sighs.

Hostages were taken at Hillary Clinton's campaign office in New Hampshire. I say that in the passive voice because the police currently aren't announcing who has done it.

Breaking news from The New York Times here.

It's one of the most absurd things I've heard in a while. I suppose it's too soon to tell. But I don't think it's too soon to speculate that when political campaigns foster physical violence, we are looking a little more toward totalitarian rule than representative democracy. I'm disgusted. It's probably some sociopath who will feel little remorse for his/her own actions.

the choice.

The intellect of man is forced to choose
Perfection of the life, or of the work
And if it take the second must refuse
A heavenly mansion, raging in the dark.
When all that story's finished, what's the news?
In luck or out the toil has left its mark:
That old perplexity an empty purse,
Or the day's vanity, the night's remorse.

W.B. Yeats

oh and p.s.

Sometimes at work, I really do feel like I am starring in The Devil Wears Prada. I just want to know how Anne Hathaway was able to afford all those clothes when she didn't get paid shit.

brushstrokes.

I stood silently, staring at this portrait of the Earl of Rochester at the National Portrait Gallery. I looked in the black eyes and thought of his words:

Naked she lay, clasped in my longing arms,
I filled with love, and she all over charms;
Both equally inspired with eager fire,
Melting through kindness, flaming in desire.

I thought of living in the 18th century, so far away. I suppose I can see the charm in those eyes, the charm that led him to the contraction of syphilis and his death at the age of 36. I was thinking that if he said those words to me, I'd cave right in. After reading his satires, I couldn't help but think of Rochester as the ultimate bad boy. I would have liked him in high school, always pulling some sort of witty remark on our teachers. They wouldn't be able to say anything because he'd just be too cute.

I was three feet away from the portrait and slowly stepping closer to it. It hung about 8 feet up on the wall, so I had to crane my neck to look up at it and examine the line of his lips. Those lips that would have spoken those words. They're almost feminine in a way, which I suppose gives him that cavalier Leonardo DiCaprio charm.

I'm not sure where the memory of that afternoon came from. But I know that I felt a certain connection with that portrait that resonated with me. I guess it solidifies just how much of a nerd I really am: I have a poetic crush on John Wilmot, the 2nd Earl of Rochester.

cayenne pepper.

Just got back to Los Angeles and I already can't wait to be home again in 3 weeks. In the meantime, I have tons of things to study and write, lots to think about, and a short story I have to somehow magically come up with. Basically, I can't wait for Winter Break when I can stop worrying. Also, I haven't read a newspaper all day and I feel so out of touch. So so so out of touch.

view from an open window.

I am currently sitting in my office at my internship. My boss has left to have a meeting with Sony about selling the film rights to one book or another. Before she left, she let me know that she may not be back before I leave, and she wished me a wonderful holiday weekend. Then she offered me whatever books I wanted to give to my parents as holiday gifts. I looked around on the bookshelf.

"I bet my mom would want to read the O.J. book... Just to see what it's like," I said.

Then she turned to me and said, "You really think she'd want to read that?"

I couldn't help but laugh. My boss has this book sitting on her shelf of accomplishments and yet she stares at me in disbelief when I show an interest in the most controversial one sitting there. It's a shame - a hilarious and twisted shame - when the people selling the books don't even believe they're worth the time it takes to read them.

nostalgic mess.

The other day, I was sitting in class when all the sudden, I remembered a moment, a snippet of London.

We were walking through the empty streets - it was 2 am. Through a grassy square and down the snaking streets surrounding Kings Cross. I hugged Sammy good-bye and we parted ways. It was just me, Zach, and Emma's boyfriend. On the way home, we passed the British Library and a hospital of sorts and made several wrong turns. We passed a broken bicycle and a soggy couch, left to rot in a dark alleyway. I suggested we just sleep there that night, since it didn't look like we'd ever make it home. I was a little tipsy off of a few shots of vodka and the London nighttime. I thought of Sammy and I rushing down the streets near Hyde Park, ducking under parking lot structures and cafe terraces to avoid the falling rain. She wanted to walk all the way home to Holborn. I told her she was crazy, and as the rain soaked our clothes, she finally gave up. All that time, I never thought of how I might never see those places again. I never thought that after I found my way home, I may never get lost again. That didn't seem to be such a pity at the time.

