It’s fun that when one’s out of school spring break can mean anything, and fall at anytime. I made mine nearly all of March. But for full disclosure, I’ve really taken the whole winter off. I never could figure out why. There was just all these open issues swirling around. I could write and write and write, but I had no endings for anything. No final thoughts, no way to wrap up the last paragraph with a joke and an exasperated sigh.
There’s the fact that the whole world seems to be spiraling into doom. I considered developing a series of essays with the loose theme, “Asshole of the Moment”. Its features might include the president, the governor, the guy painting the apartment downstairs who will not stop being a jerk to me , the head of the MTA, whomever decided to cut off IFC from my channel selection, and any one else contributing bad energy to the world. But then I thought that perhaps reacting to this bad energy in kind might exacerbate the gloom and doom, in my world and yours. That and when I’m pissed off about something I have a tendency to sit by myself and stew rather than producing anything worthwhile. I’m not good at being pissed off. I try and leave it to Bill Maher and other professionals.
In some sort of cosmic energy shift, or just stroke of luck, I have recently started working like crazy. Timing is good because I’ve been broke for too damn long. The new iPods just came out and I’ve been lusting after that thing for a year. I’m getting one in the next month no matter what, though I might possibly wait until mercury is out of retrograde, and also the inevitable first-release bugs are worked out. Besides for money it’s been a blessing to be working 12 hours a day since I’ve been going through a break up, and it’s a hard one. It was a relationship who’s beginning caught me by surprise, and also it’s end. I haven’t finished going through the five stages of loss yet. I passed (1) denial, (2) bargaining quite handily, but I seem to be stuck with one foot in (3) anger and the other in (4) despair. So feigning optimism, (5) acceptance must be just around the bend. (Sound convincing?)
I am projecting that to happen when it starts to get hot. All my life stages eerily correspond to changes in the weather. Spring has consistently been a bad season for me. I am of course thrilled to come out from the oppression of hats, scarves, and gloves. I had several fantasies about setting fire to my winter coat. But I think I hate the winter so much that the skittish nature of spring is a let down. I expect so much from the temperature shift, and it never measures up, sunny one day, and cold rain the next. Summer however generally delivers, and I repair winter’s pale skin, slack muscles, and emotional disappointments.
It’s also been exactly a year since I returned from Paris which is an anniversary I keep trying to avoid. I was supposed to have a lot more of my shit together by now, but no dice. What I’ve termed a “Transition Phase” persists. It’s going to be bearable though, as long as I have 30 gigs of music in my pocket.
On a (hopefully) brief hiatus. See you very soon. Meanwhile check the archives for eye exercises.
I know darling.
How to sleep in the new ikea bed when bombs fall in real time in the desert? What’s there sweet to dream about then? And who really cares to save a world that is destined to die?
Remember the fireworks on New Years Eve? Remember when you quit smoking to save yourself for better days in better places? Were there ever thoughts you had where you didn’t have to sigh and also shake your head?
Still there are jobs to bid for and friends to be cynical with and a lover’s skin to taste in the middle of the night.
It’s springtime after a winter no one thought could end, and that no one thought could go on for one more day longer.
It’s been a week that million dollar, thousand pound, precision guided smart bombs started to set buildings on fire.
“Only a week?” you say. Yes, just one.
Imminent war and imminent spring today. Also St. Patrick’s Day. How to reconcile the happy giddiness of short sleeves with the knock-down dread of Bush’s holy war? A parade of drunkeness on 5th Avenue? Uh no.
The world, actually just my neighborhood, was out exercising yesterday as it was the de facto first day of spring. Today my hamstrings are sore and I have several budding blisters. Then I went to see a small festival of film shorts at Long Island University. A friend of a friend directed of one of them. They were all a little bit bad. Obvious plots, cliched dialogue, marginal acting. Well the acting wasn’t so bad. The overarching badness was bad writing. Really bad writing.
At the moment Colin Powell is live on the radio explaining things here and there with respect to war, war, and war. This much impending death can even put a stain on the end of an unendingly cold winter. Later on the Brian Lehrer show a psychologist imparts tips on dealing with feelings of frustration and despair. He recommends limiting news ingestion to just a few hours of information heavy segments. For example choose an hour of morning edition over several hours of emotional and graphics-heavy CNN. But I will probably choose both. In any case it’s hard not to think that someone important’s mind was made up about this situation a long time ago, and there wasn’t much anyone could do to change the positions of ships at sea. The only question now is wheather to watch Bush’s empty morality or Dinner For Five. Toughie.
