just today.

I'm pretty sure that I understand why a lot of people I knew in Burlingame did drugs and drank alcohol constantly.

a guided journey.

My dad bought me a copy of a book that takes you on a literary tour of San Francisco. It is illustrated by this mesmerizing artist from the San Francisco Chronicle, named Paul Madonna. This, coupled with a recent midnight trip up and down Telegraph Hill with one of my favorite people on earth only reminds me of what I am missing out on in Los Angeles.

I remember trying to decide which college to go to, weighing my options, heavily weighing their locations. I know that I chose L.A. to run far away from everything I knew (sadly, my money wouldn't take me to the other side of the country). I think that this decision has had two effects. Actually, more like one effect that can be looked at in two divergent ways.

Being in L.A. after living in San Francisco is like visiting Queens after spending the afternoon in the upper east side. You see a completely different side of life, one that maybe you weren't even aware existed in such a short distance. It opens up new ideas, new inspirations, new perspectives. But watching the other doors close behind you is so painful that I feel like I want to defer my education and move back to the City.

Of course L.A. is interesting. It's just that San Francisco really gets me, you know? He always laughs at my jokes and makes me feel beautiful. Plus, he has a lot of connections and I feel like my future, really, is with him.

So, yes, one tiny little book made me realize this. It's stupid. I know. But what is even stupider is realizing that a city - one tiny little location - can make you feel so comfortable or so alienated that all you want to do is give up.

night goes dark.

I blame the lack of updates on the wonder that is winter break. It's my third so far in college, and it has been by far the best. There are, of course, some things which are obviously missing. But any night filled with Trivial Pursuit and/or pho is okay by me.

I have also spent much of this break thinking about my relationships with my friends and how I really don't think I could ever just throw all of this away and move across the country. There is so much for me here. I feel so loved and appreciated and understood all the time. And I'm realizing that, however much I love my friends at school, they don't know me like my friends here know me. That isn't their fault. It's just a simple logistical problem-- they didn't watch me grow up and see me become who I am to become.

Halfway through Portrait of the Artist and have now come to terms with the fact that my writing means nothing. No matter how many times I edit the dialogue or mess with the metaphors, it will never be up to par with anything that has made a difference in anyone's life. So what the hell is the point really?

Anyway, this is all just a lot of useless middle of the night Christmas rumination. It's stupid how much I have on my mind considering I am supposed to be on vacation, but I would really rather not burden anyone else with my endless checklists and life theories.

hold on.

So I really want to get into more contemporary books. I've spent the last six years indulging myself in Joyce, Baldwin, and Wilde in my free time. I think it is about time I got in touch with the modern literary world (no, I'm not implying I read more Faulkner). I mean, books written in the last 5 or so years.

Does anyone know an AMAZING website that has a list of REALLY good contemporary books? Or do you have a magazine or news source (for example, The New Yorker, Nylon, Publisher's Weekly) who you really trust when looking for books? Basically, my requirements are that they be: 1) nuanced, 2) full of literary devices used seamlessly, so I barely even notice they're there and have to think about them for a really long time, 3) have a good mix of witty memoirs, funny novels, dramatic novels, no mystery or detective fiction, depictions of city life, and possibly even some really great non-fiction works.

Or maybe you know of some books that you would suggest?

Because right now, the most recent book that I have read was Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close and I LOVED that novel. But it has been far too long. I've heard I should read Dave Eggers, but he's a little too self-aware for my taste. I also enjoy David Sedaris. And I am really looking forward to the day when I have enough cash to pick up that French guy's book (Bayard, is it?) on how to talk about books you've never read.

So that's where I am right now.

Also, if anyone knows of any contemporary poets I should read, I'd appreciate those ideas as well.

And finally, I just found out that JANE magazine went under. My life is seriously over.

and now for a poem i only sort of understand.

"...that also was an era (Mr. W. Rummel)
an era of croissants
then an era of pains au lait
and the eucalyptus bobble is missing
"Come pan, niño!"
that was an era also, and Spanish bread
was made out of grain in that era
senesco
sed amo
Madri', Sevilla, Córdoba,
there was grain equally in the bread of that era
senesco sed amo
Gervais must have put milk in his cheese
(and the mortal fatigue of action postponed)
and Las Meniñas hung in a room by themselves
and Philip horsed and not horsed and the dwarfs
and Don Juan of Austria
Bred, the Virgin, Los Boracchios
are they all now in the Prado?..."

-Ezra Pound, Canto LXXX

Now I go work off the stress of finals with romantic comedies.

forms and shapes and everything in between.

"Don't forget the poem on page 112. It reminds me of you."

somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience,your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look will easily unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfilly,mysteriously)her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully ,suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;
nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility:whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what is is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands

-yes, another e e cummings, this one loved all the more because of its placement in a woody allen film.

I originally wanted to offer this poem and dissect it. But then I thought better of it. Mostly because I realize that I am such a dorky English major. But also because I don't think explicating the words here will actually end up expressing anything. That's so meta.

A mess of the senses, complete irrationality. A mess of punctuation and spelling, grammar and images, complete abandon for the clearly defined, the expected. Nothing is as anything ever said it would be. And while I might vacillate between two extremes, he opens me. He closes me. Those days of misunderstanding, of living up to some third party's expectations, are over. Just feel. Enclose and unclose. Just.

Words mean nothing. A frustration. Humans are so limited. I always have thought it funny that we assume we are highly evolved and that we are the end of evolution. But if you really look at us, our language, our communication, the main way that we are told we have to connect with others and create communities, is severely under-evolved. Not only that, but it is constantly devolving. Text messages and e-mails and the interjection of the word "like" into every valley girls' vocabulary. Or ask any Supreme Court justice or lawyer - the word is deceptive. It can mean multiple things, a mess of definitions. It can free a guilty man or persecute an innocent one.

So the law is not unlike love or friendship. We struggle against its futility, fight its limitations. But in the end our actions end up defining us. And the feelings that we get - those inexpressible waves of smiles and laughter and the uncontrollable tears - are the distillation of words. They are pure. Impossible to translate.

This is how he makes me feel. This is what he has made me realize. That is how I know that this means something. Because I could never explain what it means.

bisou bisou.

We are picking up John from the train station today. He's finally back from Mexico! I wonder how things will be when he gets here, if all of us will go back to the way things were before. It's strange because I feel like I see him all the time, that we still work together every day for hours on end. But I haven't spent time with him since June. I blame AOL instant messenger.

The exact opposite is true for Rebecca. I feel like the two days I spent with her in Lyon, France in September are a forever away. She has been gone so long and she has gone so far. I wish I could talk to her more. I feel like there is this space between us (and, quite literally, there is) that makes me feel like our friendship occurred in a past lifetime, far from anything I can relate to anymore. I feel like when she gets back, things won't be the way they were before. Not at first, anyway. But then I think they will be even better. So many different dynamics, hundreds of stories and snippets of the Alps and the French countryside.

But, while John is just a few hours away from me now, Rebecca is 9 months away. It is a strange feeling you get when two of your closest friends are in foreign countries, living without you for such a long time. You wonder "Have they replaced me?" Sometimes you feel like it is possible. But then you realize that you are only wondering this because - in the back of your mind - you wish that you had been as brave as they are.

brown paper, white paper.

