Since the reintroduction of television.

It's been a while since I've created something ultimately copied by undetectably so, a while since I've created anything that makes me pause, stick out my bottom lip and nod my head in approval.

I got THE best notebook yesterday in the mail from an artist I hold in very high regard.

4am is the only time of night and day
when I can hear the ocean
from my bedroom.

4am is the only time of night and day
when I can feel my heartbeat
rock my body like a metronome.

4am is the only time of night and day
when pride loses to tenderness.

and 4am is the only time of night and day
when nothing means complete devastation.

Pressure in Exponential Form.

Ever go door to door, in the dark, on the wrong block because you misheard an address? While elderly Chinese people watch from their doorsteps and windows? While the clock ticks down the minutes and you just get later and later, looking more and more unprofessional with each ring of a wrong doorbell? Then after getting home more than an hour later, throwing your one car key into the hallway and pouting in front of your mom, have you ever gotten a call back from your interview subjects telling you that you were ringing bells exactly ONE block away from them?

Well, that worked out.
But my deadline is still in two days.

Oscar Grant Case.

Corporate media is such bullshit--but we all knew that already.

But how does it justify its efforts to depict Johannes Mehserle, the police officer who shot Oscar Grant--who was not only handcuffed but also lying stomach down on ground--in the back, as some sort of fallen hero? Despite his efforts to evade/delay arrest in Nevada (misconstrued as a simple "respite" from the public eye), the media can't tell the public enough about Mehserle's complete cooperation with authorities.

Correct me if I'm wrong, but when you're arrested, I doubt you have much choice over whether or not you want to cooperate. Furthermore, I'm sure Mehserle's "high" cooperative standard is upheld only because his status as a former police officer provides ample protection against police injustice.

Gee, how honorable.

In the same breath, this bullshit media manages to make those who are angry over Grant's death look like wild, uncontrollable heathens. Don't misunderstand me--I'm not saying that protestors should be toting Molotov cocktails around in their backpacks. But, if people are angry, it's certainly easy to see why. To regard the assaults on cop cars and raised voices with surprise doesn't make any sense. In fact, I'd be fearful if this incident didn't ignite the community's rage.I don't know about you, but if someone in my community was gunned down without reason, I'd be pretty fucking pissed off.

Ugh, I'm nauseated.
Perhaps this is why I try not to watch the 10 o'clock news.

If Mehserle gets off, the shit that'll go down in Oakland will make the LA riots look like a slumber party pillow fight.

STATE OF PANIC.

Gutter.

Jan. 1 is the only day when dropping the ball is not only acceptable but celebrated. As I unwillingly acknowledged the meandering descent of some oversized, sparkly orb down along some metal rod in Times Square, I considered my situation: out of an internship due to the pitiful economy, my olfactories and auditories simultaneously clogged yet uncontrollably leaking mucous due to illness, and an increasingly stressful non-disclosable situation that destroys any semblance of a good night's rest.

Generally, I'm an optimist, a rare breed that teeters on the brink of extinction as the years increase in number. Indeed, it's getting more and more difficult as time progresses, as life lurches forward before I'm ready to let it, as the world slips further into the depths of despair and cynicism to remain loyal to my youthful and dream-filled visions.

Sometimes I wonder if this is the "miracle" of growing up, but quickly squash the thought by indulging in deep fried foods, dense literature, and city excurisions via public transporation. The key is mobility, the lock, well, everything I have yet to learn. I have an opportunity to apply as an editor for Hyphen Magazine, hopefully a fruitful endeavor that will somewhat satiate my need for written cartharsis.

I feel confident in my ability to persevere, the only real threats to my luster for life being myself and a choice few individuals I deem closest to my heart. If any of these individuals, or most importantly I, cease to hope, my optimistical demise will follow.