It was like a taste test of spring this weekend. The cold is back today, but maybe I can live on the memories of one weekend. Fort Greene Park was idyllic, with all the snow melting and the kids and dogs running around. There are a lot of kids and dogs in this neighborhood. Also there are a lot of cell phones. When I was sitting on a bench noticing the flower buds and contemplating the nature of change, a woman 10 feet to my left was asking someone to e-mail her a resume to her work account, and a man directly behind me was recounting last night’s bar hopping. Naturally the park is practically empty but these two see no problem with having their inane conversations a stone’s throw from an innocent loner depressive. Why is listening to one side of a cell phone conversation so horribly awfully annoying?
I don’t get annoyed at overhearing two humans in close range having a conversation near me. Actually I mostly like it since eavesdropping on strangers is one of my favorite activities, until they annoy me of course. But take away one person and replace with a shiny plastic device and I start to shoot them dirty looks. Which they don’t notice of course because they are so oblivious to the actually existing world. Maybe that’s the thing. The second one puts a cell phone next to his head the entire rest of the world disappears. Shouting gossip about Sam five feet from uninterested strangers is acceptable behavior.
I should disclose now that I currently don’t own a cell phone. It’s a hard thing to explain to most people. Depending on how much I want them to know about me I either say it’s a moral, practical, or financial decision. Of course it’s sort of a combo. Originally it was purely financial. When I left for Paris I sold my trusty Sprint flip phone since it didn’t speak French or have a work permit. I got a cute and cheap GMS phone my first week in Paris after possibly the most convoluted and painful retail exchange in history. But the little red Alcatel served me well. I used these refillable cards which were amazingly handy for avoiding ten page legal contracts and talking excessively. When I came back to New York the Alcatel didn’t work and I put off getting a new one since I kept thinking I might leave the city. My standard explanation was that I just couldn’t commit right now. Plus I was always home so whatever.
But as the cell-phone-less months went by, I started noticing all the good parts about not having phone. Like not having to remember to shut it off when going to the movies or a concert lest you become everyone’s pet asshole. Like not perking up like trained monkey every time there’s a ringing noise in the vicinity. Like actually making plans with people instead of planning to call each other and then make plans. Like not checking the thing maniacally when you have plans to make plans and are in a crowded, loud or reception-questionable place. And of course not having to remember another number. It took me months to remember my new/old French one (but only a day to forget it entirely – odd).
So lately it became a practical moral type thing. Of course there are times when I miss the thing desperately. Like when I write down the address of a meeting place wrong. Or I want to do something with someone spontaneous. Actually the convenience of the phone that I miss the most is having all my phone numbers stored somewhere. Right now I’ve got a disintegrating little red book with things scrawled in no particular order, that I keep leaving at home no less. Last week when the AOL corporate jet to DC was delayed on the tarmac for two hours (that story is on it’s way), I asked my neighbor to borrow his phone to call and alert my appointments. He was incredulous. “I lost mine yesterday,” I added quickly. “Oh – Of course.”
Mostly I’m annoyed at having to apologize to everyone else for not having one. It seems to be more of an inconvenience for my friends than me. But I’m never the asshole in the park, or the asshole in the movie theater. It just cuts out a lot of opportunities to be annoying to strangers, which is a good thing. Like built in civic responsibility. Maybe it’s a platform for running for office?
All you or I or anyone else can think about right now is this god awful weather and when it’s going to let up. But isn’t this a tedious topic to rehash day after day, hour after hour, layer after layer? Yesterday after stepping out of the car into a freezing puddle disguised as a snow bank, running across the street in gale force winds while trying to save my umbrella from death, some guy at the elevator was like, “What a crappy day, eh?” or some variation thereof. I nodded in agreement, but what the fuck – I can’t think of a single thing to say about the weather anymore. Yet I’m sitting here rambling like your aunt Peg about it. It’s these kind of quirks that keep it fresh and interesting here at Nil by Mouth and we sure are glad you stopped by.
Since I can’t cull together a whole post these days (see emptiness of the last two weeks), I’ll cull together several paragraphs of half unfinished posts. In reverse order. Try to keep up okay.
