"I am my words. I'm more myself than I've ever been in my life. I'm really pretty happy. And it's because I let myself be an artist. To create structures that aren't fettered by my guilt. Guilt destroys everything for us, for the children of Asian immigrants. Guilt is a toxin our bodies learn to produce in infancy."
29 December 2009
Sex is easy. Love is difficult.
Neko Mitchell
I am the furtive sigh that breathes in delirious hope that love is like touching souls but I am riding on the bus to the outskirts of the fact that I need love.
28 December 2009
Love is No Big Truth
"Why are we attracted to a person we know isn't good? Because we're hoping we're wrong. And every time they do something that tells us they're no good, we ignore it. And every time they come through and surprise us, they win us over, and we lose that argument with ourselves, that they're not for us."
25 December 2009
For Cat, From Monte
Missing someone gets easier everyday.
Because, even though it is one day further
from the last time you saw each other,
it is one day closer to the next time you will.
Because, even though it is one day further
from the last time you saw each other,
it is one day closer to the next time you will.
Cindy Dinh: A Year in Emo Facebook Statuses 2009 / Merry Christmas
By Month...
Cindy in January
Cindy in January
runs up the shot glasses and party hats for this fine New Year. Happy 2009, my Sweets.
just fell into a hill of snow.
stretched out her ballet muscles this morning.
wants you to tell her how to say, what's the word, "copacetic."
won tonight's game of Apples to Apples. No food for thought for you, Whitney Thomas.
is dry as my lips.
fog fog fog
is in stupid pain.
is waiting for her Drewbie to come home to her.
"mis-underestimates."
acknowledges that apparently humor and irony are out this season.
wishes a fantastic MLK Day, and can't wait for the Inauguration.
found the kitten has fallen asleep on her laptop, and has written incomprehensible love notes to all of her friends.
celebrates our Commander-in-Chief.
decided to hold off on grad. school.
loves Monte's giant penis.
needs to change her Facebook status, because the prior status was updated independent of her.
was a little girl who had a ragdoll; the only doll she'd ever own.
chuc mung nam moi - Happy New Year's!
follows the cat's eyes swimming with the blowing smoke.
recorded incidents of our accidental happiness.
enjoys deep fried balls
loves you truly, or no one at all.
is just kidding, she truly loves balls in her face.
scrapes her knees, it is only skin.
picks fights, but fears winning, can't stand losing.
Cindy in February
just fell into a hill of snow.
stretched out her ballet muscles this morning.
wants you to tell her how to say, what's the word, "copacetic."
won tonight's game of Apples to Apples. No food for thought for you, Whitney Thomas.
is dry as my lips.
fog fog fog
is in stupid pain.
is waiting for her Drewbie to come home to her.
"mis-underestimates."
acknowledges that apparently humor and irony are out this season.
wishes a fantastic MLK Day, and can't wait for the Inauguration.
found the kitten has fallen asleep on her laptop, and has written incomprehensible love notes to all of her friends.
celebrates our Commander-in-Chief.
decided to hold off on grad. school.
loves Monte's giant penis.
needs to change her Facebook status, because the prior status was updated independent of her.
was a little girl who had a ragdoll; the only doll she'd ever own.
chuc mung nam moi - Happy New Year's!
follows the cat's eyes swimming with the blowing smoke.
recorded incidents of our accidental happiness.
enjoys deep fried balls
loves you truly, or no one at all.
is just kidding, she truly loves balls in her face.
scrapes her knees, it is only skin.
picks fights, but fears winning, can't stand losing.
Cindy in February
loves her self-imposed regulations.
gets the most shy when a two-year-old on the MUNI turns and smiles at her.
finally let go. And it's painful as she imagined.
is ready to be heartbroken, Lloyd. At this moment.
has become aware of physical boundarious of various city limits, where one town doesn't just melt to the next.
misses Chloe.
is Left 4 Dead.
has forgotten how much she likes terminals and excitedly traveling children and celebrity gossip miles above the earth.
followed him holding white roses, and left them with him in the soil.
attempts to fast.
sips non-alcoholic bay breezes at Martuni's listening to operatic jazz - right?
Cindy in March
gets the most shy when a two-year-old on the MUNI turns and smiles at her.
finally let go. And it's painful as she imagined.
is ready to be heartbroken, Lloyd. At this moment.
has become aware of physical boundarious of various city limits, where one town doesn't just melt to the next.
misses Chloe.
is Left 4 Dead.
has forgotten how much she likes terminals and excitedly traveling children and celebrity gossip miles above the earth.
followed him holding white roses, and left them with him in the soil.
attempts to fast.
sips non-alcoholic bay breezes at Martuni's listening to operatic jazz - right?
Cindy in March
rubs toes on toes.
doesn't compromise. Not even in the face of Armageddon.
will walk for froyo.
still rocks at foosball, even without the drink.
prepares for the fight.
strolls along Spoon River aside Mr. Masters.
beholds: Thrice thirty million souls being bound together / In the love of a larger truth.
loves getting slapped in the face by balls, especially the Asians.
hates Monte for changing her Facebook updates, though he does win this round.
needs Shadows to tell her how.
thinks it's too late to apologize, that it's a mixture between Revenge of the Nerds and Citizen Cane, and knows her cravat is higher than yours, for fuck's sake.
smells like cock
really, really hates Monte, who is now officially the other Other Asian.
drove blind in the Saratoga hills, listening to Regina talk about her children.
hates it when people using metaphors to fucking complain.
oh what brilliant, brilliant shine the ocean gives off today.
If you wake up with balls tomorrow, you'd want to dunk them in someone's face, too.
is your furtive sigh.
is enjoying the heat.
will appreciate the value of More, while she's still young enough.
can't stand the cat's meow.
Cindy in April
doesn't compromise. Not even in the face of Armageddon.
will walk for froyo.
still rocks at foosball, even without the drink.
prepares for the fight.
strolls along Spoon River aside Mr. Masters.
beholds: Thrice thirty million souls being bound together / In the love of a larger truth.
loves getting slapped in the face by balls, especially the Asians.
hates Monte for changing her Facebook updates, though he does win this round.
needs Shadows to tell her how.
thinks it's too late to apologize, that it's a mixture between Revenge of the Nerds and Citizen Cane, and knows her cravat is higher than yours, for fuck's sake.
smells like cock
really, really hates Monte, who is now officially the other Other Asian.
drove blind in the Saratoga hills, listening to Regina talk about her children.
hates it when people using metaphors to fucking complain.
oh what brilliant, brilliant shine the ocean gives off today.
If you wake up with balls tomorrow, you'd want to dunk them in someone's face, too.
is your furtive sigh.
is enjoying the heat.
will appreciate the value of More, while she's still young enough.
can't stand the cat's meow.
Cindy in April
just rediscovered the world to the sound of Politiks.
will refuse to check the queef sisters. No pap smear for you! (April Fools)
a.ma.mma.emma
gladly hibernates, at least until rehearsals.
warlords, maliciousness, and pirates.
oh, oh got a one way ticket to the blues.
would love sexual suicide.
is INFP.
brace up, brace up.
is sizzling in serene happiness.
Poetry is the most specific language. Its ambiguity within limits renders interpretation infinitely, thereby reflecting humanity's views of life.
wants to thank Pinter in the opening pages of her Pulitzer winning plays, too.
just had a great Opening Night of Bartered Bride.
is packing wild rains and tornadoes.
misses the taste of lover's spit.
In memory of my Thien Than - thank you for your love, your influence, and your never-forgotten presence. It's been 10 years, but you were my friend yesterday and today.
Cindy in May
will refuse to check the queef sisters. No pap smear for you! (April Fools)
a.ma.mma.emma
gladly hibernates, at least until rehearsals.
warlords, maliciousness, and pirates.
oh, oh got a one way ticket to the blues.
would love sexual suicide.
is INFP.
brace up, brace up.
is sizzling in serene happiness.
Poetry is the most specific language. Its ambiguity within limits renders interpretation infinitely, thereby reflecting humanity's views of life.
wants to thank Pinter in the opening pages of her Pulitzer winning plays, too.
just had a great Opening Night of Bartered Bride.
is packing wild rains and tornadoes.
misses the taste of lover's spit.
In memory of my Thien Than - thank you for your love, your influence, and your never-forgotten presence. It's been 10 years, but you were my friend yesterday and today.
Cindy in May
is Jesus Ezekiel Jesus.
thinks she knows what happens to the idealists that exist in this kind of world.
pink flamingos and the capacity to laugh happily.
Dim sum for Mother's Day!
now has keys to sunlight.
can see the ocean from the window of her new apartment.
repression is the antidote to the apple.
caught his words in her open mouth, then she gagged and choked and spit them out.
now has two Canadians in her living room. - She is blessed.
experiences the flurry & excitement of bridesmaids in City Hall on a Thursday morning while registering for a Fictitious Business Name.
24hours until graduation.
learning, discovering, seeking TRUTH, genuine Truth.
graduates.
is no longer a glass half-empty.
Zombie!
12th Night Cast is emailed.
maybe sparrow, it's too late.
has never felt so wicked as she willed our love to die.
Cindy in June
thinks she knows what happens to the idealists that exist in this kind of world.
pink flamingos and the capacity to laugh happily.
Dim sum for Mother's Day!
now has keys to sunlight.
can see the ocean from the window of her new apartment.
repression is the antidote to the apple.
caught his words in her open mouth, then she gagged and choked and spit them out.
now has two Canadians in her living room. - She is blessed.
experiences the flurry & excitement of bridesmaids in City Hall on a Thursday morning while registering for a Fictitious Business Name.
24hours until graduation.
learning, discovering, seeking TRUTH, genuine Truth.
graduates.
is no longer a glass half-empty.
Zombie!
12th Night Cast is emailed.
maybe sparrow, it's too late.
has never felt so wicked as she willed our love to die.
Cindy in June
no longer lives out of boxes.
came home just in time to watch the sun set from her roof.
Tony Awards, tonight @ my place. 8pm. Bring beer, and the capacity to indulge in "theatre" at large. Text me if you need my addy.
is a man destined to drown - lucky that I'm dying by drowning, and not hanging.
Sure, political correctness is intellectually invigorating, but it is quite stifling. Ask questions.
loves your long shadows and gun powdered eyes.
thought you could out run sorrow.
perfect father-daughter time: smoking, going to Fry's, crab for dinner, ...smoking.
can't scrape together quite enough to ride the bus to the outskirts of the fact that she needs love.
housewarming!
threw a circle around a man with broken bones; so she left you with the girls that came your way.
thinks she has developed a fascination for roofs.
pride.
is habitually awkward.
Cindy in July
came home just in time to watch the sun set from her roof.
Tony Awards, tonight @ my place. 8pm. Bring beer, and the capacity to indulge in "theatre" at large. Text me if you need my addy.
is a man destined to drown - lucky that I'm dying by drowning, and not hanging.
Sure, political correctness is intellectually invigorating, but it is quite stifling. Ask questions.
loves your long shadows and gun powdered eyes.
thought you could out run sorrow.
perfect father-daughter time: smoking, going to Fry's, crab for dinner, ...smoking.
can't scrape together quite enough to ride the bus to the outskirts of the fact that she needs love.
housewarming!
threw a circle around a man with broken bones; so she left you with the girls that came your way.
thinks she has developed a fascination for roofs.
pride.
is habitually awkward.
Cindy in July
Happiness is a Warm Gun, but Misery is a Butterfly.
America is beautiful: Palin resigns; happy Independence Day!
heard him turn as he did hear; my tiny heartbeat in his ear.
smiles, even though her heart is breaking.
more noodles, less chicken.
traded you in for an iPod - the special edition red kind.
is gauche.
will miss you, Cat Jansen, missing your guts out.
Half-Bloood Prince FTW!
is the epitome of useless Asian logic.
is a Children's Tragedy.
just discovered blueberry chocolates.
needs an Undead make-out partner for a zombie make-out party[...]
Cindy in August
America is beautiful: Palin resigns; happy Independence Day!
heard him turn as he did hear; my tiny heartbeat in his ear.
smiles, even though her heart is breaking.
more noodles, less chicken.
traded you in for an iPod - the special edition red kind.
is gauche.
will miss you, Cat Jansen, missing your guts out.
Half-Bloood Prince FTW!
is the epitome of useless Asian logic.
is a Children's Tragedy.
just discovered blueberry chocolates.
needs an Undead make-out partner for a zombie make-out party[...]
Cindy in August
had Fever Dreams; she woke up frightened.
is recovering from 24 hour sleep by watching Venture Bros., picking at a bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios, and hot ginger tea.
calls out, whispering at first, but ends with a shout.
is still riding that bus to those outskirts.
reminds us of a furtive sigh.
has never been so furious.
is coffee stained, and okay with it.
hopes hope hoping.
I want to fuck every last one of you
recovered her phone.
supports Prop Z: joinpetz.org - zombies need ethical treatment, too!
retched some pennies in a boiling well in a dream that at once becomes a foundry of mute.
wants a girl with a short skirt and a long jacket.
Tonight is Opening Night, and Zombie the Musical is sold out the first weekend! Come see our rocktastic show: zombiemusicalsf.com! Reserve your tickets soon!
is travelin' in the north country fair.
