.

We’ve already seen ships on the horizon not sharing the same temporal plane as the Island (Widmore’s boat in Season 4) and the way that Jacob manipulates time in order to bring people back to the Island whom he has chosen, as in season five.

So we know, inferring from the Man in Black, that Jacob has brought the ship to the Island. It stands to reason that he is the one that can control how and where the Island appears, considering he summoned Ilana, her team and Hurley, instructing them to be on the flight that would bring them back to the Island.

But that brings me to part two of my theory:

Jacob brings people. His touch in the season five finale was bestowed on members of Oceanic 815 AND Ajira 316. I’m guessing in a Richard flashback, we may possibly see Jacob offshore laying a hand on Richard. But why does he bring these people? We know he’s engaged in a debate about the nature of man with the Man in Black, and bringing people to the Island seems to almost be a contest between the two, with Jacob determined to prove the Man in Black wrong about his pessimistic view of man. This seems obvious, and yet, on Ajira 316 there seems to be another purpose at work. Why, in season five, did some go to the present and some go to the past?

If I’m right about the Black Rock on the horizon being separated from the Island’s temporal and spacial plan, and the Island has to move, then we can assume that Jacob has powers over time and space (as well as healing, ala Locke, Rose and others, but that’s another post). If Jacob can choose whom he draws to the Island, and we know that he does, and align them temporally and spatially when and where he wants them, then we have to ask, why do some go back to 1977 and others go forward to the present?

A reboot.

My theory is that Jacob got wind of the Man in Black’s plan for Locke early on. Locke chose the knife, as a child, when Richard was sent to see if he was ready. He was supposed to pick the book of laws. As an adult, he felt drawn to the Smoke Monster, a manifestation of the Island, a Caliban-esque monster under the control of the wizard-like Jacob (if you’re not familiar with the Tempest references in the show, check out Lostpedia’s article on it), who sought to drag Locke into its caverns rather than merely mangling it as it does others it kills. By the time Christian, begins to give orders to Locke (alleging he’s acting on behalf of Jacob, but imo, is acting on behalf of the Man in Black instead). Jacob knows that things are moving, but has the ability to rest things. He uses his former chosen leader, Eloise, and the members of Oceanic, and by bringing some of them back, has them engage in a reset.

Though things in this season will play out similarly, there is enough different that I think it will give Jacob the upper hand. And someone who is able to manipulate time and space may just be powerful enough to transcend linear time in a way that allows him to know, in this new timeline, about the reboot, the Man in Black’s plan, and to work things in a way to counter that plan.

So to recap: My theory is that the Black Rock was synced up with the time and location of the Island in a similar way to how Ben caused its shift at the end of Season 4.  And the fact that Jacob not only chooses who to bring, can control time and space to bring them, suggests that he planned the intervention of the Incident in 1977. The reboot will allow him to counter the plans of the Man in Black.

So these theories, if true, beg the question: who will he choose to come back to the Island this time? Who will stay alive and who will die? Will the fates of the survivors change in order to combat the plans of the Man in Black?

Remember, the first season warned us of an epic battle of light versus dark, good versus evil. A game of strategy and maneuvering of pieces. And interestingly enough, the man explaining that to us, was at the heart of the first battle we witnessed, and I daresay will be a key to the next one as well.

We start finding out tomorrow…..

But first, background. How did the last year end for me?

So a little over a month and a half ago, Vasant and I finished our apartment. He and my father started working on this four years ago (although serious construction started in 2008). While we’ve been going to school and working, every spare minute of Vasant’s time was invested into our place. And this Christmas, we finally woke up in our cozy hobbit hole of an apartment.

Keep reading below the link:

Now, I can’t emphasize enough how much work Vasant put into our apartment. He’d work ten to twelve hours in the apartment and then come in to study Latin, history, theory of cinema, linguistics, etc. So this last December, with the quarter finished and the apartment finally livable, we moved in, held our first party on the third day we lived there (to celebrate my birthday) and had our tree set up in time for Christmas.

As soon as Christmas was done, however, we had a lot of work to do. Shelves still needed to be put up, hardware needed to be installed, our storage unit is STILL not all the way emptied and the unpacking didn’t seem to have an end in sight. So when New Years’ rolled around, we barely noticed. We had people over for a Champagne and Curry Party, followed by our annual Lord of the Rings marathon the following day. Then we slept. For the next two days. And with the important projects out of the way, we got ready for another quarter at the University. So while the rest of the world took stock of the New Year and the New Decade, I read forlornly on Twitter and wished I had the energy to make a similar post. I told myself that once the quarter began, I would find the time.