2 -25
I’ve been having a hell of a time overcoming Saturn in retrograde this week, seeing as Saturn is my ruling planet. Shit’s been out of wack and I’m finding myself sobbing at the slightest change in the wind. Also I’m starting to cook up a theory about how news is bad for health. Sure we can all lament how ill-informed most of us are, and how if only more people knew the truth about things (the state of the world, the ingredients in a big mac) a more peaceful and better smelling world might come about. But if you actually set out to inform yourself about the world and it’s events you’d do well to get rid of most sharp objects and corrosive cleaning products first. I always thought I didn’t read enough news etc etc, and now since I’ve found myself with a touch too much time on my hands and a fear of leaving the house it’s all news all the time. And I’m pretty sure it’s bad for me. Skin problems, insomnia, general malaise. It may seem silly to bring this up in response to wars, fires, rebel skirmishes, etc but I disagree. Knowing about so much fucked up shit but feeling powerless to change any of it helps how?
2-10
It was supposed to be a dedicated work day. I made a list, something I haven’t done in over a month. It’s no wonder I’m not getting anything done. Well, I get some things done, but not the kind to write all over the web. But let’s see, last night I got my ass kicked on the tennis court by a guy from craig’s list. I’m used to all these dudes that I play with via the CL totally sucking. Ok, it’s not that they totally suck it’s that they overestimate their ability (a lot). So last night, it’s late, I’ve forgotten a sports bra and a T-shirt, but what do i care cause I’m expecting a somewhat chagrined dude who’s surprised to be getting buried alive by my backhand. Instead I’m all out of breath by the ten minute mark and can barely get my racket on most of the balls. It was great. By the end of the hour I was totally in the game though. The unfortunate thing was that we finished playing around 11:30 pm and I came home all awake and, eventually, starving. I drank like a gallon of water and gave myself a stomach ache. It took me until 2 in the morning to push past my soaring endorphins and my whining tummy to sleep. I woke up at 7 am hungrier than I’ve ever woken up in my life. All I could think about was one of those breakfasts on the menu that I usually shake my head at: pancakes, eggs, bacon, toast. Barely awake I somehow got to the diner around the corner and ordered my dream breakfast (I skipped the eggs actually) and watched this very nice snow falling in the sunshine and all the little kids on their way to school. Remember when you had to be on the way to school by 7:30?
Anyway I came home expecting to start my day and my list, but instead fell back into bed for four hours. Not good. Already I have to make up for lost time. And already I feel kind of sick for no obvious reason. The only cure I can think of is a trip to the coffee place in my dark shades and big hat. Cause it’s that kind of day.
1-1
Here it is, another year running down the street at top speed, like the two kids I saw when I peeked out from my bedroom window last night, scared from the loud booms and double and triple booms from the midnight fireworks. I’ve never been scared by fireworks before, and actually I mostly really like ‘em. But what was it? Maybe that I couldn’t see anything so the rumbling just filled the sky on it’s own. Maybe that after the news and such on the radio every morning, and the recap at 7 there’s a rock in my stomach that just doesn’t go away anymore. And this dream I had a few weeks ago that there was a firestorm in Manhattan and everything was bloody. In spite of those persistent feelings of doom, I spent the evening just as I needed to, with my sleepy dreamy-eyed boyfriend watching home movies (not *that* kind you pervs), listening to music, and feeling right.
No New Year’s resolutions this year.
Rita’s Eyebrows is an odd little shop on Fulton street. It’s tiny and shaped like a crescent moon. The sign out front is hand drawn with one of those line renderings of a face with almonds for eyes and an upside down question mark for a nose. Rita is Indian and uses the threading method for shaping eyebrows which I’m into. She’s not as good as Rozina on Venice Blvd in LA, but she’s close. The only other employee I’ve seen there is a dark-skinned woman who does braids. I’ve never heard her speak. Maybe because Rita does enough talking for everyone. I was in there last week and walked in on a political discussion which surprised me. I never heard a lot of politics going on at Rita’s before. Rita and the customer who’s eyebrows she was finishing up were talking about America’s impending war and the fate of the world. Rita was convinced Armageddon was here. The other lady wasn’t so convinced. “Millions of people in the world are suffering, and have been for a long time. America can’t be separate from that. We all live in the same world.” she said. She was making a lot of sense, and I silently nodded a little. My eyes were tearing from the cold outside and water had streaked my face so I was trying to clean myself up.