Finals begin in an hour. Sorry for the neglect.

These last few days, I have developed an unhealthy and absolutely ridiculous and unrealistic crush (of sorts) on Bret McKenzie. Lots of qualifiers there. Mainly because I'm so embarrassed to admit it.

I am also unhealthily tired from studying and staying up late. Therefore, I have nothing interesting to say.

But I have decided I am going to start writing a column in the DB next quarter. Here we go.

Brown paper, white paper
Stick it together with tape
The tape of love
The sticky stuff.

People people
People people
People people
Pencil pencil
Pencil pencil
Paper paper
Put the pencil to the paper
Give the paper to the people
Let the people read about the sello tape
Oh baby baby
Yeah

grrrrs all around.

I can't think of anything eloquent to say because all I can think of is studying and writing and being a complete tool.

I just want to go back in time and lay in the grass outside of the Eiffel Tower at 2 am. Hungry, intoxicated, Paris sky falling down on me like a blanket.

God, I think of traveling all the time. I just want to escape somewhere. New York City. Boston. Jamaica. Cuba. Hong Kong. Anywhere but in my overheated apartment, trying to decide which is more important: political science essay or psychology review.

what a headache.

"For all but the highest up, salaries remain relatively low in [publishing]. People in the publishing industry were quick to note that contacts are crucial. Those who want to advance pursue new opportunities zealously, and any advantage one can gain over other candidates is key. Few described the profession as cutthroat, however; instead, many praised their associates and coworkers. Publishing is a financially tough life, but it’s ideal for those who are dedicated to books and who want to spend their days with like-minded people." -Princeton Review Career Guide

I want to fucking kill myself.

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.

samantha made sure.

I spend a lot of time thinking about what I want to be when I grow up. I also spend a lot of time thinking about the best version of myself and how I can possibly ever live up the expectations I make for myself. The me that I want to be doesn't have to drink coffee to look forward to her day. And she certainly doesn't spend 19 hours per day doing work that leaves her feeling hollow and looking forward to when she can actually fit Broadway Danny Rose into her schedule. Sammy made me promise her that I would take some time to myself by Wednesday at 6pm. But then I started to plan my Wednesday and found that there was no room for that. It's a literal impossibility. So for now, I will bask in the fact that I am giving myself five short minutes to contemplate who I am and what I want out of my life.

The other day, I was talking to one of my roommates who told me that she was counting on marrying a rich man so she could have whatever job she wanted in life without having to worry about money. I started to think about that. I always just assumed that I would want to know - even if I didn't have to - that I could live on my own. Plus, marrying rich severely limits your options.

Now. Back to work. So I can learn a lot. So I can be get a job I love. So I can be amazing at it. So I am happy.

real talk.

"Next time you get horny, go out and fuck one of your funky ass friends."
-R. Kelly (my personal hero) in his new YouTube music video, "Real Talk"

greenview.

There is smoke hanging all over Los Angeles today. From the tips of tree branches to the red brick buildings, there's a white haze over everything. When I was walking back from class today across the plaza between Royce Hall and Powell Library, I looked up into the sun. Despite all of the Bill Nye the Science Guy warnings, I looked right into it. It burned such a violent red that it resembled an apple or a raspberry suspended from the sky - shrouded in white smoke. I took a photo of it, but it was so red that my dinky little camera phone couldn't even hope to capture it. So it didn't. Notice there is sunlight filtering down onto the buildings, but no sun in sight. The sun was sitting on top of that building's rooftop when I took this shot. It is 90 degrees outside (100 in my apartment) and the sun is red and Southern California is burning.

since feeling is first.

This poem basically embodies my perspective of what love is, not what I think it is, but how it actually resides in me. It's e e cummings and it's beautiful. I think the most beautiful thing about it is that it attempts to explain a love that it describes as indescribable. In the end, I do believe that it fails to capture love. But what it does do is capture that frustration of words, that confusion of verbs and nouns and adjectives, that perfect inexpressibility of actions. Also, the self-conscious use of punctuation- and syntax-related diction further ironizes this gap between the body and mind. For what the mind does not have the means to express, the body must punctuate. Sadly, sometimes, even to a writer, words are not enough.

since feeling is first
who pays any attention
to the syntax of things
will never wholly kiss you;
wholly to be a fool
while Spring is in the world

my blood approves,
and kisses are a better fate
than wisdom
lady i swear by all flowers. Don't cry
—the best gesture of my brain is less than
your eyelids' flutter which says

we are for each other: then
laugh, leaning back in my arms
for life's not a paragraph

And death i think is no parenthesis

beelzebub.

Does anyone else find it ironic that Harvard's new president - Harvard's first woman president - has the surname Faust? I certainly do. I feel like Christopher Marlowe is haunting me lately.

i have it all here in red blue green.

I was listening to the new Radiohead and overanalyzing the lyrics like I usually do to songs. The album seems to be digging up the darkness behind love songs. How typically Radiohead to find the light and blot it out in the most painfully beautiful way possible. The following analysis is the product of a 2am listening sesh. I am fairly incoherent right now. Please take that into consideration.

How come I end up where I started?
How come I end up where I went wrong?
Won't take my eyes off the ball again.
First you reel me out and then you cut the string.
You used to be alright
What happened? ...
-15 Step

She stands stark naked and she beckons you to bed.
Don't go. You'll only want to come back again.
So don't get any big ideas.
They're not gonna happen.
You'll go to hell for what your dirty mind is thinking.
And now that you found it, it's gone.
And now that you feel it, you don't.
-Nude

I only stick with you
Because there are no others.
- All I Need (debatably, this could be an ironic statement about soulmates)

But all that really matters is that the album ends with Videotape, in which Thom Yorke declares: "You are my centre when I spin away." He turns it all around, right when we think that idealism is done for. The truth is, I think all of the darkness that he hints at in relationships is there even when someone is your center; these songs are not contradictory but rather continue in the same vein of exploring the polarized dynamics of love. But when you look back at everything through a metaphorical videotape of memories, all of the hurt isn't what matters. It's what anchors you in love that matters, what keeps you with someone despite the arguments and all of the bullshit that one has to learn in order to function normally in a relationship these days. And the Faust references in the album play into this, selling your soul for knowledge only to find out that there is nothing to learn but how wrong you were.

Marlowe's devil states:
"Why this is hell, nor am I out of it.
Think'st thou that I, who saw the face of God,
And tasted the eternal joys of heaven,
Am not tormented with ten thousand hells
In being deprived of everlasting bliss?"

In the end, Thom Yorke decides that "No matter what happens now, I won't be afraid because I know today has been the most perfect day I've ever seen." Everlasting bliss. An avoidance of the hell that Mephistophales describes, the hell that "reach[es] up to grab" him. Perhaps in death alone or perhaps in taking comfort that you have someone to share your center after all the goodbyes have been said. Or maybe in just admitting that what is perfect is the unknown.

management.

I'm too tired to write anything except that I ended up having a really great birthday in the end, am severely unenthused in all of my classes and have stopped reading altogether for poli sci, and am very happy that Al Gore won the Nobel Peace Prize.