I crossed my arms for comfort. It was about 60 degrees out and the ground was wet from the week's rain and the smog. We talked about Shakespeare and we spread rumors. We passed infamous drugstores and billboards advertising musicals I would never see, would never want to see. A man on a bicycle slowed down to ask us a question, "Do you know how to get to Oxford Street?" We hesitated. Then we put together an answer and sent him on his way. I think he was drunk because his bike swayed a bit as he took off. I mentioned Fabric. Of course, I did.

Finally, we found a familiar street. Holborn. We were almost there. Just a few more blocks. Zach and I walked through a construction site. Emma's boyfriend walked around it. He made it there before us, but what was the rush, anyway? I had two more nights in London, just two more nights to fill my head with memories of a place I now think of all the time, I place I can't afford to return to for years, a place that my family, that my blood, calls home.

five roads.

Today, Brett pointed out to me that I kept contradicting myself. I hate ordering people around. I love ordering people around. I hate law school. I love law school. I know what I'm doing. I have absolutely no idea.

And a few days ago, one of my columnists e-mailed me and told me that my dreams couldn't fall apart unless I let them. I wanted so badly to believe that was true. But something tells me that it isn't my dreams that are falling apart, it is my values and hopes and the very foundations that created those dreams.

As they fall apart, I pull back and forth, between two extremes. I want success, but I forget what I want to define that success by. The number of books published? The number of zeros in my paycheck? The number of hours I have to spend with the people I love? The number of designer shoes in my closet? The number of smiles I give to others? So many questions that I will never have the answer to until I step out into the world and open my eyes. The only problem is that my publishing life will only begin in New York City, my law life would begin God knows where, and any other path I choose will lead me a million other, divergent, contradicting ways.

So I think of what I value the most and I shift back and forth between love, happiness, personal satisfaction, and intellectual/professional growth. Which leaves me with a million ways to go.

I want someone to tell me what to do. But I also know that there are some things a woman has to decide on her own.

coffee rings on the countertop.

My parents came to visit me this weekend. It is very rare that they both drive from San Francisco to Los Angeles at the same time. For one, my mom rarely gets time off of work during the school year since she is a teacher. Also, she hates making that long drive.

But this time they didn't drive. My dad rode down on his Harley and picked me up one night and we went out for sushi. He fastened my helmet on and we drove off down Landfair on his motorcycle. When he left that night, I felt sort of empty, like there was something missing from my day-to-day life that I had never even noticed until he stepped back into it. He disappeared for a few days to go to a motorcycle festival. When he came back, he picked up my mom from the airport and I picked them up from the UCLA Guest House and we went out for sandwiches.

The whole time we were there, my parents wouldn't stop talking about the motorcycle races and the cold wind as they ran down the highway. I drove them to Pinkberry and we all shared green tea frozen yogurt in the hotel lobby. My mom picked up the newspaper and did a crossword, every so often lifting her head to ask, "Who was the ghost that Macbeth saw?" and "Who composed 'Moon River'?" My dad, likewise, lifted up the newspaper and drifted into the business section.

My parents are like best friends. They do things together that I don't know if I would ever be able to do. I can't believe how much my mom has grown to love motorcycles or how much my dad has grown to adore cats. Seeing them together fills me with a sense of calm and peace, like everything will be all right... If I can just find this. If I can just understand, deeply, how my parents work so evenly together and how they have been - though not flawless - the most human and the most lovable people I will ever know.

that's not what i heard.

Wouldn't life be so much better if you could press the off button on certain people without hurting their feelings and without risking ruining a friendship?

The only issue is that no off button exists. And men are completely dictated by their hormones, so no friendship with them is every truly pure, I feel. We may kid ourselves, but it's true.

I think, however much this sucks, it does prove that we women are of a higher order. We may not be able to bond over "hot chicks" (conventional aesthetics are so passe, even just for carnal uses) and beer, but... Wait, there is no but there. We don't bond over those shallow and unfulfilling means. I don't even need to say, then, that this very fact says something deeply depressing about the gender role of the man in modern America (and, sadly, I know many men who fit into this stereotype). This very fact underlines how unfulfilling the real world will be for so many who live from one sexual fantasy to the next. It's quite sad, really.

