Neurosis at its finest

Typing with thumbs.

2010-02-01T18:20:00.000-08:00

"If you want to write, if you want to create, you must be the most sublime fool that God ever turned out and sent rambling. You must write every single day of your life. You must read dreadful dumb books and glorious books, and let them wrestle in beautiful fights inside your head, vulgar one moment, brilliant the next. You must lurk in libraries and climb the stacks like ladders to sniff books like perfumes and wear books like hats upon your crazy heads. I wish you a wrestling match with your Creative Muse that will last a lifetime. I wish craziness and foolishness and madness upon you. May you live with hysteria, and out of it make fine stories — science fiction or otherwise. Which finally means, may you be in love every day for the next 20,000 days. And out of that love, remake a world." - Ray Bradbury

I'm pretty good at using other people's words. If only I could demonstrate the same diligence with my own...

Twentyten.

2009-12-31T19:15:00.000-08:00

"This is what I thought: for the most banal even to become an adventure, you must (and this is enough) begin to recount it. This is what fools people: a man is always a teller of tales, he sees everything that happens to him through them; and he tries to live his own life as if he were telling a story.But you have to choose: live or tell." - Jean-Paul Sartre

Home sick.

2009-09-14T19:40:00.000-07:00

In lieu of my sickness, I've spent my Monday consuming bad movies inbetween shallow naps. This adaptation of Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet is pretty abysmal (as most films taken directly from Shakespeare tend to be), but it'd be a pity to not acknowledge the magnificence of the Capulet aesthetic. Sadly, this is the only decent still I could google with the little finger strength I possess right now. If only I could find a photo of Abra, Tybalt's wingman, and his custom platinum grill (which reads "SIN" in all caps)...

Painting a Room.

2009-08-30T22:49:00.000-07:00

“I want to paint a room with someone.”

“So paint your room!”

“No,” I said, “I want to paint a room with someone else. I want to wake up early and get coffee and take the subway to Home Depot. I want to have already pre-planned our color scheme so we know to look for cool or warm shades. I want to argue over paint swatches, laugh at the mustard yellows and pale pinks that remind us of our childhood bedrooms. I want to annoy the other person by asking strangers for advice. I want to settle on a marigold or maybe some kind of bright green teal. I want to look the list we wrote together so we remember to get big rollers, little brushes, the tray you slosh the paint around in, tarps, and duct tape, and that gummy painters tape. I want the other person to suggest we get aprons that we can use for our next project. I want to kiss them when they say that. I want to buy gum and magazines and Coca Cola because they are right next to the register. I want to ask the cashier to double bag it, because we are taking the subway. I want to go home and put on music and old clothing and realize we forgot primer. I want the other person to be ok with just painting anyway. I want to cover all the furniture and then offer to fry up some eggs. I want there to be beer in the fridge for when we are halfway through. I want the painting to commence in a passionate, memorable stoke that we photograph. A splash of bright marigold on a industrial white wall. I want the painting to be done in stages, as we quietly sing along to songs. I want to make love on the floor when it strikes us. I want to nap while the paint dries, and wake up just in time to see the other person moving the furniture back. I want to offer to help and have them say, ‘I’ve got it.’ I want to brag about it to friends ‘this weekend, we painted a wall!’. I want to paint a room with someone else.”

Brittawnee looked at me plainly. She understood.

“Yeah,” She said, “Sometimes I feel that way too. But then I think … what if we don’t agree on the color?”

She giggled loudly. Brittawnee has the loudest giggle. The best part is almost anything could set her off. I envy this about her.

I was being honest in my desire though. My need for this one experience. To share something. To be at that place again. I no longer knew what it was like to function as a coupled organism, and I was wondering if I was starting to get weird.

Read the rest here.

Good writers always seem to comprehend the concept of "honesty" better than everyone else.

Baby Steps.

2009-07-08T20:53:00.001-07:00

I'd really like to quit social networking all together.

I should probably quit whining.

2009-07-06T22:57:00.000-07:00

"As I get older, I find that I believe with all my heart in the comic approach to life. I mean, we’re all sitting in this room very seriously, we all selected clothes, but in X number of years, we will all definitely be rotting in the ground. Which is kind of hilarious when you think about it. Or at least humbling. The pretense, all the elaborate stuff we go through to bolster our egos, and the truth is that nothing — none of this – will last. That’s very funny. When you hear anybody in any context talking, including me right now, and think he’s just a corpse in progress, it’s kind of hilarious. The other side of it is that it argues strongly for kindness and compassion."
— George Saunders

Pathetic but predictable.

2009-07-05T19:19:00.000-07:00

"The worker who sleeps with BlackBerry within touching distance, the girl sitting alone in the cafe but texting furiously while waiting for a friend, the woman on the bus on her mobile telling a friend that the test was negative for chlamydia, the solo traveller who Skypes home most nights from the hostel in Borneo, and the TV personality who tells you via Twitter that right now he is running a bath.

These are all symptoms of the death of our ability to be alone…

We are not just relinquishing our alone time, but we are gleefully sacrificing it, and doing so for multiple data streams, and even so our employer can contact us around the clock. Is the 11pm call from the boss better than nothing, silence, being disconnected - and perhaps missing out?"

-The Sydney Morning Herald, July 4

A little too penetrating considering my current situation. Less than 24 hours have passed since I've been without my beloved Blackberry.

Sadly, my life has come to a screeching halt. My thumbs are basically useless without the full qwerty keyboard of my Blackberry Curve.