I'm in the kind of mood where all I want to do is either read a modernist novel or watch Woody Allen films, one after the other until I fall asleep. And I'd like to have a cup of iced chai next to me. And a kitty kitty to pet on. And flowers in vases.

make a wish. pick a cheek.

I think birthdays suck because they always fall just short of what you thought they might be. Not only that, but every year, I go through this week-long denial phase where I tell myself that I will never grow up. After all, how exciting is moving on to a job, a nice car, new things, new bills, new responsibilities, more stupid people to deal with? Who doesn't want to stay young forever? Cliches are cliches because they are universally accepted truths. I just want to go back to the English countryside and be. Where there are no expectations for my future and for what I am supposed to conquer on my way to university-driven success. But my own expectations for myself have somehow aligned over the years with what others want from me. So even if I could escape for a year or two, I would never be able to resist the temptation to fall into patterns of stress and self-evaluation.

The other night, I was lying in bed reading my bullshit political science reader, but I somehow lost myself in thought of bedside tables and chai tea lattes. The subject matter isn't really too important. But I can't stop thinking lately. And I know that as I usher in a new year of my life, the thinking will only demand more of my time. So I suppose that I will dedicate this year of my life to self-improvement because it's all I'm going to think about anyway. I will be more assertive, think of better questions to ask my professors, and make everyone think that I am much much older than I actually am. Twenty-one perhaps?

interns wanted.

I am so exhausted that any creativity left in me has been drained by the sheer amount of pages that I am forced to read in the next two days. Two days until my birthday.

I have compiled a list of all of the foods I'd like to try. While most of them necessitate being in the Bay Area in order to have their flavors well represented, I have decided to challenge other people to check these things off of their lists too.

Salvadoran: corn cakes, pupusas con loroco, pastel (a meat-stuffed corn dumpling)
Burmese: fish chowder noodle soup, tea salad.
Turkish: lahmacun (Turkish meat pizza), doner, kebabs
Vietnamese: vermicelli noodle and vegetable salad, Vietnamese sandwiches and spring rolls, pho
Malaysian: curried Singapore noodles with shredded chicken, martabak (pastry-like bread wrapped around spiced beef, egg, and green onion)
Russian: vareniki (stuffed dumplings), piroshki, blinchiki
Eritrean: lentil soup, injera (flatbread)
Korean: kim chee jee gae, oyster pancakes, cold noodle soup,

So that's basically all I have to say.

in gardens all misty wet with rain.

I just re-discovered Jeff Buckley's cover of Van Morrison's "Sweet Thing."

Ssshhhhh.

Sleep tonight with dreams as sweet as angels wings.
And all your dreams will bring you sweeter things-
Sweet, sweet, sweet things.

In a time when things were much more simple, I used to dream that he would whisper those words in my ear as I fell asleep. I was lying down, propping my sunburned legs on a pillow in a house on the southern tip of Spain when the thought first entered my mind. Now that I've let it drift and flow so far away, I can't believe how at home it makes me feel, like it's already happened and I'm looking back on a memory that I created myself. Maybe, just maybe, I'll let myself dream again.

kitty in the freezer.

I can't believe that Rebecca is in France and that she won't be coming back until next year. I always knew that I would miss her, but now that it's here, it's like I never really knew how hard it would be. There is so much here in my new apartment and on campus that reminds me of her and I just wish there was some way to make the time go a little faster. Aw, man. Never let your roommate study abroad. Hold onto her! Don't let her go!

School is the same. I have class from 11am until 8pm on Thursdays with no break. My internship with the woman who is publishing (If) I Did It starts on Monday. I am exhausted from a night filled with dream-nightmares about my car breaking down in the middle of 101 on my way to Encino because I can't take it into the mechanic until Wednesday. Yep, pretty boring.

Also, I know it's totally lame, but The Office made my week. Jim and Pam. Blah blah. While that show is g.d. amazing, I find it incredibly disconcerting that I am so emotionally invested in a fake relationship. It seriously made me feel so warm inside. What the hell is wrong with me? I ask myself this every day.

cheesy commercials.

Flags over beds and charming smiles. In dark corners, I find myself sheltered in non-blankets, sheltered by the sounds of early birds and nighttime crickets. The dark and the light dance and entangle their limbs until I can no longer point to where one begins and another falls to nothing. Sore necks sung to comfort with a soft lullaby. The starts and stops make me lose myself in something that was never my own. Eyelids shut and sleep grabs me by the shoulders. One hour. Two. I forget to count. And then I sit up, my head pounding with the unwelcome consciousness of a headache.

all over the place.

Tomorrow begins a new school year. I'm already sick from stress. Not that I know what mono feels like or consists of, but I think I have mono. Also, not that I've done anything to give me mono, but I still think I have it.

I feel like my world is falling apart at the same time as it is coming back together to the way it was.

Other than that general feeling, I haven't had much time to think about anything. I've just been... living. And it feels amazing. But then when I come back to the way that I really am, the introspection and the planning and the lists and the worrying, I realize I have a long way to go.

But whatever, maybe everything will change this year.

I am reading Woody Allen's The Insanity Defense and it's like watching a whole bunch of shorts and it's just lovely.

short story.

I received a car today. I'm 19 and I've never had my own car. I think it's about time. However, if at some point in the next few days I stop updating my blog for weeks at a time, you can assume that I've injured myself badly in a car accident on the 405 and cannot use my fingers to type.

periodic table of the elements.

My friends and I drove to Santa Cruz yesterday afternoon. Today, we took a hike to a well-hidden river and sat on the rocks until the sun ran away from us. The water was cold, but I appreciated it. I even drank some of it, which I've been warned countless times not to do. I navigated my way through the water upstream and found a rock a few steps away from the boys - they were naked, mind you - to think for awhile. Nature tends to have that effect on me.

So I looked down at the water, up at the sky, to the sand where the lizards skimmed left and right. I tried to think. My mind wandered over Los Angeles, San Francisco, Burlingame, the USC campus, the Humanities Building, Bar 903, Killarney National Park, Fabric, the BHS pool, Daly City. It refused to stay put. So I discovered nothing, realized nothing. Only that nothing in my life could ever have been mapped out and charted. So thinking about it won't do me any good. I've always remembered the things I've chosen with my body better than the things I've chosen with my mind anyway.

evaporation.

You touch me, I hear the sound of mandolins.
And you kiss me. With your kiss my life begins.

Who is that addressed to? I'm still trying to figure it out.

3 am. The birds have flown away and left only people stumbling through the concrete and metal. A group of women with bunny ears crowds through the center of the square, laughing and singing. They are led by a blond woman in a white veil. Yells and laughter and then silence. That voice beside me fades.
Time passes. A return. The voice is loud again, standing, leaning on a railing that is connected to stairs which lead right to the heart of the square, where the women had once been. Innocence has been stripped away with the passing of time, there is no more hiding. Rushed, everything is running, sprinting laps around me. The people whoop and holler. My cares run away with them. The cigarette smoke clears. It will return.
But I will not. Not for years and years. Despite the tip toes and flashes of light and broken couches and brand name shoes.
St. Vincent Place is couched behind a maze of ten smaller streets. It's a mess of an alleyway, less of a street. I close the door outside #9 and see candles flicker. I hear voices laugh. I smell marijuana thick and sleepy. I leave one home to join another. It is an amicable parting as long as the voices and tastes and smells and colors and softness are erased.

orsay.