The above being said, may I just point out that being naive has always been one of my biggest faults. This quarter we’re taking Marxian Literary Theory and Accelerated Italian (it’s Italian 101 and 102 fit into a single quarter). The Italian course is fascinating. It’s by far my favorite romance language yet. The class, however, is taxing. We do about ten hours of homework a day to stay on top of the course work. The Marxian literary theory is equally fascinating, but also takes up several hours of the day. So far, an average school day has been up at 7:30 and to bed around 3:30. On top of which is the continued effort to unpack boxes, hang pictures, organize the kitchen and bathroom and bedroom just so, and find a few hours each day for ourselves.

Blogging obviously wasn’t ranked high enough to fit into those few precious hours, though I missed it.

So now we’re about 80% put together. We still need baseboards and windowsill trim, we need to rebuild the kitchen island and the bedroom isn’t were we’d like it, but that’ll come in the next couple months. I guess what I’ve been waiting for, in order to begin writing and blogging again,  is my library and desk area to be finished.

And it has been.

And it’s beautiful.

I’m surrounded by my books, and on my desk is a sword that Vasant gave me for my birthday (it’s a replica of Hadhafang, a sword from Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings). I can sit down, as of this weekend, and write again in a place that makes me feel comfortable, secure and at the same time, motivated. It’s absolutely imperative for the way that I write to have such a space. The ADD-addled portion of my brain is kept from running amok by having a zen-like space in which to work. And I have it again.

So the first month of 2010 is finished. And I have yet to say anything about what I want this year to be. I know what will happen this year: Vasant and I will be graduating this fall, each with two degrees. Four diplomas total. Whatever else does or does not happen, that will, so it’s already going to be a challenging and yet incredibly rewarding year.

My book is almost done. Moving put the end of it off the last two months, because I don’t believe in being a writer that neglects her spouse. At the end of November, it was clear the book needed to be put on hold while we burned both ends of the candle to finish building before our permit expired and to begin and finish moving before Christmas. Now that we’re in, found a rhythm in school and I have my library set up, the book can be worked on again. Hopefully, if no major unforeseen event happens, it’ll be finished within the next couple of weeks.

As a pragmatist, I never really feel I can or should speak for what I want a year to be. Even writing the above irks my inner worrier. I expect and plan for the worst, and hope for the best. I can say, however, what I expect of my soul by the end of the year and hold myself to, achieving a constant upward progression of the heart. I want to be wiser. I want to love with a bigger heart and let that love translate into action. I want to be a better wife. I want to have better boundaries. I want to stop being afraid of things and letting that fear paralyze my actions in the present. I want to find a voice in my writing that is truer to how I verbally tell stories, and I think overcoming fear in my life will help that. Again, as a pragmatist, I don’t believe in goals that aren’t under my control or aren’t prudent. I’m not going to give up something that I’ll only pick back up in June. I’m not going to say I’ll lose “X” amount of weight, because I just don’t know what this year holds. I know I can shape my world view, my heart, my head, and that no matter what happens this year, I get to choose whether or not I grow personally or stay the same. I can’t even say that the graduation or book will happen for sure, as a pragmatist, I consider the “what if” scenarios. What if I get really sick? As someone who already has several illnesses, that’s not outside the realm of possibility. And if something bad happens, no matter what it is, my goals for the year are still under my control, because I can choose to transcend or stay the same.

So, a month into 2010, I finally have time to reflect. 2009 is done, and we finished our home. Now we’re in it, both the new home and the new year and there are lots of hopes. But one thing we’ve learned with a building project that took four years instead of four months is that life doesn’t always play out how you think it will at the start of each new year. And when December 31st rolls around, you can either rejoice in the triumphs of the intangibles you cultivated within, or feel let down by circumstances that were never really in your control anyway. Over the last several years, we’ve been faced with disease and disaster and I’ve learned this lesson the tough way, and again, I think I’m naive if I assume I’m anywhere near done learning it.

So here is to 2010 and the next 11 months. I hope I never forget or let go of this: I choose what I develop each year. And I’m much better off if I set my sights on developing good things within, and just place tenuous hope on the things I’m working for around me.