Cindy in September
is recovering from 24 hour sleep by watching Venture Bros., picking at a bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios, and hot ginger tea.
calls out, whispering at first, but ends with a shout.
is still riding that bus to those outskirts.
reminds us of a furtive sigh.
has never been so furious.
is coffee stained, and okay with it.
hopes hope hoping.
I want to fuck every last one of you
recovered her phone.
supports Prop Z: joinpetz.org - zombies need ethical treatment, too!
retched some pennies in a boiling well in a dream that at once becomes a foundry of mute.
wants a girl with a short skirt and a long jacket.
Tonight is Opening Night, and Zombie the Musical is sold out the first weekend! Come see our rocktastic show: zombiemusicalsf.com! Reserve your tickets soon!
is travelin' in the north country fair.
Cindy in September
is in Brown Bag this week! Come see our show Wednesday at noon, and Thursday noon and 1:15.
almost killed today with my car. A man and a woman. I didn't realize I was crying hysterically until the woman put her arms around my neck and started kissing my ear and telling me that God blessed us and we're okay. Now it isn't so much the shock of what happened, but my dawning comprehension that I've been on auto-pilot for far too long. Sleeping on miles. Got to change.
GOT B?
Zombie the Musical is officially sold out.
So do I get exp. on Facebook when my friends are using my photos as their profile pictures? Networking site turned RPG game.
wants the pharaohs, but there's only men.
Zombie's October dates are now on sale: zombiemusicalsf.com
is going to climb into the bathtub with her clothes on, and at some point, the blood should go away.
is pleased to be woken up by thunder.
is sure that this lonely beer has been waiting for her all its life.
morning's eleven, the feeling's all severed - I can't feel anything at all.
Mark Williams wishes he can be a pretty Welfare Mama.
caught his words in her open mouth.
remember remember that striving is beautiful.
Joni Mitchell sings what's in my heart.
listened in when you thought you were alone calling the sphinx on a tornado's phone.
Cindy in October
almost killed today with my car. A man and a woman. I didn't realize I was crying hysterically until the woman put her arms around my neck and started kissing my ear and telling me that God blessed us and we're okay. Now it isn't so much the shock of what happened, but my dawning comprehension that I've been on auto-pilot for far too long. Sleeping on miles. Got to change.
GOT B?
Zombie the Musical is officially sold out.
So do I get exp. on Facebook when my friends are using my photos as their profile pictures? Networking site turned RPG game.
wants the pharaohs, but there's only men.
Zombie's October dates are now on sale: zombiemusicalsf.com
is going to climb into the bathtub with her clothes on, and at some point, the blood should go away.
is pleased to be woken up by thunder.
is sure that this lonely beer has been waiting for her all its life.
morning's eleven, the feeling's all severed - I can't feel anything at all.
Mark Williams wishes he can be a pretty Welfare Mama.
caught his words in her open mouth.
remember remember that striving is beautiful.
Joni Mitchell sings what's in my heart.
listened in when you thought you were alone calling the sphinx on a tornado's phone.
Cindy in October
thought that was strange to see you again, introduced by a friend of a friend.
wants to let Cory know that he's missing out on the slumber party, even though Alariza never took a poo in her toilet.
wants to let Cory know further why he's missing out on the slumber party: although the poo session never occurred, the man-snoring and the flatulence is still full on.
clasped her chest and declared unto her audience, 'I love your long shadows and your gun powder eyes.'
today: drove in a brand-new EOS with the top down wailing to Celine Dion, participated in a tea party with Greg and Torben, discussed queefs with Spring Awakening, and anticipating Zombieland tonight!
is excited about Brown Bag: Week 7. Come see our show!
has noticed that when you know people who die, you catch it and end up dead, too.
totally killed Hitler.
while my conscience explodes.
the sun's going to die; will you make loneliness go away?
let the wild rumpus start!
mumbles German fables.
Monday morning three shows closed three shows to go waking up with blue hair growling stomach craving fried calimari who wants to adventure?
misses her mom.
Happy Fright Day!
Cindy in November
wants to let Cory know that he's missing out on the slumber party, even though Alariza never took a poo in her toilet.
wants to let Cory know further why he's missing out on the slumber party: although the poo session never occurred, the man-snoring and the flatulence is still full on.
clasped her chest and declared unto her audience, 'I love your long shadows and your gun powder eyes.'
today: drove in a brand-new EOS with the top down wailing to Celine Dion, participated in a tea party with Greg and Torben, discussed queefs with Spring Awakening, and anticipating Zombieland tonight!
is excited about Brown Bag: Week 7. Come see our show!
has noticed that when you know people who die, you catch it and end up dead, too.
totally killed Hitler.
while my conscience explodes.
the sun's going to die; will you make loneliness go away?
let the wild rumpus start!
mumbles German fables.
Monday morning three shows closed three shows to go waking up with blue hair growling stomach craving fried calimari who wants to adventure?
misses her mom.
Happy Fright Day!
Cindy in November
Zombie load-out (yay).
got confused from the movement of the sun.
4 shows down, 2 to go.
will give this letter to a worm.
just played the word "fadge" in Scrabble. Thank you, 12th Night.
invites you to see Twelfth Night - opens in San Francisco on Tuesday! To be in Santa Cruz on the 20th-21st.
Beckett: The habitual becomes deadly.
"It's all one!" - Twelfth Night
Last 3 San Francisco Twelfth Night performances - tonight at 8, and tomorrow at 2 and 8!
Twelfth Night successfully closed in San Francisco after an oversold run! See us play in Santa Cruz next weekend.
Twelfth Night: Round 1 Dry Tech
Twelfth Night: Round 2 Open Dress Rehearsal; also check out our promo video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1iMrMUDk8Uk
was born secular and inconsolable.
Happy Thanksgiving!
currently green bean dish is seemingly successful; more to come on green bean and portobella mushroom ravioli later.
Ravioli is a success, cornbread looks great, pumpkin pie mix is in the ready.
awaiting feasting time!
just remembered her food-afflicted dreams last night: Bill Peters asked her to dig up dead bodies in order to learn human emotions after death. A horror dream involving the Creative Arts building after midnight and a lot of scared college kids experimenting for the sake of theatre.
is happy her mom called. Happy birthday, Momsies.
Cindy in December
got confused from the movement of the sun.
4 shows down, 2 to go.
will give this letter to a worm.
just played the word "fadge" in Scrabble. Thank you, 12th Night.
invites you to see Twelfth Night - opens in San Francisco on Tuesday! To be in Santa Cruz on the 20th-21st.
Beckett: The habitual becomes deadly.
"It's all one!" - Twelfth Night
Last 3 San Francisco Twelfth Night performances - tonight at 8, and tomorrow at 2 and 8!
Twelfth Night successfully closed in San Francisco after an oversold run! See us play in Santa Cruz next weekend.
Twelfth Night: Round 1 Dry Tech
Twelfth Night: Round 2 Open Dress Rehearsal; also check out our promo video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1iMrMUDk8Uk
was born secular and inconsolable.
Happy Thanksgiving!
currently green bean dish is seemingly successful; more to come on green bean and portobella mushroom ravioli later.
Ravioli is a success, cornbread looks great, pumpkin pie mix is in the ready.
awaiting feasting time!
just remembered her food-afflicted dreams last night: Bill Peters asked her to dig up dead bodies in order to learn human emotions after death. A horror dream involving the Creative Arts building after midnight and a lot of scared college kids experimenting for the sake of theatre.
is happy her mom called. Happy birthday, Momsies.
Cindy in December
bahhhhhhhhhaugghhhhhhhhhhgagagagagagurgle.
found you. I'm terrified.
Giddy walks through sand witho.
"theatre is a wifebeater" - Charlotte
Venture Bros. yah.
Astronautalis - My Old Man's Badge
is going to pick up the ability to interpret maladies. It's high time she speaks.
'd been in the Bull's Head once and saw John Wilkes Booth's (the American Brutus) ghost in the mirror - an ill spirit.
misses Char already!
is a single cell on a serpent's tongue.
Good-bye, San Francisco. It's been memorable .
needs a new record player.
feels... unfulfilled. Know what I mean?
is driving to Santa Ana tonight.
is working on your face.
shared a breath with a stranger on San Francisco pavement. Merry Christmas, Lovely Someone.
proof that 'fright' is a funny word: Frig, Frigate, Fritata...
found you. I'm terrified.
Giddy walks through sand witho.
"theatre is a wifebeater" - Charlotte
Venture Bros. yah.
Astronautalis - My Old Man's Badge
is going to pick up the ability to interpret maladies. It's high time she speaks.
'd been in the Bull's Head once and saw John Wilkes Booth's (the American Brutus) ghost in the mirror - an ill spirit.
misses Char already!
is a single cell on a serpent's tongue.
Good-bye, San Francisco. It's been memorable .
needs a new record player.
feels... unfulfilled. Know what I mean?
is driving to Santa Ana tonight.
is working on your face.
shared a breath with a stranger on San Francisco pavement. Merry Christmas, Lovely Someone.
proof that 'fright' is a funny word: Frig, Frigate, Fritata...
15 December 2009
My Body
I woke up this morning, and my body refused to speak to me.
I touched it in my bundled comforters, and it refused.
I bathed it in the shower, and it refused.
I slipped clothing over this body, and still, it was cold and dumb.
I clench my muscles now, and it responds from a distance, it is numb, it is leaving.
I touched it in my bundled comforters, and it refused.
I bathed it in the shower, and it refused.
I slipped clothing over this body, and still, it was cold and dumb.
I clench my muscles now, and it responds from a distance, it is numb, it is leaving.
13 December 2009
09 December 2009
fuck ho-li-day
I just wrestled with some bear, and she left me feeling bitter and out of place. Finally jumping off this half-sunken ship, and swimming to somewhere more rockin', I'm hoping. This modern disease is attacking my nerves again, and man, it stings. Carrion corpses, metallic clouds, smiling bristled faces in the water. God, I want to go cut that bitch. I have no sympathy left for anyone, and I'm usually an extremely sympathetic person. Goddammit. Shit and fuck and golden jazzy blues, see what I did with the colors there? Please give me sunshine, give me hope, what am I looking towards, where is that high? I'm sore in the gut, and jesus, it hurts.
STOP SCREAMING OUTSIDE MY WINDOW
Tell me what it means to have a "broken social scene." My nail polish is chipped off and my toes look rotten. Fight me, bite me, I hate being unfeeling. Having another bad day. Something about Wednesdays...
STOP SCREAMING OUTSIDE MY WINDOW
Tell me what it means to have a "broken social scene." My nail polish is chipped off and my toes look rotten. Fight me, bite me, I hate being unfeeling. Having another bad day. Something about Wednesdays...
07 December 2009
Lists Lists Lists
1. Imagination
2. Compassion
3. Ability to Learn, to Take In
4. Freedom / Free Will
5. Motivation / Drive
6. Desire / Lust / to Want
7. Art & Beauty
8. Speech / Communication
9. Integrity
10. Loved Ones (Family, Friends, Lovers)
I'm trembling. Change is coming fast, and I have no power to stop it.
2. Compassion
3. Ability to Learn, to Take In
4. Freedom / Free Will
5. Motivation / Drive
6. Desire / Lust / to Want
7. Art & Beauty
8. Speech / Communication
9. Integrity
10. Loved Ones (Family, Friends, Lovers)
I'm trembling. Change is coming fast, and I have no power to stop it.
01 December 2009
DaKh
I found you, I've been looking for you.
I could have easily emailed you, but I didn't.
I called one day, years ago, but I hung up.
Your number is still on my phone.
We were there - in this beautiful place for a brief time. But I swear to God, you changed my life. Please, please find me.
I could have easily emailed you, but I didn't.
I called one day, years ago, but I hung up.
Your number is still on my phone.
We were there - in this beautiful place for a brief time. But I swear to God, you changed my life. Please, please find me.
01 November 2009
26 October 2009
22 October 2009
fucking bs
Oh God Oh God Oh God
Please don't ever let me feel this alone again.
crying on the floor of my bathtub rolled up little girl oh little girl how did you devolve backwards through your life and let your parents abandon you again little girl now youre truly alone no friends no parents no one to help you what would happen if they all died off youd be right here crying still maybe its better that they just left why was i always the child that no one wanted no friend wanted no lover wanted i became the rejected sad idiot that no one could ever care about and thats not fair its never been fair god dont abandon me too fuck you cindy dont you ever trust anyone ever again not your father not your friends not any man none of them can help you and they never tried you need to just trust in yourself dont you ever lean on anyone ever again because theyll just hurt and leave and leave fuck you fuck you fuck you oh god i need help but i cant trust anyone anymore im the last person on earth
Please don't ever let me feel this alone again.
crying on the floor of my bathtub rolled up little girl oh little girl how did you devolve backwards through your life and let your parents abandon you again little girl now youre truly alone no friends no parents no one to help you what would happen if they all died off youd be right here crying still maybe its better that they just left why was i always the child that no one wanted no friend wanted no lover wanted i became the rejected sad idiot that no one could ever care about and thats not fair its never been fair god dont abandon me too fuck you cindy dont you ever trust anyone ever again not your father not your friends not any man none of them can help you and they never tried you need to just trust in yourself dont you ever lean on anyone ever again because theyll just hurt and leave and leave fuck you fuck you fuck you oh god i need help but i cant trust anyone anymore im the last person on earth
20 October 2009
Willingly, Johanna (thanks, Dylan)
The jets soared over our heads, vibrating the cement sidewalks reeking of bum urine and cigarette butts, the glass windows oscillating on every skyscraper as if when slowed down, the vertical lines of the buildings would roll like that helicopter scene in the first Matrix movie, like an earthquake. I suckled on the last of my cigarette, and after carefully putting it out with the toe of my shoe, stepped into the theater bordered by skyscraper and skyscraper, diner night clubs dive bars and skyscraper.