It's funny how I thought that Europe would make everything so clear. Instead, it just fucked with me even more. Now I feel unsettled and I also feel like I'm stuck in a paradox between craving freedom and craving intense intimacy.

Two nights ago, I was sitting on the lawn in front of the Eiffel Tower drinking wine straight out of the bottle with one of my best friends. The tower was lit with the most awful green and yellow, celebrating one rugby defeat or another. We hung out with three guys who were traveling the world for 7 months, listening to their stories and sharing our adventures. When you meet other travelers, storytelling really becomes a swapping exercise: I'll tell you about sleeping in a train station in France, you tell me about the fjords in New Zealand. I'll tell you about the medieval graveyards of Ireland, you tell me about being threatened by a small Vietnamese man on a train to Southeast Asia.

Two nights ago. Forty-eight hours. And here I am again. My house hasn't changed one bit. My parents are the same, my friends the same. I feel like the whole world sat still while I spun around it. Or that I took some sort of time travel device and that the last two months never really occurred. Because, really, Europe didn't help me figure anything out. It only showed me how much I have yet to know.

And I really do think that I'm going to move to Ireland after I graduate, at least just for one summer. I'll live like a bum and love every minute. I can't stay in one place anymore. It hurts too much to just stand still.

catalan.

As I sat overlooking Barcelona today from my perch atop Park Güell - a Gaudi-designed park covered in a thick helping of mosaics and stone and modernism - I couldnt help feeling like I was back in the Bay Area on top of Coit Tower. To my right spanned a set of hills: South City. Below me rested a blanket of quiet urban landscape, sprinkled with high rises and windows and white-washed walls: the city itself, laid out in neat squares. Beyond that, the ocean hugged the shoreline: the San Francisco Bay. Five thousand miles away and still so close to home.

all the way from galway.

I am now in Ireland and I have never been anywhere so beautiful. It's the kind of beauty that intermingles with rain and salt water and Norman architecture and makes me feel so old that I feel young. And awake. Plus, the people are so nice. Yesterday, we got stuck at Killarney National Park and the buses had stopped running and we started to get worried we'd be sleeping on the grass in front of the Victorian mansion on the lake (which, when I think about it, wouldn't be that bad). Then Caroline decided to walk up to this random man with three kids and ask him to borrow his cell phone to call a taxi. But, oh no, that wasn't enough. He decided he would drive us to the bus station and tell us all about Ireland on the way there. And his three kids were so adorable. They were calling each other "lads" and explaining what "class" they were in. So, basically, I am living.

silks n spices.

So my best friend from back home showed up in London yesterday afternoon, just after Nina and I had come home from shopping. We all went out last night, going from one place to the next, spending more money than I have. I have also taken up the habit of drinking cappuccinos and staying up all night thinking, just like the Europeans do.

lancaster and york.

So I'm pretty sure I'm doing really badly in the class that I'm taking here, but I'm seeing castles and drinking tea and getting drunk alongside James Franco and making friends and eating paninis and not caring about it too much. The day after tomorrow, I will be in London and then it's all museums and artists and double-decker buses galore. I'm having a good time, which will transform into a great time in my memory, but hasn't quite yet. It just makes me angry how much studying everyone does here. I did NOT pay $5,000 to come over here and sit in my hotel room curled around A Midsummer Night's Dream. I came here to live it, in a not so fairy-centered and creepy way. As an act of defiance, it may be back to the pub on a schoolnight for me.

english sophistication.

I am alive and so over Shakespeare I could puke. However, I have to put up with 3 more weeks of it. Also, I see James Franco every day, so that makes life a bit more liveable. He smokes cigarettes and wears leather jackets and pretends like he's a good actor. And I think of how I used to have his picture on my wall when I was in eighth grade, and it's all good.

Also, I took a walk through the countryside with Nina the other day. The beauty here is amazing. It's so quiet you can hear the dew drying on the grass and the clouds moving. And it's a very tiny, subtle beauty that I never want to let go of.

synopsis.

there's no way i'm going to europe i can't be going to europe how is it possible that i'm leaving for europe? europe feels an eternity away why can't i just stay here in my comfort zone instead of going to europe? can i bring my cat with me to europe? i refuse to believe i'm going to europe how long did you say my trip to europe is again? two months, oh, yes, that's right how are fewer than sixty hours standing between me and europe? europe europe europe europe europe europe europe europe europe europe europe europe europe europe europe europe europe europe europe europe europe i am afraid to leave somewhere i was afraid to come home to

chinatown.

four days before i leave for europe
three words i don't believe in
too many times i find myself wishing we could start fresh and new
one.
sometimes you're all that fills my mind.
and i don't care about the other people that come between us.
i don't care about how cute or funny or beautiful or charming or intelligent those people may be.
they are not you. they are not me.
so maybe one of these days there will be zero space between us and we can forget all of the negatives and just go forward.

bright side.

So my roommates and I are currently looking for a fourth roommate and it is quite frightening. I just know I'm going to be sharing a room with some psychopath next year.

Although I guess if I do, at least I'll have some good stories to tell.

i'll be so good to you.

I was sitting on the couch in my living room today reading my third Shakespeare play in three days when all the sudden I realized that in just 9 days, I would be navigating the Tube in London and making my way to Shakespeare's birthplace with Nina.

And I sat on the couch, my feet propped up, my legs tired from work and my mind tired from Elizabethan English. I could feel the grass under my feet and the rain falling from the sky and the earth rushing past as I sit on a European train speeding from Barcelona to Avignon. I cannot believe how lucky I will be. While I do have moments of mental clarity in my daily life, they will be nothing compared to the next two months.

I'm thinking, however, that my mind will only reinforce the things that I have already discovered in the last 4 weeks. Then again, these things have been obvious to me for six years. I'm just coming around again. Like a merry-go-round. Like always.

do it.

I am currently at a job that I hate in order to pay for two months of European freedom. However, having said job has forced me into a sort of existential crisis.

Today, my boss asked me to come in early. I rushed back from the city as fast as I could because she sounded desperate. Then, wouldn't you know it, when I stepped in, the store was quiet and there was no work to be done. I had missed lunch for this.

On my break, I had to run down to Starbucks to get coffee because the little coffee shop across the street was closed, but I still needed something to raise my blood sugar. This took longer than the prescribed "10 minutes" that I'm given.

I get back to the store, smiling and happy with my mocha raspberry bullshit. My boss smiles back at me. I put my stuff down, say goodbye to my drink as I place it in the fridge, and head back out to what is now my personal hell. I approach the front desk and my boss says - sugary and sweet and condescending - "You know that was a 25-minute break, right?"

Um, excuse me? I don't know when you started timing, lady. Was it the moment I stopped thinking like a machine to go on my break? Was it after I last made money for your store- which, by the way is completely disorganized - with my powers of persuasion and cute shoes? She then proceeds to say (after I have argued with her about how, sorry, that wasn't 25 minutes, you insensitive bitch) "You know, you've been taking longer breaks these days anyway." I swear to God, this woman is monitoring my every move. What I do is I take an extra 2 minutes to go to the bathroom after my 10 minutes are up. I don't consider the bathroom to be a break-worthy activity, so I calculate it separately. Apparently, she does not find this amusing.

