things i should never say.

This morning on BART, I was seized with nostalgia for a special someone who was never that special at all. I think about him from time to time and all that we never could be - because we make no sense at the end of the day - and it makes me feel lonely. Forever, endlessly lonely. I think of the moments of passion I've had so far in my life, when I surrendered myself to a nighttime and let it be. I think of him. The train flashed by stations, through dark tunnels, into patches of light and fog. I didn't move the entire time. I just thought of that one night. Through the cold streets, up and down stairs, dancing under a disco ball, into his car, looking through windows, collapsing on concrete. I don't think of that night as a mistake. I certainly can't say I regret letting it all come to the surface, all those years of latent longing. I just wonder if things will ever be quite the same again.

I came across his picture in a stack a few inches high. He looked foreign, unfamiliar. All I have are pictures now. Perhaps things are best this way. If I ever saw his face again, I'm not sure what emotions would surge through me, and that can't be healthy at all. In our past, there were some days of elation and others where I began to contemplate futility. But the days of laughing on couches, bad movies, grabbing my wrists, beach houses, muddy shoes, and snow falling in Northern California washed away all of the times that hurt me. Now all I have left are pictures I don't understand. Five months ago, I would have killed for this distance. It wouldn't have ruined everything.

Five months ago, he brought out a side of me I forgot existed. I remembered how carefree I could be, how innocent and happy. It's that feeling that drags me home every chance I get. Now that I can't remember his face, home feels more like a house I grew up in than I place I belong today. He has a way with me. I like to think I have a way with him. Both of us smile uncontrollably in each other's presence. And, yes, I know I am being overly sentimental. It's easier now that he's not here to prove me wrong. Because I know that if he were here, he would prove me wrong over and over again. He'd have a wonderful time doing it.

Now. Now I have this. I have proof of a past, as all photographs are. But I have no promises of him to bring me back to whatever carefree Carrie once existed. Lucky girl. Only, I'm sure he'll prove her wrong too.

guitar twang.

My dad is walking around the house in a sleeveless Harley Davidson t-shirt.

My mom is wearing her workout clothes.

They look like they're ready to spend a nice Saturday night at Big Lots.

I, personally, am going to paint. Then catch up with some people over boba and maybe (maybe!) even a party.

backyard barbecues.

Another Friday, thank God. This weekend will be all about taking time to myself. Thinking.

And, oh yeah, I need to work on my thesis.

All of the sudden I miss everyone. Last summer and freedom and swimming pools. I definitely need to plan a vacation. Mostly, though, I just want to see all of my friends together again. I've been kind of empty lately, realizing that a lot of me is in Los Angeles. More of me is here, but a lot is 370 miles away. So I'm never quite satisfied. Realizing that may just be a part of life.

Also, thinking quite quite quite seriously about getting my PhD. Obviously, I will take time off after undergrad anyway, but I think that would really be good for me.

Basically, I'm doubting myself bi-daily in this internship, not so sure the big publishing company vibe is right for me. Wishing the smaller house I applied to was in San Francisco because I would have gone to work for them in an instant. I think I need that constant collaboration, lack of bureacracy, intense creativity. Just feeling a bit empty with the work I'm doing. Blah.

stationary.

I don't know how to sum up my job, don't know if I even should. Instead, I will say several vague statements about it, post some news stories I've stumbled upon, and a photo of the view from my office.

• I've realized I dress like Meg Ryan from You've Got Mail. Yes, this is problematic.
  
• I'm taking yoga classes
• I think I want to be a professor
• My thesis has gotten nowhere
• I spend too much time on the Internet
• I realized that death is real and now everything hurts
• Brian and Sammy are the best. Both of them have been here for me when everyone else was indifferent, thought I was being absurd
• Am I boring?
• Oh god.

The fake book "Love Letters of Great Men" in Sex and the City has prompted readers to buy so many copies of a book with a similar title that was released in 1920, that it has moved up to number 114 on Amazon.

An amazing and heartening look at the future of the book industry and the importance (what!?) of independent book publishers.

Some kids who vandalized Robert Frost's house have been sentenced to take a Robert Frost lecture as punishment. I guess the punishment must fit the crime...

the view from the office.

farewell and adieu.

My parents went out of town and left me to care for my sick kitty cat, Spunky. They knew she was getting worse, but they couldn't have known how bad it would become. A few days ago, I put her outside and she disappeared. I couldn't find her. I had to leave for work. I didn't want to, but I had no choice. When I came back that afternoon, she was stumbling a bit and meowing wildly. Her eyes looked like Puss in Boots from Shrek 2. Cute, right?