I'm pretty peeved at how incapcitated and disconnected I actually feel (and I'm fully aware of how annoying this all sounds) but I suppose this feeling is the immediate consequence of having been spoiled by Blackberry-brand instant gratification for so long and knowing so many people with unlimited texting plans. (And on a more serious note, what if I end up in a dangerous situation before I get a replacement?)

Oh Blackberry, I'll never drop you again! Just come back soon and promise never to leave my side.

I Had A Dream About You by Richard Siken

2009-06-15T22:17:00.000-07:00

All the cows were falling out of the sky and landing in the mud.
You were drinking sangria and I was throwing oranges at you,
but it didn’t matter.
I said my arms are very long and your head’s on fire.
I said kiss me here and here and here
And you did.
Then you wanted pasta,
so we trampled out into the tomatoes and rolled around to make the sauce.
You were very beautiful.
We were in the Safeway parking lot. I couldn’t find my cigarettes.
You said Hurry up! but I was worried there would be a holdup
And we would be stuck in a hostage situation, hiding behind
the frozen meats, with nothing to smoke for hours.
You said Don’t be silly,
so I followed you into the store.
We were thumping the melons when I heard somebody say Nobody move!
I leaned over and whispered in your ear I told you so.
There was a show on the television about buried treasure.
You were trying to convince me that we should buy shovels
and go out into the yard
and I was trying to convince you that I was a vampire.
On the way to the hardware store I kept biting your arm
and you said if I really was a vampire I would be biting your neck,
so I started biting your neck
and you said Cut it out!
and you bought me an ice cream, and then we saw the UFO.
These are the dreams we should be having. I shouldn’t have to
clean them up like this.
You were lying in the middle of the empty highway.
The sky was red and the sand was red and you were wearing a brown coat.
There were flecks of foam in the corners of your mouth.
The birds were watching you.
Your eyes were closed and you were listening to the road and I could
hear your breathing, I could hear your heart beating.
I carried you to the car and drove you home but you
weren’t making any sense

I took a shower and tried to catch my breath.
You were lying on top of the bedspread
in boxer shorts, watching cartoons and laughing but not making any sound.
Your skin looked blue in the television light.
Your teeth looked yellow.
Still wet, I lay down next to you. Your arms, your legs, your naked chest,
your ribs delineated like a junkyard dogs.
There’s nowhere to go, I thought. There’s nowhere to go.
You were sitting in a bathtub at the hospital and you were crying.
You said it hurt.
I mean the buildings that were not the hospital.
I shouldn’t have mentioned the hospital.
I don’t think I can take this much longer.
In the dream I don’t tell anyone, you put your head in my lap.
Let’s say you’re driving down the road with your eyes closed
but my eyes are also closed.
You’re by the side of the road.
You’re by the side of the road and you’re doing all the talking
while I stare at my shoes.
They’re nice shoes, brown and comfortable, and I like your voice.
In the dream I don’t tell anyone, I’m afraid to wake you up.
In these dreams it’s always you:
The boy in the sweatshirt,
The boy on the bridge, the boy who always keeps me
from jumping off the bridge.
Oh, the things we invent when we are scared
and want to be rescued.
Your jeep. Your teeth. The coffee that you bought me.
The sandwich cut in half on the plate.
I woke up and ate ice cream in the dark,
hunched over on the wooden chair in the kitchen,
listening to the rain.
I borrowed your shoes and didn’t put them away.
You were crying and eating rice.
The surface of the water was still and bright.
Your feet were burning so I put my hands on them, but my hands
were burning too.
You had a bottle of pills but I wouldn’t let you swallow them.
You said Will you love me even more when Im dead?
And I said No, and I threw the pills on the sand.
Look at them, you said. They look like emeralds.
I put you in a cage with the ocelots. I was trying to fatten you up
with sausages and bacon.

Somehow you escaped and climbed up the branches of a pear tree.
I chopped it down but there was nobody in it.
I went to the riverbed to wait for you to show up.
You didn’t show up.
I kept waiting.
--------------------------------------

I'm still hammering out my personal definition of "Bullshit." I hate oscillating between these fleeting but similarly flat and hostile emotions. It feels like I'm in high school again--except the music I listen to is significantly less angsty (and I dare say "better"), my face is less acne-ridden and I'm a bit less prone to self-initiated isolation. I've been known to poke fun at all the jaded-twenty somethings spawned from modern romance (in staggering numbers no less) and the rest of the general population rushing to "put a ring on it"--with or without any deep emotional connection to another human being. I genuinely (and foolishly) believed I was somehow above such human emotions. While I still harbor a healthy disgust towards empty, convenient marriage to justify my disdain, I fear I may be on the cusp a very jaded 23rd year of survival (and 22 isn't even over yet).

Joke's on me...

GrinDING.

2009-06-10T13:05:00.000-07:00

The Birth of Boring

2009-06-02T17:13:00.000-07:00

I've got this twitch, see
thumbs nod yes yes yes
press press press
head-banging for some
technicolor morphine
no-no--novacaine--
eyes glazed donut holes
and blank brain black rot
vertebrate curvature
and buzz smothered tone deaf ears

Don't know if I believe in souls--
gotta have one to believe in I guess--
but this one here's deep asleep to a lullaby of:
Lose weight now!
Natural male enhancement!
Need cash now?!
Sign up for your free motherfuckin trial
and put yourself on the road to self-erasure in no time

We're talking suicide, folks
the bloodless kind
the mindless loveless needless kind
that fattens you up,
shoves sleep under your eyes,
numbs your ass
and puts the salivary crust at the corners of your mouth

Nervewracked,
jittery,
ants in the pantsy
frightened by mirrors
cause
it ain't a pretty sight
when the best, most painful parts
die by way of life.