Then, she finishes our dispute up (because I refused to be put in the position of the bad guy and argued politely with her for a bit) with "Well, we can both agree that your breaks are longer than ten minutes. No matter how you look at it, that's a burden to business."

So I am now a burden to business. Which I think is hilarious when I have the highest sales in the store right behind the 30 year-old, ahem, sales lead, whose job it is to, ahem x2, lead in sales.

My immediate reaction to all of this was anger. I decided that if she thought I was a burden, I would show her how burdensome I could be. But then I turned to determination. I decided I would shorten my breaks to 6 minutes so she would shut her fat trap about it. Then I realized that doing so would make me a tool. A machine. A nothing. And all this is is a summer job. And I think she takes this whole thing way too seriously.

I would say my conclusion is I should have gone back to Ann Taylor, which was surprisingly much more laid back than its "casual" counterpart. But, really, this leaves me with a question: Do I improve and become the best at everything in this job or do I just forget it and tell her (nonverbally) to fuck off? Would being the best win me anything at all? Would I even be recognized for my efforts? Would telling her to fuck off be giving into my weakness for 12-minute breaks and a life separate from this 4-week part-time job?

I think I just answered my own question.

a long walk.

Today, I drove to Golden Gate Park and spent the day bonding with myself. When I started at the Japanese Tea Gardens, the sun was still almost shining. Quickly, however, San Francisco smothered it with a thick blanket of fog. A security blanket, if you will. Slowly, I made my way over to San Francisco's principal art museum, the De Young, only to find that I hated its updated architecture and that they had started charging visitors $10. I opted out and decided that art was for another day. Art is, after all, simply an imitation of nature. So I circled the lake that sits in the center of the park, laughing in my head when little kids tripped over their shoelaces and when dogs accidentally fell into the water. I took some photographs of ducks and made my way to the Chinese Pavilion. I also spent some time in the Botanical Gardens, but didn't feel like walking all the way to the Conservatory of Flowers (and, besides, who knows what they charge for entry there these days) (although I am kind of sad I missed their exhibit on carnivorous plants). I finished it all off at the Temple of Music, which has always reminded me of a Parisian park. Today, there were tango dancers on stage and you could hear the accordion music from all over the park. I plopped down on a bench and just watched without thinking. If I didn't look around too much, I truly thought I might be in France. Magnifique.

Interestingly, the whole reason why I went to Golden Gate Park today was to see the Shakespeare Garden. I wanted to sit there and read Henry IV. But as soon as I got there, I realized that I had too much on my mind. And I remembered sitting in my English class last quarter studying Marvell. And I thought of his poem "The Garden" and all of the different conceptions that one can have of a garden, the foremost being the garden as a location of contemplation. So I took some early seventeenth-century advice and ditched the late-sixteenth century play. I had my own little revolution; I surrendered to my thoughts. Perhaps not as stirring as the death of Elizabeth and the ushering in of King James, but I still felt myself a bit of a cavalier.

Cheers to self-discovery.

yes.

I had a dream last night that a huge crowd of people were walking toward me on a very narrow walkway that led over a small body of water. I stuck toward the right but then everyone else did, too, so we were all just walking at each other, about to crash. Then all the sudden I realized that I was, duh!, in England and that I should have moved to the left side of the walkway. More of a metaphor, really.

Tomorrow is my day off. Tomorrow is my day at the beach with my friends. And, over the next few days, I need to actually start taking seriously the fact that I have to plan 3 weeks worth of activities in Ireland, Spain, and France. And places to sleep. Otherwise it's beaches and bathrooms and train stations for the three of us... Now that I think of it, that wouldn't be half bad.

This photo pretty much sums up my summer thus far:


Only add in Colin, Charley, Greg (sometimes), Evan, Ryan (who you can kiiind of see here), Maureen, Nika, Ilya, and Brandon. If only Jen, Jess, and Mer weren't all so far away... I miss y'all. Then summer would be just perfect.

Oh, and my parents are going out of town again.

oh my.

God, I love how Prez Bush and Prez Putin are having a little sleepover at Bush's dad's house in Maine. I hope they make cookies and watch Back to the Future and paint their nails and do their best to stop the resurgence of the Cold War! Have fun, guys!

call me when you get there.

I don't see how the sumer could get any better than it did last night. It's insane how exponentially better this summer is than the last. I don't really know what words I can use to quantify my elation or the beauty of listening to the sky as I float alongside it. There are none that I can think of. Only Faulkner could ever put it into words. Or in his case, non-words used to embody something that cannot be embodied, something that is and can never be was and will always be.

just in general.

I had an amazing night on Wednesday. Unfortunately, it necessitated going to work hung over yesterday. And working out hung over. And spending the rest of the day brooding in my hung over-ness. I spent last night bonding with my brother Christopher. We experimented with my dad's waffle maker (for the record, banana chocolate chip waffles are the best) and talked about current events over some Dr. Pepper. His Brazilian girlfriend came over, though, and they watched one of my Denzel movies. So Sammy and I hung out, reminiscing and planning for the rest of the summer. Today is Charley's birthday so, of course, this forces me to have another amazing night (after work from 4:15-9). Diablo, Denzel, and Max's Opera Cafe. That's the plan.

when it's over.

My brother has an apartment in the Mission District, where taquerias are slammed up against trendy Ethiopian restaurants and the homeless sleep in the doorways of expensive boutiques that blast The Postal Service and bump French hip hop from 10 am to 8 pm on weekdays and 11 am to 5 pm on weekends. When we went to go visit him a few weeks ago, I thought about the distribution of wealth - in big American cities, in our nation, and in the world.

What have we been given, the upper middle class? New cars, condominiums, running water, home loans.

And what do we give back? More cars, more condos, we let our water run until the heat runs out of it, we whine and talk on cell phones.

Sadly, I know I'm just a part of this. I'm not a vegetarian or a humanitarian (despite my previous efforts) or a historian. I guess I'm just frustrated is all.

un update.

Strictly Straightforward:

I have been playing way too many video games lately, so I have decided to take a one-night hiatus... which will end tomorrow afternoon when all of my friends sleep over.

You see, my parents are going out of town tomorrow. This means that, in order to keep my house feeling warm and home-y, I need to make sure I've got plenty of company, games, music, food, alcohol, money, space left on my camera, and cat food (for the animal).

In addition (because, oh no, the fun doesn't stop there), tomorrow is San Francisco's Gay Pride Parade. So I will be tipping my glass of Long Island Iced Tea to Stonewall in 1969 and to the freedom of sexual expression- no matter how out of shape or gay you may be.

On a sorrowful/whiny note, I hate my job. Basically, I make as few sales as possible in order to not be fired and try to look as busy as I can. Then five hours crawl by, I go home and dread the day when I must return. Ugh. Counting down the days until Europe and pretending I'm Irish in Dublin. What's a good fake last name? McCullough? McClarsky? McISwearToGodIAmNotBritish?