Does anyone want to refute my theory? Please do. I will need a resume, though. Please include contact info.

curtains.

More than anything else in the world, I want to study at Cork University. Unfortunately, they only offer year-long programs. Galway, too. You have to go to Trinity College if you want to go for fall semester. But I wasn't that impressed with Dublin and I really just want to run away to somewhere that feels more medieval. And also somewhere that is close to Killarney.

But enough with the Ireland talk.

I think I am trying to fill some hole in my life by running away from everything I know. But that will only make the past come back to annoy me at a later date.

circles.

Lately I've been feeling like my future is going to suffocate me. I keep thinking of how I will have to move to New York to get a job, or at the very least, back to San Francisco. Even though most of my friends are here now. And I also keep thinking of how no matter what I go into, it will be a fight to the top. I'm not so sure I'm ready to spend half of my life clawing my way from assistant to associate to executive. Once I get there, then what? I enjoy it? No, I sit and I hold on for dear life, hoping to keep my job. I don't want that life. But what other life is there? There is so much that I do not know, but there is so little time to learn it. I wish I was an entrepreneur. I wish my daddy gave me a trust fund. Then I would put all of my money into real estate and forget about my future for a while. Instead, I'm on my own over here. I'm just not ready to face any of this.

In addition, lately I've been feeling like my days are so forgetable. I miss last year so so so much. Now, both of my jobs are just a way to pass the time. I never feel like going out anymore, but I want to so terribly. I just want to forget about everything and live last year over again, when I was free and all of my friends at work made my days so much easier. Now all I have is one more day to not look forward to. So melodramatic.

I know I'm just going through a phase. I guess it's just part of your twenties. But I'm tired of thinking about this and I'm too tired not to.

thanks, guys.

Note to self:


"Oh, The Ivy. Insane gimlets. Unobstructed views of the back of Nick Nolte’s head. And waiters who don’t blink when asked if brown bread crusts and sundae drippings can be taken to go.
Now there’s Dolce Isola, The Ivy’s new bakery and retail space, where you can nab the icon’s tasty extras — and new offerings, too.
Mornings mean fresh baguettes, sourdough, country loaves, and the famous scones. Savory pizzettas and rolls make for a quick lunch; sandwiches (Caprese, meatball, prosciutto with ricotta, Italian-style tuna) are made to order.
Grab a jar of jam, fudge, or butterscotch to go with the house-churned gelatos (praline, chocolate brownie) and sorbettos (mango, lemon) on your way out.
Guess whoever said you can’t take it with you was very, very wrong.
Dolce Isola, 2869 South Robertson Boulevard, between Cattaraugus Avenue and Hargis Street, Culver City (310-776-7070)."

Stolen rom Daily Candy LA

old english.

a typical los angeles saturday afternoon, smog and all.

the weekends go by far too quickly.

a random conglomeration of images that convey my thoughts.

presidio.

This article makes me want to go home to San Francisco so terribly. It's probably freezing there right now though and foggy as hell, so I guess I wouldn't mind postponing that homecoming until Thanksgiving. Or spring.

candy of the day.

EAT
Mode Restaurant
What: A new fashiony French bistro opens — and stays open around the clock.
Why: Brioche French toast and steak frites on the catwalk.
When: Daily, 24 hours.
Where: 916 S. Olive St., b/t W. Ninth St. & W. Olympic Blvd., Downtown (213-627-4888).

Let's go.

softly strumming, strumming my heartstrings.

Today at work, my boss made me run all kinds of errands that did not teach me anything about the publishing industry. I did, however, learn that full color business cards take at least 4 business days to make.

Mostly, I've been doing my own learning. I now read Publisher's Weekly weekly and I also am getting to know all of the main publishing houses and their individual imprints. I'm a big enough nerd that I've begun to create a spreadsheet of what they do and what they publish.

Someday, maybe someday, I'll be on someone's contact list.

On the other side of my life, I hate all of my classes. Except, interestingly, for my psych class. But the English class I'm taking right now is wholly uninspiring. I'm studying the mystery genre (Agatha Christie and the like) and it's just about as far from literarily stimulating as can be. I have a midterm in that class tomorrow, but I couldn't care less. I'll pull some Sherlock Holmes shit and deduce the answers from my own ingenuity. Or something like that.