Taking inventory: In My Purse

2009-05-29T01:26:00.000-07:00

Contents:
Wallet
Blackberry
Two types of chapstick
Ipod and foldable headphones
To-go pack of tissues
Nearly empty bag of chicharrones
Red and yellow bandanna from Mexico
Keys
Solidified paint, Yellow
Mini Moleskine
Two black, fine-tipped pens
Two envelopes to be mailed
An impromptu (and very silly) poem I wrote
Bank receipts
Salonpas Pain Relieving Patches
Box of truffles from NYC *
Napkins
Small pill box containing two Advil and a vitamin

The things one accumulates. What variety!

*Note: I find it necessary for an individual to have chocolate easily accessible at all times.

Watered down.

2009-05-29T00:38:00.000-07:00

I used to be such an undeniably vibrant individual, with an unrestrained wit and the ability to make nothing into something at the very least entertaining if not significant.

Is this what growing up does to the imagination? Or have I been stupid enough to take myself too seriously as of late, resulting in the use of adverbs to prop up my weak adjectives and an unforgivable amount of hedging in my speech?!

No, it's probably TV.

Sarah Manguso

2009-05-10T23:09:00.000-07:00

"One mourner says if I can just get through this year as if salvation comes in January.

Slow dance of suicides into the earth:

I see no proof there is anything else. I keep my obituary current, but believe that good times are right around the corner

Una grande scultura posse rotolare giù per una collina senza rompersi, Michelangelo is believed to have said (though he never did): To determine the essential parts of a sculpture, roll it down a hill. The inessential parts will break off.

That hill, graveyard of the inessential, is discovered by the hopeless and mistaken for the world just before they mistake themselves for David’s white arms.

They are wrong. But to assume oneself essential is also wrong: a conundrum.

To be neither essential nor inessential—not to exist except as the object of someone’s belief, like those good times lying right around the corner—is the only possibility.

Nothing, nobody matters.

And yet the world is full of love …"

Though I question that last statement.

Middle child.

2009-05-08T20:23:00.000-07:00

She had a heartbeat, a crippling peculiarity in modern times. Her blood was organic and she still processed oxygen through her lungs (new humans absorbed atmosphere topically). The world was 93% water, yet she had been overlooked by the assisted evolution movement. Beaks filled with fine, jagged teeth replaced nostrils and lips (features appropriated from various birds of prey--eagles particularly). In addition to amphibious skin, new humans had a thin layer of membrane connecting each finger to the next, as well as their arms to their sides--a useful adaptation stolen from bats. These desirable advances had been achieved by splicing precise segments of animal DNA into human embryos, coupling each new set nicely with side effects from the each subsequent creature. They all donated their evolutionary gifts to the cause of human thrival.

She watched the new humans gliding overhead, every now and then piercing the muddy green-orange surface of the Paciflantic System, hunting no doubt. She scared them. She had no webbing, earthbound, brandished no beak nor claws; her softness was repulsive. She was the mistake, the before, she was a horrible reminder of how nature, left to its own devices, led only to failure.

Can't wait until the end of missing someone.

2009-04-29T10:39:00.000-07:00

"I like to see people reunited, I like to see people run to each other, I like the kissing and the crying, I like the impatience, the stories that the mouth can’t tell fast enough, the ears that aren’t big enough, the eyes that can’t take in all of the change, I like the hugging, the bringing together, the end of missing someone." - Jonathan Safran Foer

What swine flu?

2009-04-29T10:38:00.000-07:00

2009-04-29T10:36:00.000-07:00

Learning French.

2009-04-20T12:07:00.000-07:00

“ Other than being called childlike, the criticism that I most often receive is that I can’t really tell a story. That while I have a strong sense of the visual, my narrative skills are weak. I would like to think, instead, that my movies are more like real life. In a relationship, so much goes unsaid, but that doesn’t mean the emotion is not felt. In my films, I want to show all the abstract ways that people can affect us when we are in love." — Michel Gondry.

A Rowboat Built for Two

2009-04-20T12:02:00.001-07:00

Anna Karenina vs. Anna Karina

2009-04-20T11:43:00.000-07:00

Pierrot le fou - Written and directed by Jean-Luc Godard

A film about making film.

"Yes... that's what makes me sad: Life is so different from books." - Anna Karina

Push or carry?

2009-04-15T23:15:00.000-07:00

Nails.

2009-04-01T21:56:00.000-07:00

No more doubts as to my ethnicity eh?

I have never had acrylics and don't really plan on getting them in the near future (unless I can figure out a way to type, pick up coins, open soda--function in general while wearing a set). But hot damn if these ain't something.

Pancho Villa Happy Hour

2009-03-20T00:06:00.000-07:00

Dollar tacos from 3-5pm.

Severely disappointed in this joint going "green"--missing the old days of the 32oz. styrafoam larges instead of the current shotglass-sized biodegrable cups they're peddling now. Yeah, cool, it completely decomposes in 50 days but I'm still thirsty--at twice the price.

Micro-business - "Signs of the Time"

2009-03-13T23:21:00.000-07:00

From Signs of the Times

Though it's probably necessary to point out that these signs aren't a recent phenomenon...or a phenomenon at all for that matter.

Lazy.

2009-03-12T23:38:00.001-07:00

Slow Roll

Filler.

I should write something one of these days.

Making Buttermilk.

2009-03-11T23:25:00.001-07:00

To make your own buttermilk:

1) Put one tablespoon of white vinegar into a measuring cup
2) Add enough milk to make the liquid one cup. Do not stir!
3) Let sit for five minutes.