And, uh, Brian, you are coming to visit me. Why? Because, in your heart, you know it's the best possible weekend plan you can think of. :)

My mother has also forced me into signing up for a gym membership. 'Nuff said.

would you know?

this girl is my new fashion icon. :)

In other news, my first day of work is tomorrow. Also, I am about halfway through with this novel I'm reading called Another Country. It explores race relations of the 1960's in New York City and how race, sex, and sexual orientation work upon each other to effectively skew the purity of love. I'm not sure if I buy the philosophy, but it's interesting. As a young and impressionable white woman, it's hard to buy anything I haven't seen in a movie, though. At least I admit it.

Last night, I drove Colin, Greg, Ryan, Evan, and Sal (Adam?) to Jack in the Box and we ate at the Japanese Tea Garden in San Mateo. It was dark and warm and dry. There were spiders crawling up walls. I could see their legs in the lamplight. I looked up into the sky and I could see stars, bright white and twinkling like the fireflies we used to catch in jars on summer nights in Atlanta. Except these stars were not confined to glass. They were only confined to the infinite expansion of the Universe. There I was. One tiny person. Surrounded by an eyeful of delicious light. Then, of course, Greg accidentally hit me with a tree branch, Colin jumped off of the roof and fell with a thud, and Ryan offered me a bite of his 50-cent taco. So I awoke and joined them in the darkness.

let it be done with.

I got a job. And a raise. In one day. Even after I told them I would leave the entire month of August.

I start work Tuesday, so that means I have to get all of my fun in before then.

Also, can someone come visit me? I don't care who you are. Even if I don't know you. Just let me know and we can become best friends. My parents have planned a summer full of motorcycle races and family vacations minus me and I'm going to be very lonely.

grand plan.

I want to get back on a plane and fly back to L.A. immediately. I'm thinking about doing it. At least one of these weekends. I can't do this. I thought I could. But I can't do this.

over and done.

I was at the airport today and I realized that everything I do in life, I do it the wrong way first and then I fix it and everything turns out okay in the end. I am referring, of course, to small things that happened today, but I think it can be applied in the larger context of my life. For example, I over-generously tipped the guy who drove the shuttle because I thought he said "bill" and wanted all my money, so I got really nervous and handed him what I had in my wallet. Really, he said "bag" and was asking if I had gotten all of my bags out of the back. By that time, I couldn't say, "Oh, in that case, can I have a couple of those dollahs back?"

Later, the cute guy who took my bags at the Frontier Airlines counter told me to take my bags to the kiosk to have them placed on the plane. So I walk over to the kiosk, or what I think is the kiosk, and I just stare at this huge black guy for a minute, waiting for him to tell me what to do with my bags. Then I realize that - without any words exchanged at all - this guy knows I'm an idiot and that I'm a stupid and small little girl. So he directs me with his eyes to the right place, where I successfully make a fool of myself by dropping my bags all over the ground right before handing them to the guy waiting.

In the end, though, everything gets done. I get on the plane, read my graphic novel about evil/hot aliens trying to spread their progeny on earth (thanks, b), listen to Ani Difranco, get picked up, and make it home to pet my kitty cat. But along the way I make misstep after misstep. This could not be more true in matters of my heart. Or matters of my driving. Or matters of my job experience. Or.... It's like my mind works in the exact opposite way that other humans' minds work, so I have to run into lots of screen doors before I learn to open them. It's not that I'm dumb or out of touch; I am just completely dysfunctional. I know this. But I do well for myself nonetheless.

size too small.

In pieces of postcards, I will find you again. Somewhere where I'm out finding myself. Among those shreds of paper, I will feel your hands again, haunting me. I will miss you. One of these days.

cold.

So I'm about to give my last speech in my speech class today, thank God. Hopefully, this time, the professor won't be so effing mean about it.

higher speed.

Lately, my dreams have been so real and vivid. And I just keep going around and around and around in circles and never progressing anywhere in them. Things that I didn't even know were bothering me are coming to the surface to plague me while I sleep.

Then I wake up and realize that nothing will ever be the same again and all I want to do is go back to sleep. Then I go back to sleep. And the dreams return.

So, basically, I don't know which is worse: sleeping or being awake, trying to drag myself through the next few weeks.

Television is a nice escape. Then I realize that I've been watching Flavor of Love Girls Charm School Starring Mo'Nique for three hours. So I suppose the only viable alternative is studying, during which I do not have to think about myself at all. I always knew things would be like this, and I still know that everyone is going to make it to the other side and be just fine. But this summer is going to be one of so many transitions and I just can't look past them right now. They're like this huge storm that I can't run away from in time. And, this time around, I have no one to cling to except for myself.

garden of contemplation.

Last night was such an emotional mess for me. Here is a general play-by-play of my emotions last night:

Awkward... my hair wouldn't curl right
Excited... my hair curled okay and I walked to the pre-party with Rashmi and Wafiqah.
Disgusted... tristan ran out of chasers at his apartment so we had to chase with tortilla chips. not quite the same effect.
Spinny... the vodka kicked in.
Annoyed... a certain someone kept coming onto me.
Outgoing... i met several people i've been meaning to meet for awhile.
Drunk... the vodka really kicked in.
Frustrated... john was being stupid.
Happy... brett and amber showed up.
Angry... john spilled vodka all over my arm
Lost... my favorite sweater (the tan one from ann taylor) has now found a new home, either on the street or on a dirty bus.
Even more angry... john tried to abandon his section and sit with photo.
Ridiculous... i started crying uncontrollably while explaining my anger to John.
Satisfied... i met the other girl from my internship next year, and I really like her a lot.
Even more drunk... i drank more bourbon.
Confused... the following sequence of events is quite muddled in my head.
Un-hungry... the food was delicious.
Sad and cry-y... i saw Melinda crying and I, too, broke into tears uncontrollably. Then the slideshow came on and I couln't hold anything back.
Reassured... Dave and Julie/Mark and Ro are so cute.
Insanely happy... I danced with the cute intern.
Insanely/irrationally upset... this one I will not explain.
Loved... amber and I worked it out. We are so amazing.
Entertained... the dancing continued.
Out of it... the bus ride home is a blur, except for singing Kelly Clarkson and Fergie.
Sad and cry-y x2... John left. Mark and Ro left. Tissue box was passed around.
Nostalgic... all of the turtle rape videos and CJ discussions and editing disasters washed over me at once.
Relieved... john came back, so it was one less person I'd have to force myself to not think about.
Tired... i came home and passed out. Then I had one really weird dream involving my co-workers and another weird dream about an eyeless zombie apocalypse and my friend's ex-girlfriend.
Depressed... i have hit an extremely low point that i can't remove myself from. It's mostly because I have yet to obtain perspective on the last year and it hurts a lot to know that all of these people who I practically lived with for the last year are now going on to start their lives. While I, Carrie Jones, am staying put and watching the world twist without me.

spin.

About an hour ago, Mark imed me to tell me that he wanted to make a sitcom about my life. And then I realized that, as a character, CJ is insanely loveable. As a character. I ask myself if Carrie, too, is loveable. Tonight, I say yes.

disgusted.