At the rally yesterday, I also heard snippets from a lot of average people saying smart and considered things about our position in the world. I should amend “at the rally” with “somewhere near the rally” because after a lot hurried and shivered walking I made it only to 51st and 2st Ave where cops had blocked off every street west of 3rd avenue from 71st to 30th. Even though I couldn’t get to where the action was I did get to wander around and freeze my ass off with thousands of would-be protesters an avenue away from the action. The 4 train I took there crawled at a snails pace uptown and I finally abandoned ship at 33rd street figuring I could take the bus, or at least walk faster than my current pace. Outside I headed east where the crowd, even at Lex and 34th was mostly protesters. As we got closer to the action I saw a guy getting the inside of his poster inspected by four police offers. The poster read “KNOW YOUR RIGHTS”. The irony wasn’t lost on passerbys many of whom snickered, several took pictures.
Second Avenue was closed to cars by 45th street and there was an eerie silence in the air even though pedestrians filled both sidewalks. Helicopters loomed overhead. On several storefront were preventative “No Bathroom” signs. Police barricades blocked the streets running east toward the official protest site. People were arguing with every available officer. I must say, it was a bad feeling to be denied access to the rally. I heard “This just isn’t right” from every direction. When I spoke to one of the cops he said they were there to “isolate and contain” the crowd. “Why does a legal protest have to be isolated and contained?” I asked. He turned away to the next person. Another cop I talked to said it was so emergency vehicles could get in. The papers today said the police were unprepared for the massive crowds. Why that meant throwing up barricades on every block is beyond me. Another officer said they were protecting the residents of those upper east side streets, but it seemed to me and lots of others, that the residents of this whole city wanted their voices heard. And no doubt many upper east-siders were among them. In any case, they should have gotten their stories straight.
I wandered up and down my patch of 2nd avenue hoping to find a way in, or just see what happened anyway. A girl in a silver get up and Martian makeup gave an interview to a TV crew about George Orwell’s 1984. A bike whizzed by with a sign, “bikes not bombs”. Ominous black SUVs with tinted windows were parked along the avenue. I overheard a fireman say to an older couple, “If I open my mouth I’ll get fired.” At one point something like an organized throng came down the avenue chanting for peace now. A clash with police ensued. After a few minutes people dispersed.
After about 3 hours I realized that I had lost feeling in both hands and both thighs and I set off for a train. The 51st and Lex train station was closed. That pissed me off more. The whole day was giving me this suspicion that the protesters were being punished. No trains, no bathrooms, no access. If I could have blamed city officials for the weather I would’ve. I stood in the vestibule of Starbucks to warm up for a minute. Finally on 5th I found an open train, which I took to Queens to get some other errands done. In general I was pleased with the crowd I encountered. There were the obligatory hippie college kids and legalize-pot folks, but there were a lot more average people of all ages from all backgrounds, and I found them a welcome antidote to the warmongering on TV and radio 24/7. I know I don’t hang around a lot of right wingers, but if support for this war was even 50% like some of the lowest estimates on TV, I feel like I might run into someone somewhere that would defend it. But I haven’t. Where is this 50%? Maybe the population of Crawford, TX is larger than I thought.
It’s 5 PM, and like the light at the end of a very dark, cold, windy, and damp tunnel, the unset sun reminds me that a warmer spring might still be on it’s way. Mind you I’m having to look far past the grey and bleak sky, below freezing temps, and impending violence. February has been and continues to be the suckiest month of the year. It’s a gift that it is only 28 days long (usually) so at least goes by a bit quicker, even if it doesn’t feel that way. I’m having trouble motivating my way out my front door these days, as several of my exasperated friends can attest to. In light of this I thought I’d sniff around and find at least ten reasons to leave the house. And yes, I am doing this more for me than you. In no particular order…
1. Saturday Feb 15 : The World Says No to War rally. Ever since Dori and I got arrested at an RTS march 3 years ago (or was it 4?) I don’t go for political protests and rallies. And I especially don’t go for them in the winter. It’s just that things are looking pretty dire right now. And so far sitting with my head in my hands and moaning hasn’t helped.