You now have created buttermilk.

The "model minority"

2009-03-03T20:06:00.000-08:00

Forget where I found this.

2009-03-02T23:57:00.000-08:00

For reference: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N4hUtSG1m3g

2009-02-27T02:17:00.001-08:00

Music and Movies

2009-02-27T01:40:00.000-08:00

Smash the old world / Establish a new world

2009-02-26T00:29:00.000-08:00

Maoist poster, Cultural Revolution.

2009-02-20T00:49:00.000-08:00

Raccoons lope intoxicated across thoroughfares, four pawed jaywalkers with an acute aversion to traffic decorum, adorably rabid little thieves with sticky fingers and dark circles round their eyes, probably from all those late night rubbish raves. Catch the garbage when it's cold, condensated and fresh, like recently sprayed market produce; not overly ripe but a subtle sweet and sour, a little burn down the throat akin to a fine red wine. Lazy halts before twice-white lights, apple cores and bits of meat wedged between needle point fangs, pausing, presumably ready for a close-up--you know the kind that leaves fur matted with blood (and guts if you're speeding)--but conceit blossoms unhindered when danger looms imminent. Strike a pose and it's pancake city, poor thing, road kill. Scavenger now scavenged, cute little crook maggot-riddled, insides coated with wiggling, flesh eating babies, new meat turned mold meat under the thrump bump of those 22" rims.

How I feel today!

2009-02-18T19:25:00.000-08:00

"Terror, grief, and desolation--
Hut, tup, thrup, fo!
Come to every Earthling nation!
Hut, tup, thrup, fo!--
Earth eat fire! Earth wear chains!
Hut, tup, thrup, fo!
Break Earth's spirit, spill Earth's brains!
Hut, tup, thrup, fo!
Scream! Tup, thrup, fo!
Bleed! Tup, thrup, fo!
Die! Tup, thrup, fo!
Doooooooooommmmmmmmmm."

-Vonnegut, Sirens of Titan

I bake when upset.

2009-02-16T23:21:00.000-08:00

Second attempt at red velvet cake, two attempts at snickerdoodles, matcha sugar cookies (first time around).

Things aren't looking too good.

2009-02-16T00:27:00.000-08:00

It's routine now. I sit down in front of my computer or make motions to open up a notebook and force words out of my fingertips to convey something meaningful. A compulsion? Maybe. But sadly, a fruitless one.

The writer's block has lingered for some time and the frustration is unbelievable. I want to spend my life telling stories--not necessarily my stories, but any story worth telling--and to make them come alive through my words. I'm not sure if I'm capable of doing this yet, but I have many thwarted attempts to show that I'm trying to become capable. A for Effort.

Writing has become an enemy, a familiar comfort and an obsession. All my thoughts are laced with an itch to write; sometimes I can see the text scroll behind my vision, as if on an invisible marquee. I never really know what it says though, like a dream where you wake up with a feeling, but no concrete recollections of people, places or events. The feeling is important--but the process behind its creation is indispensable.

My ideas are not original but inanely repetitive; my voice, diction and even knowledge of grammar and punctuation are fuzzy with mold, sour to taste. I possess the tools but have yet to wield them (self doubt?). The nuances in words and rhythm tend to command me, not the other way around. I seem to have lost control or perhaps gained too much control and have plateaued in my prime. My diction is predictable, my pacing is dry. Wit has abandoned me and left only an echo.

There is no distinction between poetry and prose; I can write neither. I write only self-indulgent essays, pertaining usually to nothing in particular. I long, always, to write fiction. I want to write organically, directly from my imagination, to tell stories about struggle and revolution, to craft characters with pithy, clever retorts to everything, complex personalities and mysterious, dark histories. Literature is always the aspiration, something sick, twisted and so grotesquely beautiful that it spawns addicts out of readers. Reading to completion, reading multiple times, both imperative.

A story as an heirloom, to be passed from generation to the next because truths never really change.

My problem is that I want and may not be able to do. I must learn to do what I cannot.

Since the reintroduction of television.

2009-01-28T20:14:00.000-08:00

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.

2009-01-25T04:54:00.001-08:00

2009-01-25T04:17:00.000-08:00

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.

2009-01-17T13:43:00.000-08:00

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.

2009-01-14T22:05:00.000-08:00

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.

2009-01-12T12:26:00.001-08:00

STATE OF PANIC.

2009-01-04T21:23:00.000-08:00

Gutter.

2009-01-02T23:48:00.001-08:00

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.

2008-12-22T01:28:00.001-08:00

I have a sneaking suspicion
that I am getting stupid-durrr.

The Kilowatt Cooker

2008-12-18T23:52:00.000-08:00

It seems as if everyone's utmost concern is being happy
and I'm not necessarily saying it's a bad thing.

However.
If happiness is all anyone cares about
(which often comes at the expense of others)--
not being a good person, not trying to improve anyone else's situation--
then. that explains why every stranger I see
is blindly clawing their way towards happiness
no matter how temporary and by whatever means.

Affirmed.

2008-12-11T21:50:00.000-08:00

Discussing a belated graduation present from my atehs--

Me: Are these real diamonds?
Mama: Yeah, of course.
Me: I don't wear diamonds.
Mama: Well, just keep it anyway.
Me: Yeah, maybe I can pawn them some day when I'm strapped for cash.
Mama: Exactly!

2008-12-09T22:30:00.001-08:00

Not so hidden talents.