Shakespeare
he's in the alley
Everything is built on language. I verily believe that that's the biggest component of the Vietnamese culture. Language. It's severely distinct from the vocabulary of our conquerors, besides some French/Chinese/English bleeds, but that's to be expected. Most of our cuisines are French-affluent; our dress is derived from traditional Chinese wear; beliefs, stories, philosophies are the footprints of our colonizers on our little monsoon-ravaged muddy rice fields, this dusty guttered country. I tried to seek out a core part of our culture that is purely indigenous, untouched by colonialism. Something as pure as that exists beyond my knowledge. Even how we write out our language has been changed by the Dutch, who gave us the Western alphabet, which ultimately only separates us from the Chinese. Now I look fondly on our development as an independent state - only pockmarked by foreigners in terms of how tourist-friendly Viet Nam has become. We're approaching 35 years after the fall of Saigon. Each year, we independently develop - progress. I won't deny this part of myself that wants to return to that soil of my ancestors, plow the earth, and help it find its own identity. I owe Viet Nam that. I owe myself that. I'll find my way back home, and I'll be better than those nervous conditions you speak of.
some
French
girl
Last week, I sat at our kitchen counter. I witnessed my parents fight for the first time in a long time. It reminded me of my biological father and my mom fighting. I suddenly turned into a nine-year-old, watching my father hold a gun to my mom's head. I hate financial matters. I hate this economy. I hate money, currency, I hate monetary need.
Oh, Mama,
can this really be
the end?
I need to do serious change to myself. Now. If not now, soon. I would rather be depressed than without morals. I need to live for myself, but healthily. I want to be a better person. My mom leaves me tomorrow night. She doesn't know when she'll be back. She believes she won't come back. I need to find solitude that I will be strong enough for my brothers, for my dad. My mounting devastation rots my guts, my confidence, my (in)ability to interact with anyone, everyone. When I have time to feel, I never feel well: I begin having the luxury to wake up and feel like the only soul in this world, and it's cruel, so twisted and cruel.
Dear God,
I will pray tonight for my soul. I pray that tomorrow I will wake up happy. Motivated. Willful. I'm starting to pray again, is that okay? I just want you to understand that I'm still here. I still think of you. I still think.
Please, oh, please don't leave me.
Shakespeare
he's in the alley
Everything is built on language. I verily believe that that's the biggest component of the Vietnamese culture. Language. It's severely distinct from the vocabulary of our conquerors, besides some French/Chinese/English bleeds, but that's to be expected. Most of our cuisines are French-affluent; our dress is derived from traditional Chinese wear; beliefs, stories, philosophies are the footprints of our colonizers on our little monsoon-ravaged muddy rice fields, this dusty guttered country. I tried to seek out a core part of our culture that is purely indigenous, untouched by colonialism. Something as pure as that exists beyond my knowledge. Even how we write out our language has been changed by the Dutch, who gave us the Western alphabet, which ultimately only separates us from the Chinese. Now I look fondly on our development as an independent state - only pockmarked by foreigners in terms of how tourist-friendly Viet Nam has become. We're approaching 35 years after the fall of Saigon. Each year, we independently develop - progress. I won't deny this part of myself that wants to return to that soil of my ancestors, plow the earth, and help it find its own identity. I owe Viet Nam that. I owe myself that. I'll find my way back home, and I'll be better than those nervous conditions you speak of.
some
French
girl
Last week, I sat at our kitchen counter. I witnessed my parents fight for the first time in a long time. It reminded me of my biological father and my mom fighting. I suddenly turned into a nine-year-old, watching my father hold a gun to my mom's head. I hate financial matters. I hate this economy. I hate money, currency, I hate monetary need.
Oh, Mama,
can this really be
the end?
I need to do serious change to myself. Now. If not now, soon. I would rather be depressed than without morals. I need to live for myself, but healthily. I want to be a better person. My mom leaves me tomorrow night. She doesn't know when she'll be back. She believes she won't come back. I need to find solitude that I will be strong enough for my brothers, for my dad. My mounting devastation rots my guts, my confidence, my (in)ability to interact with anyone, everyone. When I have time to feel, I never feel well: I begin having the luxury to wake up and feel like the only soul in this world, and it's cruel, so twisted and cruel.
Dear God,
I will pray tonight for my soul. I pray that tomorrow I will wake up happy. Motivated. Willful. I'm starting to pray again, is that okay? I just want you to understand that I'm still here. I still think of you. I still think.
Please, oh, please don't leave me.
11 October 2009
09 October 2009
07 October 2009
black velvet 'round neck
When I was done twirling in circles, I looked up and saw that I was left completely alone.
30 September 2009
I Am an Actor
And there was none. I think I'm allowed to go home now.
The taste was different, and the smell has changed. There were transparent patches I've never felt with my heels before. In some outward way, I pretended a timeless laughter, and yes, I'm with family again. But an evolution was in effect; I couldn't pretend that I rode with that current. I'm gone, Baby, I'll be gone the next second, and I'll be elsewhere the second after that. Who am I to grapple onto that frozen second of you, while you took those giant leaps away away away?
My toes to my brows, I'm lost in the still, and I'm lost in the motion. Why are we prone to sadness, but we can't be prone to happiness? I don't believe one is better than the other, but there's some discrimination when we reel in extremes, utilizing particular fishing hooks for these words, these phrases.
Man. I forgot about my traffic ticket.
I'm fucked.
The taste was different, and the smell has changed. There were transparent patches I've never felt with my heels before. In some outward way, I pretended a timeless laughter, and yes, I'm with family again. But an evolution was in effect; I couldn't pretend that I rode with that current. I'm gone, Baby, I'll be gone the next second, and I'll be elsewhere the second after that. Who am I to grapple onto that frozen second of you, while you took those giant leaps away away away?
My toes to my brows, I'm lost in the still, and I'm lost in the motion. Why are we prone to sadness, but we can't be prone to happiness? I don't believe one is better than the other, but there's some discrimination when we reel in extremes, utilizing particular fishing hooks for these words, these phrases.
Man. I forgot about my traffic ticket.
I'm fucked.
27 September 2009
Calming Effects of the Sense of Adventure
I'm staring hard at the quilt spread on my bed. There's a light hair curled up by my leg. The tips are light, then it gets darker, like a dirty blond. I know it's not my hair, but it's not unfamiliar. And because not a single person ever touches my bed besides me, I know whose it belongs to.
I'm being kept in this tourist town.
- - -
"There's electricity running through the rails down there. You're so stupid if you jump down."
I sneaked a peek at the kid at the Powell station. Where's your sense of adventure? Huy was probably on the same train of thought. "I did it all the time Freshmen year. You hop and hop." He glances down the tunnel where a train was approaching. "There is a camera though."
I anticipated the train roaring by, the force of its speed and bulk whipping a gust for the waiting passengers. I closed my eyes as it approached, and instead imagined being on the tracks, standing on the rails just as it ran by my body. Instead of hitting me, it sucked through me, and my visceral self ran with the train, swallowing the tracks, sliding on my belly. I opened my eyes and the train had left the station.
We took the L train to 15th Ave. and Taraval. After finding my car parked on the street, we drove to Safeway on Noriega. "He's disgruntled," I said of the man wrenching his shopping car from the space I was trying to maneuver my car into. "Then again, he is grocery shopping at midnight." We roamed the empty aisles and picked up chicken and potatoes. I teetered on a parking curb as Huy picked up newspapers from the bins on the sidewalks.
An hour later, we were flipping tri-tip on a raging grill, which retched fumes and smoke into a cool and clear San Franciscan night. A perfect half moon dangled right above the horizon. We danced and hooted. We were roasting our food, and it was going to be a hell of a feast.
- - - - -
I eagerly swung my leg around the bike, and stuffed my hands into Charlotte's pockets, one hand in either side. Thighs wrapped tight and helmets secured, we huffed and cracked through the intersections, making wide turns and hard brakes. "Sorry, sorry! Not used to having an extra person on this thing," Charlotte apologized. "I don't mind," I smiled breathlessly. I started giggling senselessly when Charlotte throttled the bike to a great speed as we circled downtown. The wind whipping us and flying scenery made me feel exhilarated, as if I was falling down horizontally. When we drove by the crackheads and the tourists and other currently nondescript city life, I pictured riding my uncle's motorbike in Viet Nam. I was ecstatic.
We drove along the Embarcadero waterfront. Pier 23. 29. 33. Park. We followed a trail of people in red t-shirts and waited with Jake and his cinema major friend along with a haggle of tourists in line for the Alcatraz tour. Once on the boat, I straddled my helmet, put my face against the breeze, and became conversational with Jake's friend. He was shy, but responded well. A curiosity. The city got smaller, and the island loomed. We circled Alcatraz, like a bird spiraling down to land. "What does it mean to have sea legs?," Charlotte wanted to know. We offered two meanings. Both of them are probably true.
Iphigenia and Other Daughters was conceptually beautiful. The chorus of sacrificed virgins created beautiful montages. The actors' playing space were huge steps, overshadowed by the Alcatraz prison building, with the ocean's crashing waves and an electric cello offering a constant soundtrack. As the night continued, a pit of fire was the "stage's" lighting. The actors embraced the semi-amphitheater environment. Projection and elongated movement. For this style, I appreciated the acknowledgment of a return to classical Greek staging. Unfortunately, the entirety of the show and its surroundings was not a perfect marriage. But I commend the concept, the powerful images, the push for aesthetics. Although the performances were strong, the acting was not, though I can't see how much could be brought out considering the lack of acoustics and furthermore, the playing space, except for strong commitment. I walked away with a strong image of each individual character. Teri Whipple, of course, is always beautiful.
- - - - - - -
Grilled cheese animal style. Both raw and grilled onions. Spread on the side.
Vegetarians at In 'n Out were happy tonight.
On the moto ride home, Charlotte confided in me about her heart burn.
It's okay. Earlier that night, I confided in her about my lack of interest in my own life.
The fear and worry and heart-wrenching relationships I have with some men recently has stretched me. The summer of anti-romance has ended. The love that I thought I could tuck away has risen again. How childish. The seeds we planted are still in the soil. A beauty that refuses to escape.
Perhaps it's time for me to escape. I will have two degrees in three months. I need to hop on my own motorcycle and leave. Take this baby and go. Forgetting will come later.
- - - - -
As I write this, I know I am lonely and yearning. That I had made my bed several times, had fevers, and cried in my sheets for numerous nights, I am bewildered that on top of my made bed, on my quilt, is a strand of his hair. I had thrown my purses, clothes, my computer, phone, paperwork, headphones, camera on my bed. Kicked my comforter off, twisted the duvet, switched out my pillows, wrapped the throws around my legs. All seven layers on my bed evolving and migrating each night. And there it is. A strand of curly blond hair, unmistakably his, sitting right on top of my quilt.
It's the same blond hair that is straight when short, and grows out curly. The same hair that offers a soft nestle on his thin broad chest. The bristle on his chin as we kiss, his soft bottom lip tasting irony as I bite down on it, even though he'll tell me it's metaphor. This boy who at any given point in time, has the power to make me laugh at my awkward obscenities and then wonderfully strong and prideful as he carries me onto a pedestal, loving loving loving me. One person who I had nightmares about earlier in the summer, who knifed me hard, and I still forgave him, there was nothing to forgive, because all of them - all of them hurt, all of them are assholes, all of them are boys, oblivious of our hurt. The man who I still picture holding me in ten years when we are older, and finally ready. It's less than ten years now, isn't it? I wish the countdown was faster. We grew up a little bit this past year. I grew older during my summer of anti-romance, when he was away. Is that enough yet? I can't tell. I can't even really tell how he regards me anymore. The only thing he lets me read is when we're physical, but I've misread physical relationships before, and this is why I'm where I am right now. Anxious and scared.
- - -
I'm still lonely. I still love. Not "in love." Not when neither of us are "in" anything. I like to think that I love myself too, because I get up in the morning, and I work really hard to be strong and independent and motivated. But I'm so alone, it's awful. I don't want that kind of need. I've been told it's okay to need, but I'm so human, I just want him. I'm starting to lose interest in everything. I'm not even doing anything about this maybe-pregnancy. I get spurts of moments, like riding a motorcycle or staring down at the water in the bay on a ship that makes me happy. But... I thought there should be more than that. I am a girl who is love with being in love, goddammit. I like watching Disney princess films, and I lie awake at night pining to be cold at this place in my body that matters the most.
He's a dancer in the dark. I think I'm in love with Joni Mitchell. She can't stop singing about my heart.
Maybe I'll just get a little bit bigger and not even notice anything until the baby comes out. I mean, where's my sense of adventure?