It seems that in the Supreme Court these days, justice is the opposite of being served. In a 5-4 decision, the Justices ruled today that workers can only petition for pay discrimination within 180 days of their pay being set. Um, I'm sorry, but have you been in an office recently? People don't talk about how much they're paid. So you won't ever know you're being discriminated against just because you have a vagina until one of your drunken male co-workers blurts it out one night while you're at a crazy office party. And, generally, it'll take you about 90 days - at least - to feel comfortable enough to see said co-worker wasted off his ass. Then, of course, another 90 days until he's comfortable enough around you to talk about his paycheck.

O'Connor never would've let this shit happen. I'm so glad that the United States is regressing 40 years. I might as well aspire for mediocrity and second-best if that's all they're going to give me.

But, no, women of America, I think it's time we kick some ass. Even if that means getting rid of the women who give us a bad name (Britney Spears, girls on any VH1 reality show, Harriet Miers, that girl who sits behind you in your Comm class), it's what has to be done. Let's hold Ruth Bader Ginsburg's rational and not-completely-big-corporation-absorbed hand and jump up and down until someone stops to see what we're doing. Then we'll explain that we can jump just as high as any man can (I'm not sure what the actual statistics are, but metaphorically speaking). And that we can work just as hard as any man can. And that we're sick and effing tired of being told we are of less worth and that we will never achieve as much as someone with bigger shoulders and a deeper voice. Just make sure to wear a sports bra. We want the right kind of attention.

believe and pray.

I spent the day driving around with friends from back home, picnicking (is that a word?), and riding my bike around Burlingame. It reminded me of Now and Then and it reminded me of how badly I wish I was twelve instead of nineteen. I'm probably way too old to be riding my bike with a little gang of 5 people around me. And yet it didn't bother me at all. Since when did I start believing I had to act my age? And since when did I start believing there was some ultimate arbiter who could tell me the cut-off date and time for swinging on swings (which I did today) and riding up and down the block in circles (which I also did).

Being home makes me feel very content. I know it's Saturday night, but I love that I am sitting at home doing nothing. Travis and Marie just left. We were watching Animal Planet and Curb and sitting in my room doing lots of nothing. I am not sad that I didn't get drunk. I am not sad that I didn't get dressed up. I am not even sad that I didn't meet someone new. My home here is a little self-contained world, where nostalgia finally collides with experience. It would be hard to ask for anything more than a repetition of the warmest moments of my life.

out of nowhere.

On my flight from LAX to SFO this afternnon, I started feeling guilty for missing my early seventeenth-century lit class and so I read some Sir Thomas Browne. I felt like the hugest nerd in the world. There I was - sandwiched between an old Indian man reading the United Airlines magazine, Hemispheres, and a businessman who looked like he had better things to be doing than sitting down - reading from this 3,000-page anthology about what some aristocrat thinks should happen to you after you die.

I might as well be wearing taped-up glasses and a pocket protector.

And all of this contemplation of thesis topics for my paper and senior thesis topics for a year from now and waiting in line for office hours and hating and loving the challenge of a good piece of literature has made me realize that I really admire professors for their single-minded dedication. It's really quite remarkable. It's got me thinking that - if I didn't hate people so much - I would totally want to be a professor. You know: use all the big words, edit some obscure academic journal, have a really comfy couch in my office. That's what they do, right? I'm sure it's that simple. I'm calling for a new life plan.

vodka and orange juice.

In the glowing light of the computer screen, I can see his smile as it dances across his lips. And there's no other light in the room, except maybe the strip of light that is crawling in through the space between the door and the carpet. But that light isn't pure, it has ricocheted off of the wall, which was reflected off of the bathroom ceiling. The room is blue like water in some three-year old's crayon landscape. But it's so warm. Maybe it is because of that smile, those parted lips now pirouetting in their finale as they make their retreat back to position one. Maybe it is the echoing of his laugh or the echoing of my own as they bounce back and forth on the walls of the blue room - that's right, maybe it's a Freudian thing.

Two feet apart; we are afraid to touch. So when he brushes my hand, when he touches my knee, when he does all of those obnoxiously cute things he does - even in the dim light of this room - they scare me. I retreat, fall back, drop onto the floor. I look up and he is smiling again, smiling at me from just above. And I wish his hands weren't so afraid. I wish my body wasn't nailed to the ground. But I can't change our awful circumstances, so it is best that I just lie here and breathe. It's comforting, in a way - some consistency. At least I know that no matter what my next move is, be it closer to him or on my way out the door to home, he will always care for me as I am and never for what we will never be able to become.

piano bar.

It has always been funny to me that people say that Carrie Bradshaw makes bad decisions in her fabricated Sex and the City world. It's like they've never had a someone who was always there just around the corner, reminding them of what it's like to have a crush, what it's like to feel both superbly sexy and comfortable, what electricity feels like when it translates into connecting fingertips. If Big was chasing me all over New York City, I think I'd probably fall into his arms at some point, too. And I don't want to hear that you don't find him attractive. Imagine that one person who awoke you from your dreamless sleep. Or maybe you haven't found that person yet. But when you do, you'll know what I mean. And nothing will be able to stop you from playing that hand, no matter the consequences.

I don't think she makes bad decisions. I think she relies too much on her heart and not enough on her mind. She lives a little too much for the electricity, not enough for the right and wrong. And there's nothing wrong with that.

a long night.

Professor Post, reading from John Webster's The Duchess of Malfi): "Blackbirds fatten best in hard weather —"
(Pause)
Post:"...That's what she said."
(Eruption of laughter)
Post: "Is that how you use that phrase?"




Probably the cutest little English professor I have ever had.

just a small part of me.

I don't remember how my parents told my brothers and I that we were moving to California. I just remember that my father would disappear for a few months at a time and I never knew why. That year, he missed Halloween and he came home only on the day of Thanksgiving. I don't know what I thought had happened to him. But one day he just returned and we packed up all of our things.

There were rocks in the backyard that I had to say good-bye to. Even though I don't remember much of our beautiful home in Altanta, I remember on summer afternoons, my brother and I would lift up this rock and play with the ants living beneath it. I also remember having to say good-bye to the creek that ran through our backyard and the playground my dad had built from scratch and the deck he and my brother constructed one summer and my friend Sharon, who lived a few blocks away. I remember hugging her for the last time, although at the time it felt like I was taking a trip to Disneyworld and would be back the next weekend.

On the drive to California, my dad pointed out the mountains and the statelines and the animals along the freeway. I watched as the world changed from flat and tree-filled Georgia to Louisiana to Texas to Arizona.

"Look, Carrie, you couldn't see this in Altanta," my dad said to me, with his usual enthusiasm.

"It looks like Georgia," I said.

We stopped at the Grand Canyon on our way to my aunt's house in Phoenix.

"It looks like Georgia," I said.

We stayed in Phoenix for Christmas. The air was dry and hot, not cold and moist as the air in Altanta had been. Not on the verge of snow. We took hikes up mountain sides and saw geckos and snakes and scorpions.

"It looks like Georgia," I would say.

When we finally reached our new home in Hillsborough, California, it was New Year's Eve and my dad's birthday. The sun was shining and we drove the car up a steep driveway into a two-car garage. My mom hated that driveway; the 90-degree angle always scared her.

We pulled a few boxes out of the trunk of the car and my dad showed us our new rooms.