Yes, cute for a few minutes. But her eyes stayed like that all night, looking around confused and bewildered. I kept trying to feed her, but she wouldn't eat. She just kept meowing and walking around in circles. Later that night, when she kept bumping into chairs and tables, I realized my kitty had gone blind. She couldn't find her litter box, couldn't eat, couldn't move – she just kept twisting around, changing positions. She didn't close her eyes the entire night.

The next morning, my brother came to check on her. I had planned to spend the whole day by her side. Instead, he told me it was time to let her go. We put her in her cat carrier one last time and drove her to the vet.

I held her one last time. She scratched me a bit because she was so scared. She walked into a wall in the examination room. My brother and I watched her as she set her head down on the table and the doctor gave her an injection. Her chest stopped moving up and down, laboring to breathe. Her heart stopped beating. I don't have a cat anymore.

My mom said she wants to get two new kittens, but I'm not ready. Spunky watched me grow up. I don't want to grow up anymore.

boxes and bags.

Sorry for the lack of updates. I'm so tired I can't think, let alone write coherently. Driving home tomorrow, updates to come when I finally sleep enough.

fiction of universality.

I would like to pay back some of my student loans with some money I just found, but I can't find out how to. Perhaps that is the point. Very sneaky...

Two more papers. Photo-texts and textual photographs.

profile.

I just found a great resume guide for college students wanting to go into creative industries for their summer jobs. Maybe it's a bit late. There's always next year.

Here that is.

I kind of wish that I had read this before applying places.

Ah, who am I kidding? I did okay without it.

midnight yell.

Just in time for my huge architecture paper:

pages and pieces and pencil sharpeners.

"Oh, the hours we are separate
are just precious time we've wasted."
Some days, I really do believe this.
So it's interesting that this song was on a mixed CD from so long ago.
So so long ago.
Thank you.

Also, yes, I know that I may have made many mistakes in the last few days. At some point, things start to pile up so quickly that I can't keep up with them. So I'm sorry if I've hurt your feelings. I will explain it all. And, I promise, I've really just blown it out of proportion. It's all a result of my own self-involvement.

photography is egalitarian.

Photography has become one of my passions in the last few months. I've been immersing myself in Susan Sontag's theoretical perspectives and Walker Evans photos, learning about Henri Cartier-Bresson and feeling a little bit like I understand things better when I see something by Diane Arbus.

So here are two photography exhibits I can't really recommend (because I have yet to go, but you better believe I will get there), but that I do suggest you attend anyway. I will be at the Getty one tomorrow. New York, here I come. All I needed was an excuse.

August Sander: People of the Twentieth Century
at the Getty from now until September 16

I don't know much about August Sander except that he embodies the idealism of early photography. His work promotes the belief that a photograph can teach the viewer about the subject. It's a compelling theory, of course. It's also a powerful theory that most people subscribe to without knowing it. His work is going to contribute in a small part to my thesis about the South and photo-texts of the Great Depression, but only peripherally.



Framing a Century: Master Photographers, 1840-1940
at the Met from June 20 - Sept. 1

This exhibit will explore photography from its rise in the 1840s until the modern developments of the 1940s. The New York Times review argues that the pieces did not begin as art, but they have become of that "caliber." But do we really want to turn what was meant to be documentary into art? I don't know, something irks me about that. It's a little too voyeuristic for my taste. Nonetheless, how often do I get to see Walker Evans' work so close up (okay, yeah, the Getty has an amazing Evans collection, but I can't access it). Plus, the exhibit details the technological advancements in photography over that 100-year span, and technology is completely inextricable from photographic meaning.

Anyway, I'm just really excited.

poetry and desire.

My plans keep moving back and forth. The other day, Rebecca called me from France and said that she had always thought that I should go to a small liberal arts college - that I liked English too much to be just another English major en route to law school here at UCLA. The truth is, I couldn't agree more. I was just never given that opportunity because I couldn't afford it in high school. But in graduate school, there are many more sources of funding. Plus, it only takes one year to get an M.A. in English if you do it full time.

So for the last few days, I've been researching Harvard, Columbia, Yale, Brown, and Princeton University's Graduate programs.

Today, as I was talking with my thesis advisor about the summer and my plans, he mentioned that he is the Vice Chair of the department. And then, all the sudden, I realized that I could probably do it. I could probably go to graduate school and love it. Relish every moment.

As a freshman, I never could have pictured myself at a private school. The truth is, I didn't appreciate learning as much as I thought I did. I had coffee with my English TA once, and she suggested that I think about doing graduate study in English. At the time, the thought seemed absurd. I think she picked me off the tree too early. If a TA said that to me today, I'd probably think much differently, even consider getting my Ph.D.