2008-12-08T00:07:00.000-08:00

Reading over some of my past entries, I've realized that I'm quite self-absorbed and have a knack for complaining.

In my heart of hearts, I truly believe that most people are in fact just so, and the distinction between you and me lies in my transparency; I tend revel just a bit more in my Harry Potter-esque angst whereas others seemed ashamed. My discontent flourishes under both duress and relief, the mark of a true malcontent, question mark. The source of my stress, in which case is pretty much everything, proliferates for no good reason other than to stem boredom and trouble my sleep.

Yes, yes. What am I saying.

Take complainers seriously,
for when the complaints are valid,
it's not thanklessness,
but a crude desire for better.

Whirlings.

2008-11-30T22:57:00.000-08:00

A butterfly landed on my shoulder today.
To take a break from the furious flutter of Academy life.

I hope it's a sign of good things to come.

Celebration is in order!

2008-11-25T22:39:00.000-08:00

Carne asada fries...in San Francisco?!

Los Olivo's on Larkin between Post and Sutter, the rumors say.
Soon I will confirm or invalidate...

"Table-pounding."

2008-11-19T23:55:00.000-08:00

"No, we should go forward, groping our way through the darkness, stumbling perhaps at times, and try to do what good lay in our power." - Camus

Is this how it goes?

Obviousities.

2008-11-19T17:03:00.000-08:00

I need more material.
There is too much material.
I need more positivity in my life.
Aimed at a focal point.
I need less clutter around me.
Time to go outside!

Probably not that hilarious in hindsight.

2008-11-14T17:54:00.000-08:00

SAD 2

2008-11-12T21:09:00.000-08:00

After self-diagnosing myself with a possible case of seasonal affective disorder, it's strangely serendipitous that I would pick up The Plague.

The townspeople in quarantine, joltingly separated from their loved ones by risk of contagion, calibrate their emotions according to the whims of the weather. Camus astutely observes that these townspeople, having formerly placed their loved ones at the foreground of their small, personal landscapes, now lacking focus or drive for feelings of happiness or despair in any tangible sense (that is, in a lover, a friend, or a family member), have come to rely on the weather as substitute source of emotion. Without one particularly potent, meaningful personal relationship to dictate the mercury levels on their emotional thermometers, the sun now represents happiness, cloudy days, despair. Where there was once imperviousness to the seasons, in its place is an unconscious vulnerability to sunshine and raindrops.

SAD

2008-11-01T11:54:00.000-07:00

Seasonal affective disorder (also called SAD) is a type of depression that is triggered by the seasons. The most common type of SAD is called winter-onset depression. Symptoms usually begin in late fall or early winter and go away by summer. A much less common type of SAD, known as summer-onset depression, usually begins in the late spring or early summer and goes away by winter. SAD may be related to changes in the amount of daylight during different times of the year.

Though I do love rain.

Underestimated.

2008-10-28T20:29:00.000-07:00

The frigidity in San Francisco is unlike any bluster my tippy toes have ever felt.

I must really start wearing socks.

This murderous cold chills so deeply that I'm unsure of its origin--whether the freeze comes from without or, most likely, from within. Each gust of air brings with it a wind chill factor an octave lower than the prior, a sharper set of teeth ready to puncture my skin to bone to soul. I trudge on with recalcitrance, upstream, eyes seared shut due to the caustic qualities of the wind's undertow.

I may be going somewhere scary, a place people fear, where they get material for nightmares. It's a place where no one ever wants to go and if they end up there, it's usually only by force. It is a place of deep loss and pain, the kind that bleeds dry and doesn't clot, the type that never goes numb and rarely ever heals completely.

I'm on my way, so sure I'll make it out alive, though near-fatally wounded. Perhaps, in the direst of straights, the lowest levels of the inferno, this chill will be thawed and, again perhaps, I will finally open my eyes.

Life must not only be lived but loved as well.

The Hunt.

2008-10-27T00:50:00.000-07:00

The anticipation itches forth from center palm in a clammy, sick kind of way. As if my hand wants to vomit but, lacking a digestive system, utilizes my pituitary instead. The usual bodily reaction to knowledge of self-betrayal, when one, fully aware of their scruples, no matter how ill-informed, deliberately acts against them. The faux leather kitten heels nip lovingly at my Achille's tendon, so playfully persistent that bloodshed seems imminent. A twenty-something year old preteen playing dress up, another sale item subjected to the demands of some unseen titan dictating decorum and proper etiquette; a conservatively dressed prostitute trying to convince you to buy. Oh, can't take my word for it? Contact my references, because obviously they know better than I know myself. Clamoring desperately for opportunities to shore up my market value, another indent on the ol' resume. Ah yes, my resume!, to have defined myself in the confines of a white paper rectangle, my blood and guts inked black in straight lines, Times New Roman, and bullet points. Two-dimensionalized (for easy transport and consumption), I carry all the essential parts of myself in a plastic folder, next to the tampons, tissues, and chocolate tin merrily jumbled in my purse.

