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.