This year I am in a rush to finish up my novel (91,000 + words, currently) and Vasant is in a rush to get us into our new place by the beginning of December (carpet and fireplace go in this next week, and hopefully we’ll get a housing inspection by the first weekend of December). In fact, while I tend to the turkey on Thanksgiving, Vasant and my Dad will be in the apartment working. Between school, catching the swine flu in October, and being behind on our ever-pressing deadlines to finish this book and construction by December, we’re spread unbelievably thin.But despite the craziness of this fall, there is so much to give thanks for. When I turn 28 this December, I’ll be able to say I’ve completed a novel. We’ll be in our own place, that Vasant BUILT. We’ll be closer than ever to graduation, and with so many projects off the table, we’ll be able to start working on screenplays for Vasant & I’s grad school portfolio. Ever onward and upward.

For more Thanksgiving update and the elaborately thought out Thanksgiving menu, click ‘more’…

Part of me wishes that Thanksgiving this year was a calm one. That I didn’t have to write in the morning and that Vasant didn’t have to work in the afternoon. But as soon as we finish these projects, we can settle down move onto new ones. Oy, that’s a sobering thought. I guess “settling down” won’t really happen until our mid-thirties.

But at least we have fun where we are, moment to moment, day to day. No matter how little we sleep, or how much we have to get done, life with Vasant is beyond fun/exciting/hilarious. Every second, even the crappy ones, is worthwhile.

In other news, do you still think you’ll buy my book when it comes out because I say words like crappy/don’t obsess over my grammar in posts like these? I hope so. I hope you’ll like me because I’m grounded enough to write like I talk (but no, I don’t use the word crappy in my book unless a character says it, just fyi). Don’t get me wrong…. I am snarky and elitist sometimes. But not pretentious. Let’s get nitpicky and draw that line. ;)

UPDATE:

Here are the pictures of Thursday’s feast!

First off… my pies turned out great. Two pumpkin pies, one Amaretto Cherry and an Apple pie.

Beets debuted on the Thanksgiving table this year. My family was hesitant, but I’m going to keep pushing the roasted beet agenda until they all love them as much as I do! Muwahaha.

Besides, roasting beets is just such a pretty thing to undertake. Look at them glistening- those rustic rubies. Down side however, I didn’t wear gloves and dyed my fingers red for a day.

My husband Vasant loves to chop things. If anything in the kitchen needs cutting, chopping, mincing or dicing, Vasant rushes to do it before I can. I don’t mind that at all. I cook in half the time now, because he loves prepping and cleaning up the dishes. We actually make a pretty dynamic cooking team (except for breakfasts, when we reverse roles and he takes over, while I prep and manage the coffee).

The bird! 21.5 lbs. Filled with apples, carrots, onions, celery, crushed garlic cloves, rosemary and thyme. On top, honey, cracked black pepper and rosemary.

In the pot next to the turkey is the turkey neck, getting ready to simmer for hours to make unbelievable gravy, which when combined with several cups of drippings and seasoned, will become the world’s most magical gravy.

Vasant, being the best husband ever, ran out to the store to get more garlic. When there, he saw a Thanksgiving bouquet and decided to surprise me.

Our friend Will joined us (as well as my grandparents) for the day. He insisted on helping me mince garlic for the mashed potatoes, and did a stellar job. Garlic cloves are sticky, messy things to work with.

The bird, in all its basted, golden splendor.

My mother set the table.

My sisters, Emily and Claire (who live in London and New York, respectively) joined us in spirit for dinner.

So back to Thanksgiving! Here’s what I’m cooking: (I’ll update Friday with pictures)

Thanksgiving Menu

Appetizers:
* Vegetable Dip & Vegetable Platter (My Grandma’s bringing it over)
* Vasant’s Peroncini, Kalamata & Cerignola Olive tapenade
* Crackers & Pretzels
* Grapes & Orange Slices

Vegetable Courses:
* Roasted Brussels Sprouts, with Bacon and Pecans (based off this recipe: Roasted Brussels Sprouts with Bacon and Chestnuts | Williams-Sonoma)
* Roasted Acorn Squash, with brown sugar and cranberries (based off my aunt’s recipe)
* Roasted Beet Salad, with feta, red onion, spinach and candied pecans (my own recipe)
* Broccoli Raisin Salad (Mom’s fixing this one)
* Corn (no recipe needed. Shuck corn, de-cob the corn. Warm the corn. Salt it. Bam. You got corn for dinner!)