Fuck this faceless system, people reduced to format text, coded numerically on some arbitrary scale according to how much of a moneymaker they can be made into, how easily they assimilate into this economically exploitative agenda. This shit just ain't for me. I have a face, a voice, two hands, and a functioning brain; can't be four-cornered, unwilling to give up my depth. When I walk up in there, oh the tirade I'll unleash! Straighten out these crooks, and swear never to don conservatively colored slacks again! The education I could bestow, knowing the little I know, the refuge found in each verbal blow, this rabid, instinctual urge to rebel and reveal and revolutionize, desmystify. Go on, ask me why, this system so obsessed with paper! I ain't got no fancy art education but you know what color you get when you mix red, white, and blue? GREEN. Mean green, dead presidents' green: the color of our nation. Paper people chasing more paper, this is the stuff Americans are made of. Flammable freedom, once ablaze, how quickly this nation will burn. Unwittingly, leading our lives foolishly on paper, we secede to a future of ashes, resign to inevitable oblivion and the erasure flesh. Paper has elimated the necessity for the corporeal, identities forged in binary code superceding the organic. My face, my voice, my hands, my fuctioning brain--all meaningless without paper backup. It just ain't right! I'll yell. I'll gesticulate as if swatting at millions of bees, infuriated, impassioned, and brutally correct!

Then, a voice shakes, followed by a handshake. All politeness returns to my voice. I take my seat with composure, attentive and docile. Prepared to succumb to questioning, standard procedure. I am content with my proof of existence, flesh and bone solid in front of my adversary, confident in my reality.

My interviewer pulls out my resume.
A needle to a helium balloon.
Looks at it before giving second glance to me.
Punctures the taut, artificial red rubber.
Assured of my existence, she proceeds as if she knows who I am, what I'm capable of.
The sound bursts like an open-palmed slap to the face.
At the end of our interview, she asks if I have any questions.
Red rubber carcass casualty.

Yes, one.
Why am I here?

2008-10-24T16:09:00.001-07:00

I don't understand this whole concept of "tough love."
Can someone explain to me how this is supposed to help someone?

Music through Headphones.

2008-10-22T20:00:00.000-07:00

I want to destroy it all, reduce concrete titans to rubble, cause even the most formidable edifice to tremble right down to its titanium core, see the fear in the thousand glass eyes of the city.

I want a laser beam gaze, to look at the sun and make it sweat and seek shade, give me eternal night time.

I want my meat raw, bleeding, gutted, still warm and pulsing with life down my esophagus, to swallow without chewing, ripping, tearing, gnashing lips rouged with bloodshed and suffering.

I want my innards to rupture, my body to dismantle itself, my heart to go on beating shamelessly, defiantly, long after my body is beyond recognition, so my next of kin not even knowing if I deserve their grief.

I want to crush civilization in my fists, strangling the life out of this already dead world in which I am forced exist.

I want to be reborn with wings and hummingbird heartstrings, covered in feathers and singing mourning songs, battle cries and love songs during twilight.

This isn't coming out right at all, nope.

Libidinal post.

2008-10-12T00:32:00.000-07:00

I want to make green tea EVERYTHING.

So. I will.

Sunday October 12th - nearly failed green tea shortbread cookies. Fruitless hunt for matcha powder, but much road rage. Oh, yes, I've succumbed to recounting the events of my day.

On my way.

2008-10-08T22:47:00.000-07:00

Albeit very, VERY slowly.

I'm going for journalism everyone (and I use the term "everyone" loosely). Of course, it's standard for most serious journalism majors to have 2-3 internships fresh out of college. Surprise! Not only do I lack any internship experience, I also lack a degree in journalism.

It's gonna be tough, but I am compelled to write. I'm converting this blog into my own miniature newspaper, media outlet, editorial column, opinion space (which, it pretty much has been anyway). I realize that I'm bound to encounter obstacles not only in the actual realm of finding fulfilling hands-on experience in the journalistic world, but also in my personal style of writing. I lack any sort of formal training in communications/journalism/creative writing, and am, for now, solely relying on the small gift I possess--a passion for the written word--to propel me (again, very, very slowly) into the rough waters of print news media.

Okay, maybe "propel" isn't an apt description for my sluggish journey into the field. Bad word choice. Noted for future reference.

The written word performs the crucial task of bridging perception and reality through a medium that's often taken for granted, often mislabeled as "universal." Yes, journalism is espoused as objective, as fact--but it's spun. Any two people can witness the same event, be told the same information, but, ultimately, when asked what happened or what they heard, two different stories emerge--with both authors swearing with vehement conviction that their story is the "most true." Yes, fact-checking, research, double-triple-septuple edits are going on, but there's hypocrisy inherent in the way journalism is conducted (at least in the U.S.): though stories are meant to be universally understood as the "truth,"because most journalism is conducted through voyeurism and not actual experience, all the public receives is a slanted interpretation of events.

Presently, this characteristic of journalism serves both constructive and destructive purposes. It's no secret that Rupert Murdoch owns pretty much all the major media outlets, transforming all readily accessible news networks into carbon copies of each other; however, though information control is rampant in the U.S., journalists, under the unfortunately conditional right to free speech, can manipulate this system through their own educated opinions. Now, I don't readily believe I could be considered "enlightened," but I don't hesitate to describe myself as inquisitive and hungry, with very little interest in informing people about things they already know. Combine that with a robust dedication to ethics, rebellion, and social justice, and voila! A recipe for some worthwhile reading.

Now, to figure a way out of this funk; writing in this manner feels so foreign, being where I am in this world feels so wrong, so ill-fitting. I must move. I must make elbow room. I must not fall. I must I must I must!

2008-10-05T02:20:00.000-07:00

Silence.

Tibor Kalman.

2008-10-01T12:59:00.001-07:00

Happy October.

Who runs this city?

2008-09-30T23:44:00.000-07:00

Apparently I run this city, as demonstrated by the abundance of traffic paraphernalia clearly marked with my initials. Now, I did not authorize such inconveniences in such vast amounts all over the streets of San Francisco, but there is certainly something intoxicating about seeing your initials strewn about the city, seeing even the largest of cars driven by the largest of people obeying their (my) directional demands. I'm sorry, sir, but, no, you, your hummer, your tribal tattoos, and your three rotweilers cannot pass. Please find an alternate route. Have I gone mad with power? Perhaps. But I've certainly never seen orange, white, and black look so good together (well, except for candy corn, but I think that's more of a taste issue, don't you?).