I'm being kept in this tourist town.
- - -
"There's electricity running through the rails down there. You're so stupid if you jump down."
I sneaked a peek at the kid at the Powell station. Where's your sense of adventure? Huy was probably on the same train of thought. "I did it all the time Freshmen year. You hop and hop." He glances down the tunnel where a train was approaching. "There is a camera though."
I anticipated the train roaring by, the force of its speed and bulk whipping a gust for the waiting passengers. I closed my eyes as it approached, and instead imagined being on the tracks, standing on the rails just as it ran by my body. Instead of hitting me, it sucked through me, and my visceral self ran with the train, swallowing the tracks, sliding on my belly. I opened my eyes and the train had left the station.
We took the L train to 15th Ave. and Taraval. After finding my car parked on the street, we drove to Safeway on Noriega. "He's disgruntled," I said of the man wrenching his shopping car from the space I was trying to maneuver my car into. "Then again, he is grocery shopping at midnight." We roamed the empty aisles and picked up chicken and potatoes. I teetered on a parking curb as Huy picked up newspapers from the bins on the sidewalks.
An hour later, we were flipping tri-tip on a raging grill, which retched fumes and smoke into a cool and clear San Franciscan night. A perfect half moon dangled right above the horizon. We danced and hooted. We were roasting our food, and it was going to be a hell of a feast.
- - - - -
I eagerly swung my leg around the bike, and stuffed my hands into Charlotte's pockets, one hand in either side. Thighs wrapped tight and helmets secured, we huffed and cracked through the intersections, making wide turns and hard brakes. "Sorry, sorry! Not used to having an extra person on this thing," Charlotte apologized. "I don't mind," I smiled breathlessly. I started giggling senselessly when Charlotte throttled the bike to a great speed as we circled downtown. The wind whipping us and flying scenery made me feel exhilarated, as if I was falling down horizontally. When we drove by the crackheads and the tourists and other currently nondescript city life, I pictured riding my uncle's motorbike in Viet Nam. I was ecstatic.
We drove along the Embarcadero waterfront. Pier 23. 29. 33. Park. We followed a trail of people in red t-shirts and waited with Jake and his cinema major friend along with a haggle of tourists in line for the Alcatraz tour. Once on the boat, I straddled my helmet, put my face against the breeze, and became conversational with Jake's friend. He was shy, but responded well. A curiosity. The city got smaller, and the island loomed. We circled Alcatraz, like a bird spiraling down to land. "What does it mean to have sea legs?," Charlotte wanted to know. We offered two meanings. Both of them are probably true.
Iphigenia and Other Daughters was conceptually beautiful. The chorus of sacrificed virgins created beautiful montages. The actors' playing space were huge steps, overshadowed by the Alcatraz prison building, with the ocean's crashing waves and an electric cello offering a constant soundtrack. As the night continued, a pit of fire was the "stage's" lighting. The actors embraced the semi-amphitheater environment. Projection and elongated movement. For this style, I appreciated the acknowledgment of a return to classical Greek staging. Unfortunately, the entirety of the show and its surroundings was not a perfect marriage. But I commend the concept, the powerful images, the push for aesthetics. Although the performances were strong, the acting was not, though I can't see how much could be brought out considering the lack of acoustics and furthermore, the playing space, except for strong commitment. I walked away with a strong image of each individual character. Teri Whipple, of course, is always beautiful.
- - - - - - -
Grilled cheese animal style. Both raw and grilled onions. Spread on the side.
Vegetarians at In 'n Out were happy tonight.
On the moto ride home, Charlotte confided in me about her heart burn.
It's okay. Earlier that night, I confided in her about my lack of interest in my own life.
The fear and worry and heart-wrenching relationships I have with some men recently has stretched me. The summer of anti-romance has ended. The love that I thought I could tuck away has risen again. How childish. The seeds we planted are still in the soil. A beauty that refuses to escape.
Perhaps it's time for me to escape. I will have two degrees in three months. I need to hop on my own motorcycle and leave. Take this baby and go. Forgetting will come later.
- - - - -
As I write this, I know I am lonely and yearning. That I had made my bed several times, had fevers, and cried in my sheets for numerous nights, I am bewildered that on top of my made bed, on my quilt, is a strand of his hair. I had thrown my purses, clothes, my computer, phone, paperwork, headphones, camera on my bed. Kicked my comforter off, twisted the duvet, switched out my pillows, wrapped the throws around my legs. All seven layers on my bed evolving and migrating each night. And there it is. A strand of curly blond hair, unmistakably his, sitting right on top of my quilt.
It's the same blond hair that is straight when short, and grows out curly. The same hair that offers a soft nestle on his thin broad chest. The bristle on his chin as we kiss, his soft bottom lip tasting irony as I bite down on it, even though he'll tell me it's metaphor. This boy who at any given point in time, has the power to make me laugh at my awkward obscenities and then wonderfully strong and prideful as he carries me onto a pedestal, loving loving loving me. One person who I had nightmares about earlier in the summer, who knifed me hard, and I still forgave him, there was nothing to forgive, because all of them - all of them hurt, all of them are assholes, all of them are boys, oblivious of our hurt. The man who I still picture holding me in ten years when we are older, and finally ready. It's less than ten years now, isn't it? I wish the countdown was faster. We grew up a little bit this past year. I grew older during my summer of anti-romance, when he was away. Is that enough yet? I can't tell. I can't even really tell how he regards me anymore. The only thing he lets me read is when we're physical, but I've misread physical relationships before, and this is why I'm where I am right now. Anxious and scared.
- - -
I'm still lonely. I still love. Not "in love." Not when neither of us are "in" anything. I like to think that I love myself too, because I get up in the morning, and I work really hard to be strong and independent and motivated. But I'm so alone, it's awful. I don't want that kind of need. I've been told it's okay to need, but I'm so human, I just want him. I'm starting to lose interest in everything. I'm not even doing anything about this maybe-pregnancy. I get spurts of moments, like riding a motorcycle or staring down at the water in the bay on a ship that makes me happy. But... I thought there should be more than that. I am a girl who is love with being in love, goddammit. I like watching Disney princess films, and I lie awake at night pining to be cold at this place in my body that matters the most.
He's a dancer in the dark. I think I'm in love with Joni Mitchell. She can't stop singing about my heart.
Maybe I'll just get a little bit bigger and not even notice anything until the baby comes out. I mean, where's my sense of adventure?
23 September 2009
A Case of You
Just before our love got lost you said
I am as constant as a northern star
And I said, constant in the darkness
Where's that at?
If you want me I'll be in the bar
On the back of a cartoon coaster
In the blue TV screen light
I drew a map of Canada
Oh Canada
And your face sketched on it twice
Oh you are in my blood like holy wine
Oh and you taste so bitter but you taste so sweet
Oh I could drink a case of you
I could drink a case of you darling
And I would still be on my feet
Oh I'd still be on my feet
Oh I am a lonely painter
I live in a box of paints
I'm frightened by the devil
And I'm drawn to those ones that ain't afraid
I remember that time that you told me, you said
Love is touching souls
Surely you touched mine
Cause part of you pours out of me
In these lines from time to time
Oh you are in my blood like holy wine
And you taste so bitter but you taste so sweet
Oh I could drink a case of you
I could drink a case of you darling
Still I'd be on my feet
And still be on my feet
I met a woman
She had a mouth like yours
She knew your life
She knew your devils and your deeds
And she said
Color go to him, stay with him if you can
Oh but be prepared to bleed
Oh but you are in my blood you're my holy wine
Oh and you taste so bitter, bitter and so sweet
Oh I could drink a case of you darling
Still I'd be on my feet
I'd still be on my feet
Mmmmmmm
The confusion has dissipated. How many times do I need to get stepped on before I grow up and learn? Joni's giving me her curing powers right now. But I didn't need to get to this empty sky. I will never put myself in this position again. I was so foolish enough to think... It's time to wake up wiser and stronger.
22 September 2009
Happy Fall
The New Year American Dream (posted by Daniel)
Over the last fifty years or so the American Dream has been constantly reexamined. No longer is the discussion centered on those who fail to achieve it, such as Arthur Miller’s Willie Loman, but rather there is a search for its meaning. Sam Sheppard has characters who feel lost and trapped in their surroundings, caught in whirlwind of the establishments’ beliefs and imposed desires and their own personal quest for self fulfillment. The idea of the typical American has changed from a blue collar white middle-class citizen to a hodgepodge of different races, backgrounds, and cultural beliefs. We have the one country whose citizens cannot be distinguished by skin color, culture, religion, or even accent. The American family image of a white suburban set which comes with a boy, girl, and a dog posing with their parents in front of a white picket fence no longer seems appropriate. We hardly know what it means to be American much less what the dream of one may entail. When a dream is lost by a culture it comes down to one of two reasons: either the dream became to fantastical to achieve and was given up by the masses, or it was achieved. The American dream which founded this country, which called to the nations around the world, which boosted our population, economy, innovation, and stature has been fulfilled.
The American Dream was a call to those who wanted a better life. It was a fresh, new start where you could create your own footing and pass it down to the next generation. It was an ideal that promised progress and legacy. Sometime after World War II when America emerged as a powerful world leader, that dream was met. Not all the citizens get to revel in success, but the middle-class, who represent the majority of a society and are the true dictators of a nation was by and large successful in achieving stability and promise.
But here lies the problem. Dreams are not meant to be fulfilled. They act as a stimulous to inspire and motivate. Once a dream is accomplished, the road comes to an end and the journey is over. So what happens afterwards? There is no book that is about a hero being home. What is left for the future generations who are to reap the benefits of their ancestors struggle? There is no odyssey for Odysseus’ son, no comedia for Dante’s children, no epic poem for the first generation of Rome. The youth is left with a desire that is superimposed. Instead of improving or advancing they are left to keep the status quo. And once the journey is complete the downfall begins.
Since being the “best in the world” America has started to lose its footing. Our education has fallen, our healthcare is weak. Innovations come from Japan and China. Our jobs are outsourced and our products are imported. The young grow up with a sense of entitlement. Their work becomes just another thing they have to do. But the epitome of how far we have fallen can be found with the change of one word: struggle.
Struggle once meant a journey; an obstacle to be faced and overcome to achieve some greater good that was waiting for us. Struggle was met with a feeling of pride and confidence. Now it is met with disdain. We don’t have to struggle. All the hard work done by our families in the past was done to remove struggle from our lives. But that removal of struggle takes away our motivation, our purpose, our pride. Work has become mundane and a nuisance. There is no big picture that we want to fight for. The youth is filled with the bottled up angst that used to fuel movements and revolutions and there is no place to release it. There is an unsettling feeling and desire for change with no sense of which direction to change to.
Maybe the recession will help. Maybe it will last long enough for us to rediscov er our passion for work, for journey , for adventure. Never has history seen such a rich society consumed by fear. And it’s a fear of struggle an adversary, of hardships and failure. These are things that create heroes and legends. These are the things that lead us to great achievements. Our society will not let another Achilles emerge. We deny the adventurers. A man who leaves everything to achieve something great is called crazy. There is a reason why we wake up from dreams before they are completed. There is a reason why books end once the hero comes home.
I pray we find our struggle and our hardships. I pray we rediscover true risk and reward. May the difficult road not be looked at as the least desirable but rather the one whose trees bare the most fruit, even if they are harder to reach. For if we do not rediscover our “American Dream” we will lose our purpose and ultimately ourselves.
On this Jewish New Year, instead of wishing you a peaceful, sweet year as is customary, I wish you all a road with challenges and obstacles and the bravery and courage to overcome them. May we earn our apples and honey once more.
Cindy Dinh
Here, the only class endangered by the economic conditions of our country is the middle class, as you've mentioned. The endangerment really is derived from redefinition; the capabilities to survive or overcome said conditions determine the footing of class hierarchy for the bulk of America. The flux, fear, or chaos of the people have ultimately been exploiting influences for our government's decisions. But look at us. We're still bawling for what we think is our rights. This health care issue says it all. We're still trying to best other countries, despite our overwhelming debt and education system. I think the post-modern American Dream that you seek - the one beyond Shepard's need to rediscover the self, individual and as a nation - absolutely needs to be disbanded. We need to be disemboweled until the value system is gone in order to return to this golden beauty of struggling that you hope for...
Cindy Dinh
This American mentality needs to be humbled much further, even downright shamed, a collapse of all systems of entitlement are in call. I think I'm a pessimist when I say that I don't think this will happen in the near future. I can see maybe a shift in the middle class where an appreciation and a younger generation of striving innovative explorers emerge, but I certainly don't see an overhaul for our nation. As our economy gets better, that want for real change lessens.
Charlotte Gulezian
If Man hold's his existence as his ultimate value, not ethics set beyond the grave, than the only proper moral purpose of a government is to protect men's rights- without property rights no other rights are possible.
Daniel
You're talking about revolution.
Cindy
No, mentality change.
Daniel
A large scale mentality change like that can only stem through revolution.
Cindy
You want a rediscovery of that mentality. I find that difficult especially with our generation.
Daniel
I want a reawakening. And yes, I agree, it will be difficult. We have been bred to take the path that lays before us like all generations are. But at some point, each generation must go their own way.
Cindy
My point is that we need a drastic shift in order for that happen.