2. The Pianist is one of the only winter movies I haven’t seen yet, and typically the one I’ve been most wanting to see out of all of them. And maybe it’ll stop my pussy whining about the weather.
3. Two double features this weekend at Symphony Space City of Hope & Lone Star (love John Sayles) and Nenette et Boni & Trouble Every Day (love Claire Denis).
4. At BAM, Best of the African Diaspora Film Festival. I’m especially wanting to see the Marvin Gaye documentary. And yes that’s a lotta movies but it’s no weather for a picnic, ok.
5. The Metropolitan Museum of Art – Leonardo da Vinci, Master Draftsman. I’m certain I won’t motivate for this, but I should so I might as well feel bad about it.
6. David Hammons: Concerto in Black and Blue which I’ve now planned on on going to, address in pocket, and ended up not making, three times now.
7. Old Navy is having a ridiculous getting-rid-of-everything-winter sale. Fleece hoodies for six bucks. and if you are either tiny or enormous your chances of scoring sweet deals increase by 10.
Ok – I can’t think of 10, and even that Old Navy thing was kind of a stretch I know. But there are 2 double features and a whole film festival so that could really count as several reasons. If you’ve got suggestions lemme at ‘em. My bar tolerance is low these days, as is talking to strangers or marginal acquaintances. But spring, it will happen.
This is redundant to anyone living anywhere in the Northeast but… This weather is turning me into a loon. Let’s see why. I can’t be outside for any more than like 5 minutes at a time. Which means I can either be at home, or inside some sort of public establishment. Public establishments inevitably costs money, which I inevitably don’t have. So I am, a, going stir-fucking crazy; and b, eating fucking constantly. So when it does ever peek up above freezing the first fucking thing I’ll have to do is buy a new bigger wardrobe. Fuck. Ordinarily I wouldn’t swear so much but things are dire here in Neille’s-going-the-fuck-crazy-locked-in-her-apartment land.
I’ve watched seven episodes of the Sopranos from season 2 which I totally liked. My only venture out today may be to go pick up the next seven (or should I wait until rent 1 rent 1 free day?). Unless of course I get called to midtown by an old boss to do some web work, which would be cool. But as the last 2 months are proving, the only sure thing when it comes to work is a warm check in my cold little hands. And maybe before it’s cashed is even speaking a little too soon.
Being shut up at home has led me to discover a headspinning number of new blogs that i’m tempted to start keeping up with regularly. Also I’m supposed to be brainstorming on my winter project and just generally deciding what the hell I’m doing with my life. Luckily my friend from Boston is coming down this weekend with an arm-load of Myers-Briggs Typology tests so some other doof can do the deciding for me. The last time I took that thing in high school I think it told me I should be a librarian and I stormed off in a huff. Also, if this is any indication, I don’t have the stamina to even finish this online test, much less set upon any sort of path for life. So fuck it.
(Later..)
In other news I was riveted by the WB’s High School Reunion last night. Usually I’m relatively immune to the claws of reality shows but for some reason this one got me. Maybe it was because a good friend from high school was visiting me this weekend and we did a lot of gossiping with little actual gossip. Or maybe it was because the show was like 4 hours long with what seemed like no commercials. Or maybe it was because the entire premise of this show is to get as many people to hook up as possible. Or maybe it was that they were all drunk the whole time. Who can say really? The one (perhaps indirect) benefit of reality shows is it does lead to thoughts on human nature, relationships, and possibly the coming apocalypse. So far I’ve learned that no one really changes from high school. Holly, “The Shy Girl”, regardless of her perfect boobs and stint in playboy is still quiet and nervous. “The Nerd”, Ben, is still a big nerd even though he’s a lot bigger (and rumor has it, richer). And all the popular girls are still the popular girls. “The Loner” never talks to anyone and is barely ever on camera, “The Class Clown” is the only person making any funny jokes, and “The Tall Girl” is still awkward and uncomfortable at all times. Is it that no one really changes, or maybe being around all the old high schoolers just sends everyone back into their old roles? Who can say really. What I can say is that there’s no way in hell I’m going to my high school reunion. (Uhh and also that I’ll probably be watching next week.)