"What do you think?" he asked me when he took me to my new bedroom. There was a cockroach lying on its back next to the closet.

"It looks like Georgia. Let's go home."

I'm not sure when I finally admitted to myself that I was wrong. Maybe I knew all along. I've never been good at being defeated.

dusty bookshelves.

I don't know why, but they're making a second sequel to Gone with the Wind. As if one butchering of Rhett and Scarlett weren't enough. And it's being written by a man named Donald McCaig.

I don't care if it's good or if it's bad. I refuse to read it. Although, you know, it's interesting, Gone with the Wind is no longer my favorite novel. I don't care what Rhett and Scarlett do to make it work. But bringing this tale back off the bookshelf in a form it was never intended to be placed in? Please, just leave it alone. Restore some sanctity to this world of commercialized fiction.

uhhhh.

I got a $5,000 scholarship-- the one I was filling out during Spring Break and being very cynical about. Every time I think about it, my hands start shaking again. That kind of money is unimaginable to me right now.

where you are.

I just went downstairs to go running on the machines in the gym down there. But, at 10:30 on a Saturday night, every machine in that normally-empty room is occupied. Do these people not have lives? Do they not have parties to go to or alcohol to drink? Do they not have friends to go out and watch a live show with? Maybe even dance a bit? Go out and eat at one of the thousands of cute little restaurants that sprinkle the streets?

I had my ipod on already. I was pumped up, settled on Justin Timberlake. I even had a graphic novel in my hand, which I had resolved to read despite my great surface aversion to the medium. I brought a water bottle, had convinced myself to even do some stretches in my room beforehand. I was READY. READY, dammit.

There I was. One of those losers. Planning to work out on a Saturday night. And I was turned away at the door.

So, in defiance and frustration, I have resolved to come back to my room, pretend like it never happened, and eat three cups of yogurt, the rest of my Girl Scout cookies, and a Snickers bar.

king henry viii.

I don't know how many people know this, but James Franco goes to UCLA and is an English major (with an emphasis in creative writing). I only know this through word of mouth, but I do know it as a fact from several reputable sources. Yesterday, I had an orientation for my study abroad program to England, and guess who was there?

James Franco.

Now I don't know if he's going to Europe with me, but if he isn't, he must really like to sit in on informational meetings.

stream of consciousness.

North and South. Two opposites that seem to be connected in their center by some strange magnet that pushes them apart. I'm standing somewhere on that magnet, looking up, looking down.

Above me is my favorite Chinese restaurant in the whole world, sitting there in Palo Alto. My fluffy gray cat, Spunky, is licking her paws by the fire in early December. My dad is polishing his motorcycle and eating apples and peanut butter and avoiding sugar so he stays healthy and saves himself from diabetes. My mother is filling out crossword puzzles in pencil on the couch in the living room. My friends come running down the familiar sidewalk. They swing open the fridge and pull out the pitcher of water. We drive to the beach in Half Moon Bay and play frisbee until we get hungry again. San Francisco glistens from the big window in Marie's living room. We walk to our favorite French restaurant for lunch and we pace through the halls of our high school. Sometimes, we meet up with unfamiliar people. Sometimes we drive to Foster City to watch Disney movies with Brandon or go shopping at Target. Sometimes I spend time with Sammy. We laugh about the past. We cry about the present. We hope for the future. Ryan brings Bonne Sante sandwiches to my house and refuses to share. Evan always leaves his cup on my desk, where the condensation leaves rings in the wood. Brian used to come visit in the summer and we'd make dinner and laugh, like always. My mom comes home and takes me shopping. My friends treat my house like a playground. They do backflips in the front yard. We play with candles as they melt on the back porch.

I look in front of me. Southern California. Trendy shops and too much coffee running through my veins, making me jittery. Three feet of books, but I love to read them when I get the chance. The sun shines. Movie studios every mile or so. Rebecca comes home and we go out for dinner. Nina, Caroline, John and I watch America's Next Top Model and laugh at what we will never be. John wears stupid hats and runs away from everything. Nina smiles and behind that smile there is so much. Caroline dances. I wave at people on my walk to work. On my way back from the gym, I run into someone from my floor. I plan for the future. I pay for my future, everything is on a tab. The fashion magazines never arrive on time. When they finally get here, everyone is already wearing the tights and the platforms and the Ray Bans. I go to sleep smiling sometimes. I go to sleep frustrated. I go to sleep, wondering what I should have done, why I didn't. There is a comedy club where I once saw Will Arnett and a pregnant woman who made me want to have children one day. I fear my words have become speeches. And, yet, somehow, I feel like there might actually be something for me here. Despite the juxtapositions. Despite the things that are so glaringly missing. And I only have a month and a half to convince myself it's all worth coming back to.

where are you from? ask yourself, ask anyone.

In reference to my last post: The reason I cannot have any guy that I want is that I am too afraid to open my mouth and spit a few witty words out every so often.

I'm terrible at flirting. Mostly because I'm afraid of strangers. Especially cute ones. And I hate sleeping in my room alone when my roommate isn't here. It makes no sense.

Ugh. Whiny whiny college student.

it's a siren barely audible.

People say to me:

"Carrie, you're so cute, you could have any guy you wanted." And I laugh it off. Because it isn't true. And even if it were, I wouldn't want it to be. I don't want any guy I can have. I only want the ones who don't want me. There must be something inherently wrong with me.

Or maybe it's just a ridiculous notion to think that anyone could convince anyone else to be with them. That's not how it should be. It's so hard to find anyone I'd actually care about enough to want to spend all that time getting to know their flaws and then reconciling myself to them. So while I want the stability and comfort a relationship offers, I also want the freedom to say "Eff off. You're annoying me. I'm going to go off and find myself again." Basically, I'm back at the part where I said there was something inherently wrong with me.

meditation 14.

So I was watching a show that I refuse to name out of personally inflicted shame, and the "narrator" said something really pseudo-deep like: "It may be frustrating to not get what you want, but the saddest people are those who don't know what it is they are chasing after."

And, okay, that's really stupid and Dawson's Creek sounding, but I hate how true it is. Right now, I am very much in a transitional stage in my life: I am between jobs, between relationships, between school years, between living situations, between the two and a half-week span I give myself before I am allowed to do laundry again.

It's hard to decide which things are worth moving forward on and which things are better left untainted. Take, for example, my job at the Daily Bruin. Do I let it all go and pursue something wildly different, or do I stick around, gaining more comfortable and valuable experience? And I will tell you that, despite my youthful and free-thinking vibes, I am starting to re-think the philosophy that it's always better to move on and broaden your experiences. Sometimes its better to stay where you are and let things ebb and branch across your memory like water dropped, pinpointed - and then refuses to stay put- as it creeps across a paper napkin. Sometimes, this allows you to reaccess the damage you've done. And while you may not be able to fix all the stupid shit you did when you started, at least you can apologize for it.

I guess my point is that I don't know what I'm chasing after right now. I just know that I'm chasing. Seeing this in myself, I know I need to stop and breathe for a moment; I know I need to take the time to figure out where that stupid yellow tape is that's marked with "Finish," that's marked with, "Okay, Carrie, you can be happy now."