Daniel
I disagree. We need drastic change, I'll agree to that. But first we need to realize the need.
Cindy
Yeah, but in order to realize that need, we need to experience real loss.
Daniel
That's one way. There are others. Loss is a dangerous way to experience change though. Other emotions such as anger, fear, and well, loss can alter and confuse the action.
Cindy
Yeah, and it's really the aftermath and the conclusion that begins the change. As a survival tactic, I otherwise can't see that realization for need. Even if taught, it runs against our want to be comfortable, and that's a hard change to make.
Daniel
You're talking about revolution.
Cindy
No, mentality change.
Daniel
A large scale mentality change like that can only stem through revolution.
Cindy
You want a rediscovery of that mentality. I find that difficult especially with our generation.
Daniel
I want a reawakening. And yes, I agree, it will be difficult. We have been bred to take the path that lays before us like all generations are. But at some point, each generation must go their own way.
Cindy
My point is that we need a drastic shift in order for that happen.
Daniel
I disagree. We need drastic change, I'll agree to that. But first we need to realize the need.
Cindy
Yeah, but in order to realize that need, we need to experience real loss.
Daniel
That's one way. There are others. Loss is a dangerous way to experience change though. Other emotions such as anger, fear, and well, loss can alter and confuse the action.
Cindy
Yeah, and it's really the aftermath and the conclusion that begins the change. As a survival tactic, I otherwise can't see that realization for need. Even if taught, it runs against our want to be comfortable, and that's a hard change to make.
21 September 2009
20 September 2009
Gryffindor versus Ravenclaw: Wands out!
No, no, I have no change to give, but I'll spare a cigarette or several.
This is my contribution to you, you destitute of San Francisco: take my death sticks, fill your lungs, shorten your life by minutes with each drag.
Thank you for telling me that I have a beautiful smile. I'll continue to use it.
Pound the wooden barriers, I've reached the gates of gold, and I'm here to sell you a program. Take a CD too, if you love South Pacific so much. In fact, take the whole lot of it. You heard me. SOUVENIR PROGRAMS! - CDS! - BROADWAY REVIVAL CAST! - WE ALSO SELL HATS! MAGNETS! AND KEYCHAINS!!
Confusion still lingers here. The longer we prolong this confusion - my chaos - the less sure I am. Is it so obvious as we sit in a room filled with our friends, that we want each other? It's peculiar to hear observations about our tension, when we try so hard to hide our infrequent alone-times. My intimacy button is a flexible trigger.
The ball is in your court, Sir, (so to speak), please put it into play. We left Winter with your morals, and now here we are, besmirching said moral values with this passionate want, but a want for what - the physical? Speaking for myself, I want - more - the more time I spend with you, the more that I want of you - more than just sex and fucking.
It is enough that I find myself with you, but to speak about how I feel is to give you the most charred vulnerable core of myself, and I am very frightened to let it come out, lame and barely healed. Because once I reveal my feelings, you will be overwhelmed, and you will see that I'm too much. (That was just my Fear speaking - shut it, you!)
The dilemma is somewhat clear. I enjoy your company so much that for the moment, I'm haplessly sacrificing my feelings for this moment, this moment, Now. Has it ever been this difficult to say: I want you, really care for you. Let's run to the stars with our palms outstretched until we find ourselves shrieking joy in the sea. If we race, I bet I will win, and I want to be sure that you're splashing in right next to me. Include the adventure package deal - puttering motor boats between huge pieces of landscape, walking down a farmer's market sampling fruit, riding motorbikes in the heated summer of a tropical city, making fun of statues, spectating puppet shows, visiting ancient temples, eating cupcakes, watching sunsets, sunrises, each other as we wake up, we kind of do that, we do that.
I write, I write, as I hide, and fear, and for now I cannot speak -
Please, please I am right here. I am a child and I want as a woman, and I'm growing up, but tripping on toes keeps hindering my growth. We rise, we fall, we pick ourselves up, but let's not get victimized here, no more nails and crosses.
This is my contribution to you, you destitute of San Francisco: take my death sticks, fill your lungs, shorten your life by minutes with each drag.
Thank you for telling me that I have a beautiful smile. I'll continue to use it.
Pound the wooden barriers, I've reached the gates of gold, and I'm here to sell you a program. Take a CD too, if you love South Pacific so much. In fact, take the whole lot of it. You heard me. SOUVENIR PROGRAMS! - CDS! - BROADWAY REVIVAL CAST! - WE ALSO SELL HATS! MAGNETS! AND KEYCHAINS!!
Confusion still lingers here. The longer we prolong this confusion - my chaos - the less sure I am. Is it so obvious as we sit in a room filled with our friends, that we want each other? It's peculiar to hear observations about our tension, when we try so hard to hide our infrequent alone-times. My intimacy button is a flexible trigger.
The ball is in your court, Sir, (so to speak), please put it into play. We left Winter with your morals, and now here we are, besmirching said moral values with this passionate want, but a want for what - the physical? Speaking for myself, I want - more - the more time I spend with you, the more that I want of you - more than just sex and fucking.
It is enough that I find myself with you, but to speak about how I feel is to give you the most charred vulnerable core of myself, and I am very frightened to let it come out, lame and barely healed. Because once I reveal my feelings, you will be overwhelmed, and you will see that I'm too much. (That was just my Fear speaking - shut it, you!)
The dilemma is somewhat clear. I enjoy your company so much that for the moment, I'm haplessly sacrificing my feelings for this moment, this moment, Now. Has it ever been this difficult to say: I want you, really care for you. Let's run to the stars with our palms outstretched until we find ourselves shrieking joy in the sea. If we race, I bet I will win, and I want to be sure that you're splashing in right next to me. Include the adventure package deal - puttering motor boats between huge pieces of landscape, walking down a farmer's market sampling fruit, riding motorbikes in the heated summer of a tropical city, making fun of statues, spectating puppet shows, visiting ancient temples, eating cupcakes, watching sunsets, sunrises, each other as we wake up, we kind of do that, we do that.
I write, I write, as I hide, and fear, and for now I cannot speak -
Please, please I am right here. I am a child and I want as a woman, and I'm growing up, but tripping on toes keeps hindering my growth. We rise, we fall, we pick ourselves up, but let's not get victimized here, no more nails and crosses.
11 September 2009
Right now I'm experiencing -
Funny Girl.
Sourdough wheat bread.
Organic mayo.
Alfalfa sprouts.
Romaine lettuce.
Grape tomatoes.
Carrots.
Smoked salmon.
Pepper.
Hummus.
Mango-guava juice.
Facebook.
Spring Awakening.
Happiness!
08 September 2009
30 August 2009
Spoon? Eating Utensils? Writing Utensils?
This is a slow tango that we're dancing. I don't know where it'll take us, but I enjoy the age-long grind.
28 August 2009
0g trans fat
You're weird-tasting but that doesn't exclude the possibility that you'd be interesting.
23 August 2009
I can have a hat party, too
Bleary eyed, I strained to look at my cell phone. 11:12. It's so quiet. Oh, a text message from Clay. That's nice of him. I tried to imagine him waking up early as he did this morning. He's now working the streets, dealing with the tourists. That's shitty. I turned over a couple of times, trying to think what I need to do for today before rehearsals at 4. I unceremoniously rubbed my pelvis. Not my underwear. I didn't have to strain to remember. Natalie's panties. I smiled at the thought of waking up in a hot girl's panties. I couldn't really churn anything worth muddling in bed for so I heaved myself up. The room rippled in my outer line of vision. Too much Jim Bean, Cindy, too much Jim Bean. I instantly remembered my little sick experience in the bathroom a few hours prior. Embarrassing. I opened my slightly ajar door and ventured out. No one in the living room. No one in the other room. Sofa is now unoccupied. They've all left. I stumbled around some more. Jim Bean on the coffee table. Beer bottles and shot glasses vying for space on the kitchen counter, and a more vast amount existed in the living room. A pair of gorgeous earrings laid among the beer, and its matching bangle lived in another ecosystem a couple of feet away on the side table with my records. Charlotte's camera sat in the lee of the coffee table on the floor, and I counted sweaters and scarves that had never belonged to me. And hats. Hats everywhere! My hats, Charlotte's hat, hats. That's right, we had a hat party. I ran into my room, and grabbed as many hats that I can. And we played spin the bottle. Everyone pounded me to the floor with their kiss last night. Boondock Saints. Cigarettes matches steamrollin' shot shot shot. As I cleared everything away, methodically, purposefully, I started finishing the bowl that got started last night. This is beautiful.
18 August 2009
E.F. = Epic Fail
I want to cry from all of this anxiety. I don't know what I'm doing, and I feel so, so alone. I'm trying to sneak in writing between "working," but it's not alleviating this feeling of distress. I really want help.
When I was writing, I decided to direct my writing to someone who can be a good friend. Who better to choose than someone on the other side of the planet?:
When I was writing, I decided to direct my writing to someone who can be a good friend. Who better to choose than someone on the other side of the planet?:
Bryan,
I mentioned before you left that I wanted us to be pen pal buddies. You're completely capable of writing blog-like letters; would you mind if I write to you by hand?
I'm so glad that you're enjoying Thailand. I think I would experience a similar shock to yours - attempting to wind down from constant work, a heightened ever-present anxiety for tasks to do - if I try doing that at home, I couldn't go to sleep at night. I'm going to find myself in Thailand (among other countries) near this time next year. Though nothing has been decided yet, I want to take some time in between my studies to do some exploring. Maybe teach English in Saigon for a year. Grad school can wait.
I crashed the TCLT "graduation" party. There were some awkward moments (like me stumbling into their quiet circle), but as they unfurled themselves from their experience together, they infected me with this intense connection and mature kindness. It's safe to say that I don't usually experience this. In fact, most of the time, I'm not socially intact enough to hold a conversation for more than a couple of minutes within large groups of people. My anxiety prevents me from staying in the moment. I guess now I'm closer to identifying what I'm innately seeking out in people and myself. A true experience.
Have you tried reading the books I gave you? I know that both Kundera and Murakami are heavy reading. Miranda July is much lighter - mainly because her book is composed of short stories. I recently started reading a book on traffic psychology called Traffic: Why We Drive the Way We Do (And What It Says About Us). I read it off a friend's coffee table months ago (you know I can't resist picking up a book), and was intrigued by what it had to say about the connection between your personality and the way you deal with traffic.
I want to be where you are. I'm plagued by anxiety and stress and yet I keep on taking more work and projects to do, because I don't know how to survive otherwise. I'm still lonely in the presence of others, and I still grapple with nostalgia and fantasies of anything to relieve the loneliness. I don't keep the same friends for very long; at some point, I feel compromised, so I stop continuing contact. Just recently, I stopped talking to everyone I know and have met at ASF.
In moments of sheer fear and anxiety, I kick myself to try and get help. I know I need to - I respond really well in contact with someone who can get me to talk. And as loose as a connection as ours, I would like to just be able to write to you. You don't have to respond. A one-way correspondence can be... medicating. Let me write, and reach out.
Thank you,
Cindy
11 August 2009
The Mission District
To Mom -
Mom, please don't grieve over mortality. It's hard enough as it is to live, but I need to see your Will, too. The Will to struggle, to fight, to be. Seeing you try and give up several times growing up has its adverse effect on me, Mommy. You understand when I tell you it's hard, don't you? You understand that my sadness is yours, isn't it?
Sometimes I am lonely. The feeling of being alone is stronger on some days. I try not to let it affect me; I know it is weak because my loneliness stems from nostalgia. For instance, on some days, when I don't have human contact, I am lonely. When I see a black SUV, hear certain songs, laugh with a mother and her children, I am lonely. I'm scared to think too much on my childhood. Memories of your anger, or my father's affection. I don't like remembering lovers, but I've grown up just a little bit more to understand that I am stronger and separate from each of them, no matter how many times I've had to relearn. My loneliness seems likes evidence to my unrefined ability to connect with others; the connection isn't strong enough to bind them to a willingness to simply be, and to live from moment to moment - I succumb to a nostalgia that is stronger than Now. But sometimes, I am overcome with the opportunities of what will come to be. Those are the moments that make me feel hopeful, and I continue to Be, no matter what state that is. I want to be strong enough to hold onto that hopefulness. I don't want to be weak to my memories any more.
Mom, please don't grieve over mortality. It's hard enough as it is to live, but I need to see your Will, too. The Will to struggle, to fight, to be. Seeing you try and give up several times growing up has its adverse effect on me, Mommy. You understand when I tell you it's hard, don't you? You understand that my sadness is yours, isn't it?
Sometimes I am lonely. The feeling of being alone is stronger on some days. I try not to let it affect me; I know it is weak because my loneliness stems from nostalgia. For instance, on some days, when I don't have human contact, I am lonely. When I see a black SUV, hear certain songs, laugh with a mother and her children, I am lonely. I'm scared to think too much on my childhood. Memories of your anger, or my father's affection. I don't like remembering lovers, but I've grown up just a little bit more to understand that I am stronger and separate from each of them, no matter how many times I've had to relearn. My loneliness seems likes evidence to my unrefined ability to connect with others; the connection isn't strong enough to bind them to a willingness to simply be, and to live from moment to moment - I succumb to a nostalgia that is stronger than Now. But sometimes, I am overcome with the opportunities of what will come to be. Those are the moments that make me feel hopeful, and I continue to Be, no matter what state that is. I want to be strong enough to hold onto that hopefulness. I don't want to be weak to my memories any more.