Last but not least, I'd like to thank my hat for doing such a wonderful job of concealing my extremely aZn/80s news reporter haircut. A prominent city official like myself can't risk ridicule with so much traffic equipment is at stake!

Take some time.

2008-08-31T21:26:00.000-07:00

"Hey, how are you?"

Oh, I'm fine, rode my bike with a friend down the beach and back, a little through Golden Gate Park, met up with her family for dinner. Her brother was recently married.

"That sounds really pleasant."

Yeah, lately San Francisco's been unexpectedly beautiful. Not a cloud in the sky.

"How about last night? Did you enjoy your evening?"

Yeah! It was really heartwarming to see all my friends again, I even saw some unexpected faces from the class that graduated before us. The evening ended badly, but otherwise, I had a good time.

"I'm sorry to hear that. I actually gotta go, but I just wanted to call you really quick to see how you're doing."

Thanks for calling me, it means a lot. Have fun!

Self-fucking-deprication, since sleep is out of the question.

2008-08-26T03:22:00.000-07:00

Hi, I'm a minion who does exactly what she's told!

Okay, I may have the occasional stray thought from time to time, but when it really comes down to it, who the fuck am I trying to fool? I'll do whatever's expected of me. Independent thought? Not very likely. Independent action? Absolutely out of the question!

Forget my own dreams and aspirations! Don't approve of my progressive antics? Squashed before you can say "That won't make you any money!" I'm ready for the underwhelming and monotonously routine government job for which I'm far too over-quailfied. I love tasks that involve absolutely no conceptual or even conscious thought and I'll do almost anything to avoid a challenge. Endless paperwork? Goody! Cubicles and office chairs? You're turning me on!

Feel free to contact me at aimlow@evenlower.com. Can't wait to hear from you!

Eager to start the end of my life!
-Adrienne

These feelings made possible by my lack of direction and focus, intense fear of failure, and a certain individual who was kind enough to bring all these flaws to light.
Thanks for joining me in this glorious moment of clarity.
I think I'll go back to not sleeping now.

Disoriented.

2008-08-17T01:05:00.000-07:00

Let's not get all Sisterhood of the Travelling Pants here.

Limitlessness is more limiting than once thought conceivable. What's the point in having the world as your oyster if you're allergic? If there's no direction to be taken, no aims to pursue, no lemon and butter? Yes, the loss of Academia is disorienting and, sorry Miss Dorothy Parker, neither you nor Mr. Vonnegut can fill that void completely--I can tell the difference between Methadone and the good shit, thanks (though this statement in no way suggests that Dorothy Parker and Kurt Vonnegut are NOT good shit, because that they are). I'm reminded that my library card needs finding, scattered frienships require rekindling, and home is a prison where my parents make margaritas and hold me captive under a very transparent illusion of freedom.

The price of creating dual lives, at this point forced into a "choice" of one quite foreign to me, has resulted in the complexification of my current situation, leading predictably towards brain overflow and God knows, with the little capacity I have left, I can't afford to have an aneurysm just yet (at least until I get some adequate health insurance)!

Stopping time.

2008-06-30T22:47:00.000-07:00

Well, not really, of course.
Though, speaking in terms of mutant powers, surely a desirable power to possess.

Lovely, lovely yesterday.
Bodhi Tree in Huntington Beach. I never really could appreciate tricky-wanna-be-meat vegetables, but the food was surprisingly delightful. And affordable. Also, 24minute parking zone beaten.
Nap and chess in the park to aid digestion. Defeated again!
Shaved ice and popcorn chicken to satiate pregnant woman appetite. Football in the parking lot.
Snack sustained us for the ride to the Griffith Observatory. Existential crisis inducing planetarium show, educational as well. Insignificant?
"But you mean everything to me."
Mr. Pizza in LA for dinner. Korean joint. Met my dream pizza: bacon, sour cream, corn, ground beef, onions, sweet potato crust, cheddar cheese, and, yes, potatoes.
Paid the $1.50 parking fee in 69 pennies. God bless the gatekeeper.
Peeped Peter's new pad in LA. A vision for the visionary. Soon to be filled with great artwork.
Stopped in Long Beach on the way home for a flick - The Hulk. Unassumingly hilarious. Yes, Hulk smash!
Home around 2am to rest heads.

♥

Who am I even talking to?

2008-06-26T16:25:00.000-07:00

Formerly, I thought the name of this blog to be a bit ridiculous.
It really couldn't be any more appropriate.

Weekend Highlights.

2008-06-16T22:02:00.000-07:00

Picked Laura Deely up on Thursday. Boogied.
Graduated on Friday. Been vegetating since.
Got wasted in my room on Saturday. Thank you to the hilarious individuals involved.
Gave myself food poisoning on Sunday. Two day old chow fun does not equal fun chow.
Made very bad pun on Monday. See previous.

Jonesing to write read and crochet. How domestic!

Dear Feist,

2008-06-04T15:04:00.000-07:00

Thank you for never failing to express how I feel.
It's almost creepy how accurate you are sometimes.

Thankfully yours,
Me.

Jinxed.

2008-06-04T00:09:00.000-07:00

"hm" his response contemplative
terse
telling

apologetically, she joined the rank-and-file
eclipsed, muffled by throated hands and
of course
desperately in love

The bitter man across the way.