Starch Courses:
* Stuffing (my Mom’s classic casserole-dish stuffing. Mom tried a sweeter apple-cornbread variation one year. We all revolted. When it comes to some dishes for the holidays, originality is NOT encouraged)
* Yams (loosely based off of my mother-in-laws’s recipe)
* Mashed Potatoes (I’m deviating SLIGHTLY from the norm this year by adding roasted garlic and parmesan to it. I may be killed for it. But I’m gonna risk it.)
* Crescent Roles (Pillsbury. Only thing not being made from scratch. Why? Tradition/years of marketing beg for it to be upheld. Plus… have you seen how much I’m already doing?)

Main Course:
* Pepper & Honey Marinated Turkey, roasted with fresh rosemary, thyme, onions, celery & apples (my own recipe. Let the turkey be wrapped in ribbons of honey and butter, covered in pepper and salt, and filled with wine, aromatics and herbs. THIS is my favorite thing to cook and I do a fabulous job at it.)
* Gravy (my gravy is a main course. No fake browning agent needed here, my friends. My turkey practically takes care of the gravy itself, and when wine and cornstarch are added in, you get some crazy magical concoction that gets fought over at the table.)

Dessert:
* Apple Pie (Cinnamon, allspice and brandy make my apple pie better than your local grocery store’s apple pie. That and my pie crust is made to be a thing of wonder in itself. Many people who hate pie love mine because they go right for the crust.)
* Pumpkin Pie (You gotta stay relatively traditional on this pie, but mine is sweeter and filled with more spices than your traditional pumpkin pie)
* Amaretto Cherry Pie (This recipe is won’t even be hinted at. It’s my favorite, most beloved recipe. Until I make up one better than this, it’s my only secret recipe, and that says something, cause I can’t keep secrets worth crap).

5 years ago, I had already known Vasant Samudre for a couple years. He was best friends with my best friend Todd. Our acquaintance had been a Mr. Darcy/Elizabeth Bennett type of acquaintance. We’d been introduced, by our gregarious, red-haired, Bingley-esque friend Todd, but hadn’t gotten along. I thought Vasant was proud. While all of Todd’s other friends quickly became my friends as well, Vasant stayed withdrawn, didn’t talk at parties, didn’t talk to me when I hosted the parties. I assumed he didn’t care for me as a person, which meant, of course, I didn’t care for him that much as a person.

That was the first two years of knowing each other, from 2002 through 2004. It was cool indifference that could, at times, be extended to pleasant socialization, if forced by Todd, to interact with each other.

But on September 23rd, 2004, something changed…

I had been recording some songs with my friends that night, and Todd and Vasant were there to watch. I remember when I stepped down from the stage, Vasant bounded up to me, lifted up his shirt, and grinning broadly, said, “Check out my new tattoo!”

Declaration: I am a sucker for tattoos.

I was taken aback by his attitude. This guy was usually so chill, so calm and sure of himself. To see him lift up his shirt and show me his tattoo in such a giddy manner endeared him to me, to say nothing, again, of what the tattoo did for me. We’d just started talking recently at a local diner the week before. I’d known him for years, and all of a sudden, out of the blue, he warmed to me, engaging me in conversation and then, five years ago tonight, randomly lifting up his shirt to show me his tattoo.

I’d never really taken the time to wonder if there were any possibilities between Vasant and I. He’d never shown interest in talking to me, let alone anything else, until the week before. He and Todd had somewhere to go, and as they said goodbye, I felt pleased and confused by his attention.

But as he and Todd left, I was confronted by someone who liked me and who hadn’t been receiving my signals that I wasn’t interested. I’d agreed to go out with two of my friends that night after we were done recording our songs. What I didn’t know was that they were bringing the guy who liked me along with the intention of setting me up.

Declaration: I am a chicken. Especially in these situations.

After learning that I was to be ambushed at a Shari’s restaurant by my scheming friends and the guy they wanted me to be set up with, I called Todd, panic-stricken.

I asked if he could come by and crash the dinner, making it a big “all friends welcome” event. But I was turned down. Todd, polite as ever, let me know he’d already agreed to go over to Vasant’s house to celebrate Vasant’s mother’s birthday. Crestfallen, I hung up and went over to Shari’s, unable to think of a way out.

Todd, in the car with Vasant, hung up with me. Vasant asked what that had been about and when Todd told him, Vasant told him to turn the car around.

They were there when I walked up to the door of the restaurant.

Had anyone shown up, had my grandmother shown up, I would’ve been relieved, grateful and giddy at the last-second rescue. But it wasn’t just anyone. It was Todd and his friend Vasant, and warm and dizzy thoughts were still fluttering around from earlier.