Last night was one of those nights where the cell phone shaped hole in my bag was clearly ruining everything. I was supposed to meet Karen at an open bar party for the launching of something called Gum. Is Gum a magazine, a book, a website, a new flavor of Coke? Nobody knows. But Gum had an open bar from 9-11 and that fit my current criteria for leaving the house. I was late, naturally, and the train I took let me off on the opposite side of town from the bar. It was just starting to snow and in some fit of rebellion I was wearing a skirt. It’s just been so cold for so many days in a row and I was tired of wearing one of the same three pairs of pants. I did have boots on, but the rest of my lower regions were no match for the sub-zero winds.
So I finally get to the Chinatown bar to find the sidewalk outside completely mobbed with people. As usual there’s a snotty-acting, clipboard-wielding, full of shit door person lording over his 200 square foot fiefdom. I may have loudly groaned as I gazed upon this mess and offended the sensibilities of the NYU hipsters (Cleveland mall-rats a mere 2 years ago) next to me. Of course Karen is nowhere to be seen. I figure she’s already inside since I’m a good 30 minutes late, and I never actually asked if she was putting my name on the list, or if I was someone’s plus one or what. I trudged over to a pay phone and started my search for quarters and little scraps of paper I call my phone book. This requires me, tragically, to take off my gloves and by the second phone call my fingers have lost all feeling. I leave a message for Karen, I call my other friend who lives in the neighborhood, and I call another friend who’s coming into town via the Chinatown bus to see if I can meet anyone for a warm (and unfree) drink somewhere else. No one’s answering and I have to leave various messages that say very little except that I may be near you and I’m entirely unreachable.
I turn back to the line. Maybe I’ll give it a chance. I glance impatiently at my watch: 10 PM on the nose. I’ll give it 15 or 20 minutes I decide. I’m behind a group of college students for sure. I pull on my headphones to prevent accidental eavesdropping. In the meantime I’ve downloaded a few really interesting songs from Cody ChesnuTT cause I won tickets to his show with Bobby Blue Bland at BAM on Saturday from Flavorpill. Which, as a sidenote, I totally can’t believe cause I’ve never won anything, ever. Not even a raffle. Anyway, I really like a couple of the tracks and am happy to freeze my ass off while listening to him instead of stupid college kid jokes. (I know I’m being judgmental and mean, it’s just one of those nights). After what felt like 20 minutes I took a second glance at my watch: 10:03 PM. There is no way I can wait in this line any longer. Not only cause I’m cold and pissed at being at the mercy of some dude with a clipboard which most likely doesn’t have my name on it anyway. But also because if I ever do get in, I have to spend the evening with this line full of jokers. It’s been a whole 4 minutes and I’ve thrown in the towel.
I’m back at the pay phone deciding what to do with my evening. It’s lightly and prettily snowing and I even have makeup on so I can’t go back to brooklyn without giving something else a try. On my way over to the bar, a bouncer/greeter/some guy outside another bar completely uncharacteristically stopped me and invited me in the the gallery opening that was going on inside. I was a little shocked to see someone trying to get people in, instead of keeping people out. I could do that except it’s not on the way to the closer F train I already know I’m taking home. Instead I make a snap decision to go to Good World which has decent DJs and usually open stools at the bar, and is a few blocks away. I leave more messages saying, “I’m here – come meet me if you get this message in the next hour.” Again, fingers frozen.
In the bar the music’s decent and the bartender is nice. There’s a couple making out next me. I have a moment of terror when I think I see this guy I went out with a couple times this summer. Relief when I realize (or just convince myself) it’s not him. Near the end of my first beer this older lady climbs up next to me and starts talking to me about all sorts of random stuff. First New York rents, then Bessie Smith, then pot vs. hash, then a few conspiracy theories about tobacco companies, then Norweigian democracy, wrapping up at female circumcision, at which point, after contributing maybe a dozen words, I knew I had to leave. It was an abrupt exit but there was no telling where this conversation was gonna go and I just wasn’t ready for anymore.
Highlight of the evening: Walking (half dancing) through freshly fallen snow in Cuyler-Gore Park on the way home.
New Angeles Monthly, June 2008
Weekend America, March 30, 2008
Los Angeles Times, March 13, 2008
Los Angeles Times, March 6, 2008
Nil by Mouth is written by Neille Ilel. Neille is a writer, reporter and user interface specialist in Los Angeles. If you think that's a lot, she's also got a host of meandering sidelines including improv comedy, tennis, cooking, drawing and thinking about learning to play the guitar.
Nil is her given name. It's a long story.
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