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.

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.

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

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.

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:

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."

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.

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

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.

Fly on the Wall

I want to write a novelette about a mass hostile hostage situation from the literal perspective of a small child.

Vibrate: Off/On

With cell phones, there are no confirmations. It is, or it isn't.

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.

dictionary word of the "day"

Do we notice the leitmotif in Bird Gehrl?

attack of the panic

And today, a man was able to articulate Me better than I can most times. That just boils my blood.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

MJ Memorial

The modern disease: nostalgia.

Fundamentally Reluctant

Mohsin Hamid: [paraphrase] My form is a dramatic monologue. My speaker is an actor on the stage. When I write a female character, I'm dressed in drag. As a writer, I act. I write the play that is the universe in my mind.

White People Smell like Baloney

Melancholy is an easy friend.

Chris and Rafiki

What's fat and sassy?

Busy beavers.

Grillin' on You

Corndogs happened when Jesus went to a carnival for the first time.

Hot dogs are just too messy.

12th

I am descended from the line of Bill Peter's assistant directors such as the likes of Mikka Bonel (Arcadia) and John Caldon (Karamazov).

I have big shoes to fill.

The End was Built Into the Beginning

Today I got attacked by a horde of zombies. They stared me down, groped me, and finally disintegrated my body into their decaying shells. And when they left, still hungry, I was but a husk in the sand.