Losing Only Skin
Where is that pleasure to breathe? The ability to laugh cannot be compromised with the ability to love - I've seem to have lost that. I'm disconnecting-disconnected-who is this person? Where is Newsom's available feelings of intricacy? Where is that pleasure to feel music, to fly in fog, to open my pores to the grass where I can be connected to the Earth? I don't talk to Jesus, I don't strum the guitar, words are just that - words. To feel intricately, is this not the finest part of me? Where is my tender heart, how is it so cold inside and out? I can't - breathe.
Apply it gently
to the love you've lent me.
07 August 2009
GVoice
This post is really for Aurash. Aurash and his new found love for Google Voice.
I had another vivid dream, which seemed like a fever dream, but I was only in deep sleep in the heat, which made it feel like one.
I'm at work in the bookstore. Behind the register, recommending books left and right, moving a line of people waiting impatiently with heavy books in their arms. My mom walks up from the line and asks me about which books in her stack she ought to get. As I begin to sort through them, the store's lights go out, and everyone ducks and disappears in the darkness of the store. My mom and I are the only ones left, it seemed. I wrench her behind the counter with me where we crouch, and I start dialing '911' on the store's phone; for some reason, it keeps reaching the intercom, despite using an outside line. No matter. I pull out my cell phone (which I never carry on the floor, dumb dream), and dial '911.' It runs straight to the store's intercom, and instead of getting someone nice and authoritative, I hear my own breathing all over the store. What the fuck? A dark shadow passes over our store's doors. Someone is trying to get in, and I can understand in the dream that this person isn't good. My mom hands off her phone to me; she is calm and doesn't share the anxiety over this dark foreboding presence that lingers inside and by the store's doors. In fact, she's talking about which books she'd rather buy when the store's lights are back up. I flip open her Samsung and dial '911.' The ring is dead. At least it isn't hooked up to the intercom. "Mom, your phone isn't working." "Try calling again." Her logic makes sense. I dial again. There is a tone. Success! This is no longer a nightmare! Then I hear a ringing. I look down at my phone. No. It isn't the store's phones. I strain my ears. The ringing comes from outside, right by the doors, where that someone menacing is struggling to break in. On the fourth ring, Menacing Someone picks up. He laughs into my ear. Heart racing, I drop my mom's phone. Frantically, I beckon my mom to follow me, and on our elbows and stomachs, we reach the back room, which has turned into a long and dark hallway, not unlike any horror movie I've seen before. I hear the man come into our store, and my fear is heightened. I spot a flickering screen in the corner of the room - it's a computer monitor. I leave my mom, flipping through her books (still) and scramble to reach help on the web. On the screen was my Google Voice inbox. I push back the keyboard with my palms, shocked. Every number that I have ever dialed with was hooked up to the account. And for some strange logic, this was the reason why every time I dial a number, it was either linked to the man at the door or the intercom in the store. I don't even attempt to dial '911' with the Google number. I am lost, no, we are lost already. This is when I realize that the walls are covered with my Action pictures a year ago - Walt Whitman's face peered down at me from yellowing paper, and I can see dying horses and mass Civil War graves, soldiers limbs poking up in greeting. This is the last straw. I grab my mom and scramble underneath a desk. Then he walked in.
The rest of the dream consisted of my mom being able to go home. My brothers had been away, and this affected my mom's ability to go the right home, but she was reunited with my dad, and that's all I ever wish for her. But I was stuck in that room with the flickering monitor, and three of my theatre professors. The dream also turned sexual, and I wasn't unwilling. Which is ... bizarre, seeing how my professors are old and so not attractive. But the point is - my cell phone SCARES me now. This is definitely one of those dumb horror flicks about the menaces of your mobile devices (and in this case, Google Voice), and I am freaked that it reached the movie screen of my feverish dreams.
I had another vivid dream, which seemed like a fever dream, but I was only in deep sleep in the heat, which made it feel like one.
I'm at work in the bookstore. Behind the register, recommending books left and right, moving a line of people waiting impatiently with heavy books in their arms. My mom walks up from the line and asks me about which books in her stack she ought to get. As I begin to sort through them, the store's lights go out, and everyone ducks and disappears in the darkness of the store. My mom and I are the only ones left, it seemed. I wrench her behind the counter with me where we crouch, and I start dialing '911' on the store's phone; for some reason, it keeps reaching the intercom, despite using an outside line. No matter. I pull out my cell phone (which I never carry on the floor, dumb dream), and dial '911.' It runs straight to the store's intercom, and instead of getting someone nice and authoritative, I hear my own breathing all over the store. What the fuck? A dark shadow passes over our store's doors. Someone is trying to get in, and I can understand in the dream that this person isn't good. My mom hands off her phone to me; she is calm and doesn't share the anxiety over this dark foreboding presence that lingers inside and by the store's doors. In fact, she's talking about which books she'd rather buy when the store's lights are back up. I flip open her Samsung and dial '911.' The ring is dead. At least it isn't hooked up to the intercom. "Mom, your phone isn't working." "Try calling again." Her logic makes sense. I dial again. There is a tone. Success! This is no longer a nightmare! Then I hear a ringing. I look down at my phone. No. It isn't the store's phones. I strain my ears. The ringing comes from outside, right by the doors, where that someone menacing is struggling to break in. On the fourth ring, Menacing Someone picks up. He laughs into my ear. Heart racing, I drop my mom's phone. Frantically, I beckon my mom to follow me, and on our elbows and stomachs, we reach the back room, which has turned into a long and dark hallway, not unlike any horror movie I've seen before. I hear the man come into our store, and my fear is heightened. I spot a flickering screen in the corner of the room - it's a computer monitor. I leave my mom, flipping through her books (still) and scramble to reach help on the web. On the screen was my Google Voice inbox. I push back the keyboard with my palms, shocked. Every number that I have ever dialed with was hooked up to the account. And for some strange logic, this was the reason why every time I dial a number, it was either linked to the man at the door or the intercom in the store. I don't even attempt to dial '911' with the Google number. I am lost, no, we are lost already. This is when I realize that the walls are covered with my Action pictures a year ago - Walt Whitman's face peered down at me from yellowing paper, and I can see dying horses and mass Civil War graves, soldiers limbs poking up in greeting. This is the last straw. I grab my mom and scramble underneath a desk. Then he walked in.
The rest of the dream consisted of my mom being able to go home. My brothers had been away, and this affected my mom's ability to go the right home, but she was reunited with my dad, and that's all I ever wish for her. But I was stuck in that room with the flickering monitor, and three of my theatre professors. The dream also turned sexual, and I wasn't unwilling. Which is ... bizarre, seeing how my professors are old and so not attractive. But the point is - my cell phone SCARES me now. This is definitely one of those dumb horror flicks about the menaces of your mobile devices (and in this case, Google Voice), and I am freaked that it reached the movie screen of my feverish dreams.
04 August 2009
Summer Blues
Every summer I do this, why is this one an exception?
Book Wish List 2009
1.
The Icarus Girl - Helen Oyeyemi
2.
House of Leaves - Mark Z. Danielewski
3.
Only Revolutions - Mark Z. Danielewski
(I'm allowed to have one repeating author...)
4.
Jude the Obscure - Thomas Hardy
(My copy got fucked up.)
5.
Things Fall Apart - Chinua Achebe
6.
4.48 Psychosis - Sarah Kane
(Any of her plays would suffice.)
She wrote that she was attracted to the stage because "theatre has no memory, which makes it the most existential of the arts...I keep coming back in the hope that someone in a darkened room somewhere will show me an image that burns itself into my mind."
7.
Read read read.
The Icarus Girl - Helen Oyeyemi2.
House of Leaves - Mark Z. Danielewski3.
(I'm allowed to have one repeating author...)
4.
Jude the Obscure - Thomas Hardy(My copy got fucked up.)
5.
Things Fall Apart - Chinua Achebe6.
(Any of her plays would suffice.)
She wrote that she was attracted to the stage because "theatre has no memory, which makes it the most existential of the arts...I keep coming back in the hope that someone in a darkened room somewhere will show me an image that burns itself into my mind."
7.
Traffic: Why We Drive the Way We Do (and What It Says About Us) - Tom Vanderbilt
Read read read.
Babies Want God's Love
Fevers are not my best friends. It's not so much the illness - the hot and cold sweats, the heavy headaches, the dizziness, the want to sleep - but the dangerously vivid fever dreams. In the last 24 hours, I've had enough of these fever dreams; I've slept for 19 of those hours. Even the implications of my dreams caused me to wake up this morning imagining something so different, if I made the choice today, my life would be entirely different, but not at all if I don't give in to it. Last night's dreams led me from person to person - in terms of my relationship with them. I dreamed about my mom - and my father. I dreamed that he still knows how to take care of me, and he understands me completely, seeing me as I am. I dreamed about boyfriends, about my childhood best friend, and I struggled over the pseudo-memory of friends who have left me. It was like an evaluation of my life - through relationships. Lately, I've realized how reserved I can be, how intimidated I become around certain people. Now I see that I was always a quiet child, scared of people and judgment and happiness. It's only recently that I found out that human connection is key to my self-discovery and a fulfillment stronger than anything else, which I've completely denied. The change is happening, and I will take these dreams and save them in my box of knots.
31 July 2009
Spinach Salad
Today I helped a woman kidnap three children.
She walked up to the register, and we laughed together; she was a friendly mother, I thought.
A Code Adam was called. A father cannot find his children. The last to see the woman and three kids in the store was me. The concerned poured over the videos - and it was true, I was the only one to interact with them. But I thought that they were hers! I kept telling myself. They assured me, not your fault, not your fault. God is cruel in some ways.
She walked up to the register, and we laughed together; she was a friendly mother, I thought.
A Code Adam was called. A father cannot find his children. The last to see the woman and three kids in the store was me. The concerned poured over the videos - and it was true, I was the only one to interact with them. But I thought that they were hers! I kept telling myself. They assured me, not your fault, not your fault. God is cruel in some ways.
24 July 2009
land locked lovers
I came home tonight, and the house was truly empty. I walked down the vacuumed hallway, noticing the void, the lack of clutter. No longer do I have a fellow sugar junkie. I don't have anyone who would avidly watch Harry Potter with me, or sit with me for hours of silence while we're in our own worlds. No late night pizza or In 'n Out runs. Soda and beer, dancing, pumping music in the car. And when I sat down at my computer, I felt just that - empty.
I hate endings.
I hate endings.
23 July 2009
Curry Licked Fingers
a) Facebook makes me feel wistful
b) my fingers are curry tainted
c) meeting new people keeps me happy
d) I can't be mean to friends - I really can't
b) my fingers are curry tainted
c) meeting new people keeps me happy
d) I can't be mean to friends - I really can't
Murder Me, Inspire Me
Murder Me, Inspire Me
I dreamed it was night and the Sea convulsed like a woman loved over my head.
I laid at the bottom, feeling her motion sway me miles with each heave.
Needing, I traced my finger-ends for the wavering seasides that flickered in my vision,
For the weight was molding my bones, fire-searing my organs, driving me red.
When I woke, the wave had taken hold of me,
And I had died, died something frightful, something sacred.
I became the Sea.
Wrote this once upon a time.
pər-spěk'tĭv
A week ago, I opened the window of my apartment to blow smoke into the fog. Frustration and anxiety emitted from my very pores.
A month ago, I drove to Sacramento to be there for Daniel on his birthday night. That night lacked connectivity; I was far too anxious.
Two months ago, I walked across a stage, and received a mock diploma, and pretended to smile with my peers.
A year ago, I was drowning in an emotional fog; it's resonating this summer, but I'm glad its density has altered and a lot of my energy is currently flowing into self-exploration.
Two years ago, I left Jonathan, and became a free-floating spirit amongst strangers.
Five years ago, I succumbed to anxiety: college was the next step.
A month ago, I drove to Sacramento to be there for Daniel on his birthday night. That night lacked connectivity; I was far too anxious.
Two months ago, I walked across a stage, and received a mock diploma, and pretended to smile with my peers.
A year ago, I was drowning in an emotional fog; it's resonating this summer, but I'm glad its density has altered and a lot of my energy is currently flowing into self-exploration.
Two years ago, I left Jonathan, and became a free-floating spirit amongst strangers.
Five years ago, I succumbed to anxiety: college was the next step.
Knot #Sex
Last night, I decided that I needed to concretely shuffle through memories. I came across writings that accumulated during my last relationship, and because it was my most recent, I was surprise at the progression of a relationship that I'm mostly affected by its end, rather than its entirety.
On an unrelated note, I found this memory of a revelation that I made two summers ago:
On an unrelated note, I found this memory of a revelation that I made two summers ago:
Repetition of moral pitching set upon myself by me.
I'm learning more about myself. Some through self-speculation, but much of it is reflected in how others react to me, recipients to my behavior and emotions. Even if this isn't spoken verbatim, I can nearly sense this. It's a womanly thing. Right.