2008-05-25T18:34:00.001-07:00

Only as I sulk deep into the recesses of my 20 page paper, my malady, and the stifling silence of my apartment can I even begin to comprehend the solitary life of the man across the way. Solitude, I feel, is only bearable when chosen. If forced upon someone, I believe insanity usually ensues.
If I choose to remember this cranky, bitter old man, I hope to do so sympathetically. I'm sure I'd be kind of a jerk if abandoned to my own devices.

In other news, I'm still painfully uninteresting.

Repercussions.

2008-05-25T18:17:00.000-07:00

Ill, overwhelmed, inadequate, fatigued, tense, congested, and generally not okay.

Self-medicate

2008-05-13T13:43:00.000-07:00

Where can I procur a bottle of "chill pills"? I need my fix.

Losing streak.

2008-04-24T19:34:00.001-07:00

We always lose the blame game.

Deep fried.

2008-04-21T23:51:00.000-07:00

Both Saturday and Sunday night somehow concluded with a hearty meal at Roscoe's Chicken and Waffle (Long Beach). No complaints here--but if I go into cardiac arrest any time soon, I won't expect you to be too surprised.

However, please don't hesitate to phone an ambulance. It would be much appreciated.

Lakers vs. Hornets - 4/11/08

2008-04-12T14:59:00.000-07:00

Astounding how witnessing a sporting event live can transform even the most docile of people into a rabid potty mouth! Apologies to the two small children seated in front of us.

Go Lakers!

Stuporendous.

2008-03-31T18:34:00.000-07:00

Ah, the excesses of Las Vegas!
None of the typical gambling done yet gambled a bit of my freedom to get into a 30$ buffet free of charge. Food never tasted so good (though admittedly enjoying my meal without a tremor of paranoia proved difficult).

America's Next Top Model marathons in a 34th floor suite at Mandalay Bay, five of my favorites in two beds, Joss Stone live at the Hard Rock Cafe, cramps worthy of the fetal position, coming across familiar faces, coming across unfamiliar faces, the bearded man at Pure and his imaginary lasso, free admission, snoozing snug in bathtubs, nosebleeds, Advil, foam confetti, elbows and heels, smooth alcohol, boogie into the wee hours, otter trains, Paris New York Egypt Venice Greece and the world of M&M's, inflated cup sizes, starless nights, cigarette smoke eyes, no sleep, and shiny everything.

April Fresh.

2008-03-19T22:44:00.000-07:00

Talk about airing my dirty laundry. Impressed?

Triple loads and hysteria in the laundry room. I can't say I won't miss the "spot the red sock in the dryer first" game, the ambitiousness of trying to carry 6 weeks (3 weeks each) worth of laundry back in one laundry basket, and trying to decipher which whose underwear is whose.

Graduation Approaches.

2008-03-18T11:05:00.001-07:00

And it makes me want to vomit.

A year ago.

2008-03-10T16:35:00.001-07:00

Man, I feel great :)

Toxic

2008-02-29T23:01:00.000-08:00

Putting the aphrodisiac potential of photo chemicals aside, I have an allergy to either one or all of the following: developer, stop bath, fixer, or water. Personally, I'm thinking it's the last one. Granted, the darkroom and film closet provide an ample amount of privacy (really, the alluring orange-mute glow of the safety light--how does one resist?), how am I supposed to get it on in there while all those noxious chemicals glisten menacingly in their respective white pans? Just 2-hours in the darkroom and--8 hours later (plus at least 4 handwashes)--my fingers still make me want to sneeze!

Oh lovely lethargy!

2008-02-24T15:11:00.000-08:00

Currently reading about heterosexual world domination--but I suppose that's all anyone ever reads about anyway.

In other even less ground-breaking news, Celine Dion knows how to put on a show. Yes, I watched all 90 minutes of her DVD last night (with some rewindings and reviewings of course) and yes, I did in fact get chills. Every copyrighted Celine Dion leg-kick threw me into a French-Canadian frenzy. No, really. Tell everybody.

2008-02-20T02:08:00.000-08:00

Peter and I went "real" shopping for the first time on Sunday--by "real" shopping, I mean the kind done in a mall setting.

$1800-5800 for a pair of golf shoes?
Extravagant? Ludicrous? Sinful?! Quite the understatements.

Tacky!

2008-02-14T03:10:00.000-08:00

My neck has been adorned with the same leopard print scarf for the past...5 days now? Serendipitously obtained as a free gift-with-purchase at a "thrift store" on Melrose, complete with velcro closure, it looks wonderfully obnoxious coupled with that ridiculously Adrienne-appropriate necklace Kelly personalized for me while she was in Hong Kong. I wonder if this is indicative of whether or not I really have a future in fashion because I'm sure that more than a few of you find that combination more than a little trashy. Actually, I think 'repulsive' would be the more correct adjective.

La Donna E Mobile just came onto my iTunes, haha. How silly.

Predictably, tonight I'll resolve to look decent for once.
Tomorrow morning, it's all leopard print, all over my neck, all over again.

Lucky you!

2008-02-13T01:16:00.000-08:00

Yet another blog for me to neglect.
I'm looking to fill this one with the banal events of my pretty ordinary life. At the ripe age of 21, my memory fails me almost on a daily basis. I seem to only recall things that no one else does; not exactly sure what that says about my brain processes, but at least a few less things go completely unarchived. Histories seem to fuel most revolutions--so I suppose that's why I'd like to keep my memory whole and intact.

Yeah, from here on out, prepare yourself for absolute, unadulterated nonsense.