It's strange how much college has made me grow intellectually. It's even stranger that I have had to make many of these opportunities myself. Many of my peers are here to get the grades, drink the beer, move along. But I'm actually making myself work my ass off. That way, after it's all over, I know it was worth every penny.

Only, I didn't really realize that I was creating more problems for myself. Now I love it so much that I almost can't see myself any other way.

So I'm moving back and forth. Publishing? Ireland? Graduate school and then publishing? Becoming a professor? I don't know what is right anymore. I just know that I am... confused. And I want time to do everything. Everything.

ode on an american kitty cat.

My kit kat is slowly passing away. She has cancer in her right lung. I can't imagine home without her, but I think I have to. My papa said she probably only has about another month. I miss her everyday, and I can't even imagine missing her forever. It's hard when I haven't known growing up without her. It's like My Dog Skip only I never hit my cat on a baseball field and told her to go away. I always embraced my pooky. I even used to tell people she was my best friend. I feel ridiculous missing a little fluffy thing, but she's so much more than that to me.

doo doo doo.

One minute ago, Obama got the party ticket.

I'm just glad it's over. Now we can actually focus on the real issues.

That's a joke, of course.

Edit: Okay, he is really charming though. God dammit.

politicians and laptops.

I'm disappointed in you, New York Times. I don't care if this is a product of the ad department. I don't care who did it, it disgusts me. This sidebar places politics within the discourse of popular culture, degrading (or should I say elevating?) political figures to the level of consumer items. Our politicians are not celebrities. They are not mass marketing tools. They aren't even symbols. They are there to serve us. They are there because we are supposed to listen to them and they are supposed to listen to us, and we are supposed to all get what we want in the end. Instead, the media treats them like untouchable figures. Or, worse, the media uses rhetoric to identify them with a mass marketed product. If we aren't careful, we can come to think of public figures in this way: bought and sold, created in marketing meetings and focus groups, disposable. They assume a brand identity. They become a part of our already consumer-saturated mindsets, furthering the consumerist ideology that so many scholars have fought to disband (or at least demystify). I usually think of The New York Times as above these things. This is just disappointing.

And, by the way, I do think Clinton is a PC and Obama is a Mac. They are simply actors. They are this way because this is all we know how to digest anymore. It's our own fault. And it's our own job to reverse this way of thinking.

i swear i will.

So I used to know this guy who was a columnist for the Daily Bruin when I was assistant editor. Now he's graduating and going onto a PhD program at Harvard. Most people probably know who I am talking about.

I never really realized it before, but he actually is something really special. He actually deserves all of the things he's earned. And when I think about the things he's accomplished, I can't help but feel a little bit jealous. I think deep inside, I really want to be a Ph.D., to be an expert in my field, to hole myself away in libraries in the Northeastern United States studying literature for the next 8-10 years. I wish that were practical for me. Unfortunately, the thought of spending the next 20 years in deep debt and crossing my fingers for a good post as a professor upon graduation sounds impractical to a middle-class girl like me.

Back to my point, this guy once told me (and I've said this before): "Your dreams only fall apart if you let them. Don't." I think about this all the time. It's so funny how a line like that in a short e-mail has changed my perspective. It's just really inspiring to me that someone could be so confident in their success. I guess, at the end of it all, I am not jealous of where this guy has gotten and all of the things he will do that I may never get around to. I'm jealous that I can't believe in myself the way he can. I suppose that's my own fault and could be easily changed.

He is now valedictorian of UCLA's class of 2008, speaking alongside Bill Clinton. So if you didn't know who I was talking about before, you do now. He should be an inspiration to all of us. It's taken me two years to realize that.

sublime.

In love with this song by The Do, "Stay."

I would be.

writing songs.

If I wasn't so ridiculously sick, this would have been a great weekend.

Friday: Book Expo downtown, visited Marie at her apartment, picked up Sam from the airport, hung out at Century City, saw Sex and the City at midnight (such a fun movie!), stayed up until 4am talking.

Saturday: Started getting the chills, sneezing, coughing, feeling dizzy; skipped out on 2nd day of Book Expo, my boss got really mad at me; I dropped Sam off at Union Station downtown and we ate Thai food at this shady little place near Chinatown; missed Sammy like crazy as I drove home through miles of traffic; 3-hour nap; worked a bit and watched some TV; A certain someone came over and I made vegan sloppy joe's; had a wonderful night and went to bed semi-early after watching It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia.

Sunday: Woke up insanely late, went to LACMA, had a picnic.

But, seriously, it's homework time. So weekend ends and work week begins. A bit of stress, but nothing too major. I just know I have to get it all done if I ever want my summer to begin.