We all sat down, and I braved the disappointed gaze of the person who’d set the evening up. I felt bad for the guy who’d been promised an evening with me, and mad at the guy who’d promised it, but in an instant, was relieved. Vasant had sat down next to my would-be-date and offered to pay for his meal. The night became friendly and easy, a crisis averted, but something else started happening. Vasant and I couldn’t take our eyes off of each other. He had payed attention to the guy who’s hopes were dashed by the intervention, but halfway through the night, our conversation became so engrossing, that everyone else disappeared. I don’t even remember when everyone left that night. I remember talking to Vasant. Noticing his mouth, his smile, and how bright his dark eyes were. We talked about travel, about what we wanted to do with our lives, about our unwillingness to settle for local life. I remember thinking how identical our thoughts and passions were.

The next thing I remember is standing outside the restaurant at one in the morning, shivering and talking by our cars for an hour. I remember feeling x-rayed by him. I remember thinking that I’d been checked out physically by men before, and I’d had guys be attracted to me because of my mind and personality before. But the way Vasant looked at me that night made me feel different, as if he was assessing the total package. I’d never felt more sexy than I did that night, under his gaze in the parking lot.

We talked for an hour, and then parted ways. I got in the car and knew something had happened. Something I’d never felt before had been kick started.

Declaration: That was the night the first bit of love bloomed in my heart for Vasant.

This morning, turning over in bed, he brushed the hair from my face and kissed my forehead.

“I wanted to ask you back to my place that night,” he said.

“I would’ve gone.” I laughed and kissed him back. “I wish you would’ve asked.”

We pretended to sleep another five minutes, peeking at each other through bed sheets, long lashes and tangled hair. We got up and started the day and I’ve been thinking about what happened five years ago all day. What if he hadn’t come to my rescue, or broken his ultra-cool and reserved facade to show me his tattoo? Would I have ever looked at him deeper? How long would it have taken? We’ve known each other for seven years now, have been fascinated by one another for five, and married for four.

I’m almost glad the night ended with me driving away, wondering what happened. I like remembering the feeling that something in my heart had ripped open for him, and for some reason, I cried on the way home because of it. My heart knew much better than I did that day.

Was looking through a photo album of 9/11 and began to cry again. Like I have, like we all have, every year for the last eight.

I was in bed that morning, and as odd as it sounds, I woke up feeling something was wrong. I went upstairs and turned on the TV, a sinking feeling in my chest. I don’t watch the news in the morning. I usually read. But that morning I felt I had to turn on the TV, and flip to CNN. As I turned on the TV, I remember thinking how strange I felt, breaking my routine, listening to a nagging feeling in my gut, wondering if there really was something wrong.

Something was incredibly wrong.

The first tower had been hit.

I sank to my knees in my living room, my hand held up to my mouth until it was between my teeth. I began to call my parents, my friends, and told people to turn on the news or radio. No one could believe what we were seeing. But then the second plane hit.

And both towers fell.

I stayed in front of television for hours. Until that evening. And I hated that I was in front of the television, when people were injured, scared out of their minds, and threatened in New York. It didn’t feel like it was enough to just watch and feel sympathy. It was a sickening feeling that took hold, as the hours went on and the news cycle began to repeat on itself.

I remember kids that night on the street corners waving flags and holding candles. I remember the wave of patriotism and grief that united us, even if the unification was brief. I remember feeling simultaneously bonded with everyone, and small and cut off as well. We all wondered what was next, we all felt grief, and everyone not in New York, DC or Pennsylvania, felt unsatisfied with just watching the news. We felt powerless if not there to pitch in. We volunteered, waved flags, and marched to war.

I remember today. I remember the brave men and women who died to save those who were dying. I remember that a nationally unifying wave of patriotism led us into a war that had nothing to do with today. I remember that a moment as great as 9/11 can feed our fear, make us frenzied and easy to manipulate. I don’t want to forget how people came together to help each other in the days that followed. I don’t want to forget the stories of those who died, who survived, who sacrificed. And I don’t want to forget what happened the next year. I don’t want to forget how the wrong type of patriotism can creep in so easily with the pure type of patriotism. I don’t want to forget.

Because we all know that if we forget history, we will repeat it. And while this day should never happen again, if similar circumstances ever befall our great nation, I hope we will have the same courage, the same devotion to each other, but remain calmer when it comes to doling out reactionary, misapplied retribution.

That is my September 11th remembrance.