Dan sat in the Chair of Truth. You don't have to be drunk to sit in the Chair of Truth. It's a human need to rest and sit if chanced upon. I, too had sat in the Chair a couple of nights ago. I simply wanted to sit, occupied in whatever preoccupation had enveloped my body to stick out my butt and rest my body through my center. [I also didn't collapse into the Chair of Truth.]
I think there's something provoking me in pursuing my basic wants. It's hardly a moral thing anymore, but rather the odd pursuant [plague?] of Guilt, who riddles my head with thoughts of not Myself, but Others in my life. What am I doing to myself? What is it that I truly want? Schooling, working, lovemaking. My mom telling me that the matters of the heart will be the Obstacle that prevents me from achieving a verily ambitious future is TRUE; I do believe my ambitions concerning my career have waned since opening myself to others. It's also not safe, leaving this trail of sadness and anger - my spectral self stumbling behind my giddy whirlwind of intense desire, clutching her chest and behind held down by the chains of arms belonging to various men and women [affected].
I hate being a pragmatist. But at the same time, I can't allow myself to develop Cat Lady tendencies. At least, not anymore, since I've nearly been killed by a cat. A cat. I might have to add that this is not exclusively a Guilt towards the Others, but a Guilt of myself, as selfish as that may seem. Could be the Catholic in me. [Perhaps this is Moral.]
I'm so momentarily happy right now. I cannot and probably should not explain why. [At the time, it was the sensation of pursuing a new sex interest.] To find myself at odds with this... determination to spurn myself into spiritual and physical satisfaction is very quite disconcerting.
Let's talk about possibly invalid [completely valid] excuses using the Self's psychological past.
When I was 14, I had this sudden revelation. I realized that this particular event in my life, or should I say a series of events, had an excuse for being such a nag to my memories. When I was five and six, my father had a friend who would join my father's mess of friends who visited us on a weekly basis to get utterly drunk and wasted. I believe over a period of several months or so, this one man was very nice to me. He'd lead me out to the back patio, sometimes by myself, sometimes with my infant brother. In these occasions, outside of a close vicinity of [my father's] drunkard-friends, this man would slip down my panties, labeled accordingly to the day of the week, and colored so, and he would probe me with his fingers. This nightly activity included him asking me if I liked what I felt and whether or not I need to "go pee." I answered truthfully, yes I liked what I felt, and sometimes I did have to go pee. The man would rub until I got uncomfortable and wench away, and he would pull my panties up into my wetness, smiled and walked away. I cannot lie: the want to follow him out to the patio each time he employed this smile [was always present]. Finally one night, my father and this friend got into a huge argument, and I never saw the friend again sans my uncle's wedding. At this event, I balked at his sight and drunken state, and long afterward, the memory did not return.
Sexually, I believe that I am a wreck. I cannot decipher in what sense yet, but when I was 14, I believe that I will one day sense what happened and what is wrong with me in this moment in time. This makes utterly no sense. But when will anything lie open and willing such as this? Perhaps only as Jonathan Franzen wrote, a "floozy."
22 July 2009
Renaissance Garbage
Dear God,
I would appreciate it if today was a lot better than yesterday. No waking up to feelings of rejection. No trust trauma with my friends. If you give me bipolar spurt-moments of "I love life," make sure that learning about manipulation and not-forthcoming folks do not follow shortly after - I'd like those moments to last more than, you know, spurts. If I'm anxious, let it be over being sick and war in the world, not work that I'll eventually get done or potential parking tickets or approaching people. And God, I'd really appreciate it if I can get past my lack of trust for most people soon; I can see how that's affecting my ability to be present. Don't let me get upset over things not going my way - it's not worth it, and I've been told that I can do much better than the friends and situations that I settle for. If I am to embrace free love, please let me do it without hesitation. I also shouldn't get upset when all of my guy friends have invoked the bro code - I just need to learn to accept the cockblock from cool friends. God, don't let me be a snark around my company, even if they question my abilities and my potential to do better and be productive. Please, also, let me retain attention towards my studies, books, writing.
God, please also understand that I'm an extremist. Give me real fog, not the wispy kind, but the thick encapsulating kind. If you give me sunshine, let me burn. If it rains, I want a cold shower. Give me people - make sure that they speak a language that can at least 50% sync with mine (face it, no one understands me); and men who want me should want to experience me for more than my body.
Remember, God, that I love you, even as I spend all of my strength just stepping out of bed, and out of this damn old funk.
I would appreciate it if today was a lot better than yesterday. No waking up to feelings of rejection. No trust trauma with my friends. If you give me bipolar spurt-moments of "I love life," make sure that learning about manipulation and not-forthcoming folks do not follow shortly after - I'd like those moments to last more than, you know, spurts. If I'm anxious, let it be over being sick and war in the world, not work that I'll eventually get done or potential parking tickets or approaching people. And God, I'd really appreciate it if I can get past my lack of trust for most people soon; I can see how that's affecting my ability to be present. Don't let me get upset over things not going my way - it's not worth it, and I've been told that I can do much better than the friends and situations that I settle for. If I am to embrace free love, please let me do it without hesitation. I also shouldn't get upset when all of my guy friends have invoked the bro code - I just need to learn to accept the cockblock from cool friends. God, don't let me be a snark around my company, even if they question my abilities and my potential to do better and be productive. Please, also, let me retain attention towards my studies, books, writing.
God, please also understand that I'm an extremist. Give me real fog, not the wispy kind, but the thick encapsulating kind. If you give me sunshine, let me burn. If it rains, I want a cold shower. Give me people - make sure that they speak a language that can at least 50% sync with mine (face it, no one understands me); and men who want me should want to experience me for more than my body.
Remember, God, that I love you, even as I spend all of my strength just stepping out of bed, and out of this damn old funk.
21 July 2009
Finish the Game
I woke up this morning to the dark
I cringed and moaned and tears
littered a path to my jawline
Find me find me
You're confusing me
I cringed and moaned and tears
littered a path to my jawline
Find me find me
You're confusing me
20 July 2009
Trans-Communication
This is a great facebook status:
i don't understand.. do american people date their ex-girl/boyfriend's friend? i mean what is he thinking asking if he could date my friend while he's telling me he want me to be his girlfriend when he moves here i mean "OH I SEE WHAT YOU R DOING..." haha X on him. ;p sorry but im not dumb
Ch-ch-ch-chitchatchill
Today, we met a man named Sidney, who sat in a chair by the window of a cafe in Pacifica. He wanted to stress that at his great age of 84, it was harder to retain knowledge and was pleased to see Ernesto in avid study.
Later, we walked along the coast. At a distance, I looked back on the pier. "It looks like Huntington Beach." I reflected on my words. I've lost the moment, remembering a different beach, a made memory, another lifetime. And by reflecting on this, I remember another memory contained in a memory. By not living the moment, I carry empty shells of reflecting other moments that need memories made. It's already hard to retain knowledge at the age of 22.
Later, we walked along the coast. At a distance, I looked back on the pier. "It looks like Huntington Beach." I reflected on my words. I've lost the moment, remembering a different beach, a made memory, another lifetime. And by reflecting on this, I remember another memory contained in a memory. By not living the moment, I carry empty shells of reflecting other moments that need memories made. It's already hard to retain knowledge at the age of 22.
18 July 2009
Fly on the Wall
I want to write a novelette about a mass hostile hostage situation from the literal perspective of a small child.
PeeCee
We are now entering the tradition of hanging out with our laptops out. For hours of the day. In semi-concentration with friends. Whereas the American family used to be represented sitting in front of the tube, the family is now dominated by the personal computer. Can't wait until that's represented in cartoons. Like South Park..., or Robot Chicken.
17 July 2009
16 July 2009
attack of the panic
And today, a man was able to articulate Me better than I can most times. That just boils my blood.
15 July 2009
Formula for Life: X=Change
Being doubly (triply? quadruply? immense weight of infinity?) self-aware of who I am - becoming - this summer, I reread an old note by a friend [I posted his note below]. I agree with its contents, in much fewer words and less technical diction, but I'm questioning the slowing/speed/rate of Change as determined by Awareness. As dictated by his hypothetical equation, Change is ever consistent, and variables such as "Emotion" and "Age" contribute its rate. And to clarify, "Experience" is the factor which brings on the self-awareness, the reflection on change. I do disagree that the self-awareness is brought on by perspective, because by learning and experience, perspective is ever-changing, and more often than not, minutely; it seems only logical that perception and perspective is consistent at the rate of change, despite any acknowledgment of thus. I also want to know what makes up "Experience" and where it should lies in the equation - it's obviously made up of the above, "Age," but we can take on many experiences that don't affect us as heavily, quaintly, devastatingly ("Emotion" quantitative), as others. I suppose that's where the complexities of the equation come in, and because we can't fill in such an equation, which would eventually equate to The Human Experience a.k.a. Life, then I can only reflect on why I am more receptive to various life events than others, and why I feel much more strongly - sensitively, as some would say - than others seemingly are.
The best example: human connection is very important to me. I attract those who feel wildly-intensely-sensitively, and those who are susceptible to my intricate emotions are attracted to me, which can be as much trouble as it is beautiful. Recently, I've come across a friend of a friend who doesn't express his emotions very often, and when he does try to talk about how/where he is, he cannot combine the words to do so. I don't think it's because he lacks eloquence. I think he lacks the ability to form his experiences into words. His eloquence lies in another medium. Then again, because I can't reach his well of thought, I cannot completely pick up Who he is. I don't doubt that without our circumstance, that we would be any better friends than acquaintances for my want of above human connection. We speak in different languages: as a man, he speaks in the language of information, facts, knowledge. I talk about internal plagues. Completely separate tongues separated by gender. However, because of the forced situation, in the vicinity of our unusual friendship, I've developed a fascination for the Thoughts that lay hidden, that whenever he says, "I don't know," when I read aloud his horoscope, when he tells me that he cannot put how he feels about philosophy, religion, and the Self into words. I guess I would be able to make it into a small goal to foster an ability out of this friend into verbal expression. But I feel like if he innately uses the expression elsewhere - into work, focused self-discovery - then my efforts would be useless.
In any case, I find that my best human connections are usually brought about by my own injections of expression. And ultimately, if I can appreciate all expressions of change, I am already content with most people.
Now, are all like this? Those who can express are artists - seeing change - and being able to place it externally into words, forms, images, art? And there are those who express change, seeing the larger picture, into global companies, medicine, communities - through actual change, work? And how do you calculate that expression of change, of life - not by paychecks - Donald Trump makes more in a month than I will for a fraction of my adult life. And here, the equation has changed. We're searching for an affection of change on others, as opposed to how we, as individuals, take in change. Producing versus consuming.
So returning to my original examination of the change equation: if you lack the means of expression, and do not necessarily possess the capability to self-reflect and assume awareness of change, thereby continue without noticing the rate of change, (without significant events occurring), does that mean the equation have a slower rate of change (with variable Perception, since Change is constant)? And those with seemingly life-altering occurrences every so often - like me - have a higher number. This is without the calculation of Experience, considering that those with very little life experience can still feel intricately (returning to Emotion).
Then again, just the idea that would put something so infinitely vast in variables as uncontrollable as Life is a foolish idea.
She looks at him... she looks at him... she looks at him.
I can't blow raspberries at myself, except through a reflection. But the reflection is false. See? I am the epitome of useless Asian logic.
The best example: human connection is very important to me. I attract those who feel wildly-intensely-sensitively, and those who are susceptible to my intricate emotions are attracted to me, which can be as much trouble as it is beautiful. Recently, I've come across a friend of a friend who doesn't express his emotions very often, and when he does try to talk about how/where he is, he cannot combine the words to do so. I don't think it's because he lacks eloquence. I think he lacks the ability to form his experiences into words. His eloquence lies in another medium. Then again, because I can't reach his well of thought, I cannot completely pick up Who he is. I don't doubt that without our circumstance, that we would be any better friends than acquaintances for my want of above human connection. We speak in different languages: as a man, he speaks in the language of information, facts, knowledge. I talk about internal plagues. Completely separate tongues separated by gender. However, because of the forced situation, in the vicinity of our unusual friendship, I've developed a fascination for the Thoughts that lay hidden, that whenever he says, "I don't know," when I read aloud his horoscope, when he tells me that he cannot put how he feels about philosophy, religion, and the Self into words. I guess I would be able to make it into a small goal to foster an ability out of this friend into verbal expression. But I feel like if he innately uses the expression elsewhere - into work, focused self-discovery - then my efforts would be useless.
In any case, I find that my best human connections are usually brought about by my own injections of expression. And ultimately, if I can appreciate all expressions of change, I am already content with most people.
Now, are all like this? Those who can express are artists - seeing change - and being able to place it externally into words, forms, images, art? And there are those who express change, seeing the larger picture, into global companies, medicine, communities - through actual change, work? And how do you calculate that expression of change, of life - not by paychecks - Donald Trump makes more in a month than I will for a fraction of my adult life. And here, the equation has changed. We're searching for an affection of change on others, as opposed to how we, as individuals, take in change. Producing versus consuming.
So returning to my original examination of the change equation: if you lack the means of expression, and do not necessarily possess the capability to self-reflect and assume awareness of change, thereby continue without noticing the rate of change, (without significant events occurring), does that mean the equation have a slower rate of change (with variable Perception, since Change is constant)? And those with seemingly life-altering occurrences every so often - like me - have a higher number. This is without the calculation of Experience, considering that those with very little life experience can still feel intricately (returning to Emotion).
Then again, just the idea that would put something so infinitely vast in variables as uncontrollable as Life is a foolish idea.
She looks at him... she looks at him... she looks at him.
I can't blow raspberries at myself, except through a reflection. But the reflection is false. See? I am the epitome of useless Asian logic.
written 21 January 2009
We over analyze, we sympathize. We lose ourselves when we look into a woman’s eyes and see those dots. Those, dots that sparkle, sparkle and shine. You know those spots that I’m talking about. I’m talking about those small, shiny, sparkling little dots that reside in and or around the center of her eye. A little sun ray, peeking over to start a new day and say , hey, senorita, how would you like to go out for a cup of coffee, or to a movie, or to just say fuck me now and fuck me hard. Well those little dots, as I have been calling them, well those dots they just spread the wings and wrap themselves around the cornea and set erotic stimulation throughout my entire body, I’m talking about sensations I’ve never seen before, I’m talking bout seashell sounds combined with the feeling of Jello in your toes. Macaroni and Cheese jam. I’m talking about flying up in space in a Jacuzzi with three Japanese girls and guy named Bob. But, once they do let go of my cornea, and my sensations return to their somewhat logical selves, I have to stop and take a moment to realize what just happened. And in that moment I miss your gaze, and you just gracefully slip on by. Out of my life.
The next thought to run through my head, after all the dead brain cells that had collapsed due to your presence do come back to life, my next thought is how I have forever changed. I was a way a minute ago and now I am different. That moment changed my life. But how much? Is this a relevant change? If this didn’t happen, then how different would my life really be? What outlooks, what perspectives, what emotions have been altered permanently? And how big of a change was it? Can I have bigger? Can I have less? I want to measure change. I want an equation, a formula, that I can put numbers into taken from a graph with a clear and direct key, and I can get a percentage, and amount of change that had occurred. God damnit I want to know if I’ve been productive.
So how do you create this formula. Well, a formula, like all formulas, has variables. X=change. But there’s degrees. What degrees? What shapes it. Emotion. E = emotion. XE. What else? Age. A=age. XEA, but is it really times age. But then again is it really times emotion? What if it was a negative emotion, would you times a negative number? Divide? What about background and personality. And what changes? Emotion, outlook, knowledge?
But then you ask the good question. It was really your first question but you dismissed it because it wasn’t relevant. It could be added in later. But it is actually the best question to ask. How many times a day to we change?
I asked a friend how many times a day, on average, does she experience an average change; not a life altering change, but one to notice. After deliberation she forced the answer 1 or 2 times a day, but was quick to defend that each day is different and that she doesn’t always think about it because she is busy. It was an unfair question.
The truth is we change infinite times day. We are in a constant stage of change. Location, position, mind set, amount of hair follicles, the list goes on. Each word you read equals a change in your perception, granted a small if not miniscule change. Changes are the subtleness of life. In fact I present to you:
If we constantly change during life,
And we are constantly alive during life
Then being alive=changing.
This sounds flawed, but if you replace change with anything else we constantly do while having life it will work (i.e breathing, feeling, etc.) So Change essentially equals life. It is impossible to live and not to change. And because we are constantly changing we change so much that it is essentially unmeasurable. Therefore change cannot be determined by formula, change is a constant. Delta. People much smarter than me have already figured that out.
But if this is true, then why do feel change, especially after an important moment. Well most of the time we feel change because we look back. It’s a reflection. Just as when you walk you may not realize how far up the hill you are until you look down. But how can we say we are so much different now than we were a second ago?
I’d like to argue that we can’t. Change is a constant. The moments where we think we have changed the most, we actually have just changed the same amount as we always do. One thing that changed during that change was perception. Because it was a ground breaking event, our system got shocked. And that split second forced us to reanalyze ourselves , and figure out what we know and what is different. How often do we do that? Its only in the moments that we need to, that we consider quick changes. If I stopped life for a minute and reevaluated things after every breath, I would notice a lot of changes. And every time they would be different and set off infinite other changes, and if I was diligent and persevering and considered all of those changes and so on, I would blow my mind out more than a “life altering event.” Meaning an average second change can be more significant than a seemingly life altering one. In fact, what we are really talking about when we talk about change, we are talking about the realization that something is different, that we have grown or fallen from where we were before.
This is what scares people. Not change, but rather realizing they have. There seems to be a natural order in that there is an order and not chaos. Chaos by definition is hard to comprehend. But order makes sense. So we delude ourselves into constants. We set routines, we have favorites, we have structure. While we all know these are susceptible to change, we like to think they will last as long as we want them to. If a constant is broken when we aren’t ready or not willing to accept, such as the death of a loved one, we have to reevaluate what “constants” we still have. That is what’s scary. It is an acceptance of lack of control, lack of knowledge, lack of awareness. We feel helpless and insecure. But wait a minute:
If change equals life
And life ends into death
Then death ends change.
But we do keep on changing after we die. Whether you believe in an afterlife or if that your body just rots in the ground, something is changing constantly. Change is a constant like time is a constant. It extends to infinity. What death ends is the moment of reflection. Which is true unless you have absolutely no doubt that there is an afterlife, which personally I find hard to believe. Maybe it’s just because I’m Jewish, but I find it hard to believe there is never even an ounce of doubt. Once we die, we can never realize change.
Which is why I am afraid of death. It is my biggest fear, and no matter how hard I try I can’t seem to get any closer to passing it. But now at least I understand it. I live for reflection. It is my number 2 on my existential list. (If you want to know, ask and I’ll tell) I need to see that I’ve changed. There are certain things about me that I really don’t like. And the thought that I will never knowingly correct those things about me is my real fear. In order to be at peace with death, one has to love oneself. Its why so many suicidal people, can’t go through with attempts, because they don’t love themselves. Those that do end their lives, have a strong hope that things will be different. Peace. I on the other hand fear the worst, more of the same forever.
So when you walk on by me thank you not for that moment but the moment that follows. Thank you for making me think, to reevaluate where I stand. Thank you for making me feel alive.
11 July 2009
Control Yourself
I looked over at him and quickly looked away. It was difficult to hold his gaze. We were two bodies in space, and I was very aware of his physical presence in relation to mine.
We grabbed our respective weapons of choice from my closet. He set off to the bathroom with the shower, and I entered the adjoining bathroom. As I rubbed moisturizer on my skin, I thought how striking and odd it was to go on this, dare I say, "date," - the idea of getting ready in the same bedroom with a stranger. Not that he was a stranger. He was, two weeks ago when he unceremoniously agreed to crash on my couch until he could get back on his feet in California. We haggled over who would drive. As he watched, I frowned into the mirror at my figure for a prolonged amount of time, so he quickly gave up; because I won, he drove.
We took 19th past Geary, driving the road that would turn into the Golden Gate Bridge. He was self-conscious about what we should hear. We talked about cars and sound systems. I talked about future trips, as if they were certain. He played along. He parked, and before entering the club, he grabbed a bite to eat. I sat across the table from him, looking into his green eyes and asking questions - whatever came into my head, and was just so curious as to whether anything would flicker behind the undisturbed green when I waited for the answers. He noticed, and asked me questions in complementary conversation. Whenever he did, I gazed away and tried to affix my eyes on action at a distance. I watched a trio of overfed dirty boggarts cavorting on the sidewalk, but couldn't focus when I talked about my mother, my past.
The game continued until he finished his late night dinner. We briskly walked to the club. He paid for my cover, and I leaned over the bar to ask for our first round of drinks. The club looked scattered, and the DJ wasn't very good. So he bought our second round. And leaning against the bar, I flirted with a skinny bartender, and after tipping her fairly, got another round. With each round, he was only tasting his drink as I polished off mine. When he finished his third drink, he invited me outside, and we stood in the cold, smoking. He held me as I shivered; and when the man at the door joined us, he told the man that I was a fond conversation that would make him smile should I was sought out. I laughed, and the man agreed that my smile was worth the time. When we entered the club again, we danced. Uncertain, I let the alcohol and the nicotine feel its way through my body and there, connected to the music. That was when he held me close, and we danced, our bodies adjoining. I'd whisper in his ear and my lips, on more than one occassion, brushed his face. My breathing came heavy and he peered down at me, always focusing on me - was he curious, was he interested? When the music came to a stop, we stumbled out again, and smoked some more, his arms around me. The fever and the fire drifted into the cold that pushed us together.
We got into the car, and then I stopped feeling again. He played some of the music that I responded to in the club. As we rounded the slopes of Twin Peaks, I looked back to the city. It's covered in fog. No, he said. We're covered.
We grabbed our respective weapons of choice from my closet. He set off to the bathroom with the shower, and I entered the adjoining bathroom. As I rubbed moisturizer on my skin, I thought how striking and odd it was to go on this, dare I say, "date," - the idea of getting ready in the same bedroom with a stranger. Not that he was a stranger. He was, two weeks ago when he unceremoniously agreed to crash on my couch until he could get back on his feet in California. We haggled over who would drive. As he watched, I frowned into the mirror at my figure for a prolonged amount of time, so he quickly gave up; because I won, he drove.
We took 19th past Geary, driving the road that would turn into the Golden Gate Bridge. He was self-conscious about what we should hear. We talked about cars and sound systems. I talked about future trips, as if they were certain. He played along. He parked, and before entering the club, he grabbed a bite to eat. I sat across the table from him, looking into his green eyes and asking questions - whatever came into my head, and was just so curious as to whether anything would flicker behind the undisturbed green when I waited for the answers. He noticed, and asked me questions in complementary conversation. Whenever he did, I gazed away and tried to affix my eyes on action at a distance. I watched a trio of overfed dirty boggarts cavorting on the sidewalk, but couldn't focus when I talked about my mother, my past.
The game continued until he finished his late night dinner. We briskly walked to the club. He paid for my cover, and I leaned over the bar to ask for our first round of drinks. The club looked scattered, and the DJ wasn't very good. So he bought our second round. And leaning against the bar, I flirted with a skinny bartender, and after tipping her fairly, got another round. With each round, he was only tasting his drink as I polished off mine. When he finished his third drink, he invited me outside, and we stood in the cold, smoking. He held me as I shivered; and when the man at the door joined us, he told the man that I was a fond conversation that would make him smile should I was sought out. I laughed, and the man agreed that my smile was worth the time. When we entered the club again, we danced. Uncertain, I let the alcohol and the nicotine feel its way through my body and there, connected to the music. That was when he held me close, and we danced, our bodies adjoining. I'd whisper in his ear and my lips, on more than one occassion, brushed his face. My breathing came heavy and he peered down at me, always focusing on me - was he curious, was he interested? When the music came to a stop, we stumbled out again, and smoked some more, his arms around me. The fever and the fire drifted into the cold that pushed us together.
We got into the car, and then I stopped feeling again. He played some of the music that I responded to in the club. As we rounded the slopes of Twin Peaks, I looked back to the city. It's covered in fog. No, he said. We're covered.
10 July 2009
elusive creature
The subconscious is most revealing the searing realization of dream states the skin wants and that rotting organ that squeezes her chest yearns-misses-loves wilting trees within the core allowing the reliving of the time of the brier roses where she was very beautiful the Redivivus places her state of plain reality into a Melancholy for the garden of Red the moment he dug up the soil and she planted the seeds of youth and growth and most wretchedly love they watered it and watched it rise bud bloom... however now she is the only caretaker of this garden and the briers have grown thorns that pierce holes into her body and she aches and bleeds and continues lifting her eyes to the distance for the pending rose gardener from the Spirit or that of No Return.
She sat in coffee shops, not thinking of you.
She sat in coffee shops, not thinking of you.
09 July 2009
Mac 'n Cheese
Home is a hilltop from afar. Home is a sense of loss, a period of absence. Home is comfort, a kind that I no longer have, and so places me in search to obtain or develop again. Home is nostalgia, a concept of missing something that is no longer there. In all manners of categorizing, Home is a collection of memories, either great in actuality or deluded to be great. Home is establishment, familiarity, a strong pull of belonging. Complete security. Perhaps Home once existed for me, because I am still in transit to find it again. Perhaps Home is being at peace with oneself, and you can carry Home on your back as you become enlightened, no matter where you live or who you love. Finding that Home has never been with family, or places that you've lived, I think that maybe Home is in childhood, and if it is, should I figure whether we can reach childhood again in order to feel Home? I dislike the idea that "Home is where the heart is," because I'm whimsical, and the lofty-minded shouldn't be punished. I fear that this is another form of Nervous Conditions, that the displacement of emotions, geography, loved ones, is, in truth, a further displacement from one's sense of Home. And I would think that a lot of young people like me, unstable and in longing, are establishing small mounds of Home as I am. So they journey, and depending on their attachments and maturity, find Home in one form or another in wisdom and age. In a realm of reality, not feeling [at] home is a falsity, a loosening in the spirit. Home is just an ideal; I'm just incapable of stabilizing a sense of Home for myself.
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but...if desire is the standard than one man's desire to produce and another man's desire to rob him have equal ethical validity.
Human good does not require human sacrifices-the rational interests of men do not clash. value for value. Trade. The only rational, ethical principle for all human relationships.