Reflection, Resolution, Prediction

Happy New Years beautiful people. I am so happy today. 2011 was a banner year. It started off a little bumpy but it rose exponentially from there, until today, the last day of 2011. For this post I thought about a few elements I wanted to incorporate. The first, a recap of the year, the second my "resolutions" for the new year, and third my vision of the new year. 2012 is gunna be amazing if it follows the current trajectory, but first let's roll back the clock 365 daysz-- New Years Eve 2010.

I started the year in Fresno, CA of all places. Let me say for the record, there is really no reason ever to go to Fresno, but my best friend's boyfriend was hosting a party and we decided to go check it out. We drank beer and made pancakes and played halo and hung out with a dozen bros who we love and only see very rarely. Thus begins 2012.

January Accomplishments: Started performing at Manic Mouth open mics, visited Portland with my mother, turned 19, performed in an improv show thanks to my gorgeous friends, it snowed, and told My Ex for the second time in 6 months to never speak to me again (and it worked).

February Accomplishments: I had no Valentine, I went on yet another crappy coffee date, I decided that sociology was the thing I wanted to study, and besides that not much happened.

March Accomplishments: I organized and hosted a murder mystery party, I played a rad game of Apples to Apples, I went to Hawaii, I presented an incredibly impressive sociology project, I finished my second round of college finals, and I started reading the Princess story at open mic.

April Accomplishments: What the fuck happened in April? I started a new quarters and took my second sociology class.

May Accomplishments: I had a mental breakdown in a bathroom and had to call my friend so she could talk some sense into me, I had another stupid fucking coffee date, I went to a party where I acted like a groupy, I went to Folk Life, and the sun finally sorta came out in Seattle.


June Accomplishments: Saw a sociology advisor for the first time ever, took my finals, visited my friends hometown, ate some damn fine pastries, went to a game farm, took my friend to my hometown, went to Santa Cruz, started working at Berkeley Playhouse, and met my now boyfriend.

July Accomplishments: Spent the night of the fourth with two amazing friends, saw Tim Minchin live, had my first Facebook interaction with my now boyfriend, had my first date/ wine night with my now boyfriend, and went to a crazy party for my friends birthday.

August Accomplishments: Not confident anything important happened here... Watched shark week with my friend after spending the evening at an elementary school (not in a creepy way).

September Accomplishments: Went on an intense family canoe trip, decided to try long distance with my now boyfriend, took a road trip back up to school, went to a 90's party, declared my sociology major officially, I became the Manic Mouth open mic host, and started the hardest quarter of college thus far.

October Accomplishments: I didn't die, that is a accomplishment in itself. I hosted a Halloween
Themed open mic, visited home, heard the L-word, went to a Renaissance Faire, decided to apply to the honors sociology program, and dressed up as one of the village people (the construction worker) for Halloween.

November Accomplishments: I barely survived midterms, changed my bio class to pass/fail, applied to a study abroad program, got accepted to the study abroad program, saw Gaelic Storm and Noah and the Whale perform live, went home for Thanksgiving.

December Accomplishments: Finished my hardest quarter yet, painted a mug with my roommate, said goodbye to my roommate, met my new roommate, went home for the holidays, went to Half Moon Bay with my now boyfriend, visited my uncle in LA, got an IPad, and played with sea otters.

There's 2011 for you. Probably I'm missing stuff, probably important stuff, but 365 days is 365 memories and you can't write them all down.

Now for my resolutions:
1. Make everyday unique. Have a funny story for every day.
2. Reach out to friends. They can't always come to you.
3. Study, then watch TV.
4. Play, then study.
5. See as much live music as you can on a budget.
6. Be on a budget.
7. Keep up your blog. Expand your readership.
8. Make a new friend everyday. Search for people.
9. Love the man you love.
10. Be a perfect daughter, and an even perfecter woman.
11. Forget exercising or eating well, you're not gunna do it and you've got a great bod.
12. Eat whatever you want, you've got one life to eat truffles and pasta, do it.
13. Do light therapy, remember SAD? Yeah, never again.
14. Always dress fabulously, you have a boyfriend but make every man who sees you wish you didn't.
15. Get rid of last remaining acne. Because it's preventing you from seeing your beauty.
16. Grow out your hair. I'm fucking serious.
17. Save your money. Don't buy a handbag at Target. Buy it in Italy. Don't drink that crappy Tully's latte, drink one in FUCKING Italy.
18. Don't stress. Everyday is not a crisis. Tomorrow you'll feel better.
19. Appreciate the friends you have. When you see them, hug them like it's a goodbye not a hello.
20. Be funny.

20 things to do this year to make 2012 even better than 2011. That's what resolutions are about, recognizing that even if last year was awesome, the new year could be improved with a few changes in yourself.

This new year is going to rock. I mean it sounds simple, but it is simple. It is Simply Going to Rock. How could it not? It's on the path to greatness and it hasn't even started. Here are some expectations of mine.

First, I'm taking really fucking badass classes this quarter. I'm super excited about all of them and this quarter is going to be much more manageable because of it. Second, Bachelor Is coming back. That was another thing that happened in 2011, I became obsessed with that show thanks to my roommate. Ben is going to make an awesome Bachelor. Just saying. Third, I have the most amazing man who I never give enough credit on my blog, but is absolutely wonderful. With him by my side, this year will be so full of love and joy and happiness. Fourth, I have like super awesome friends in both Seattle and San Francisco. Like seriously, I'm never without someone to hang out with and I am so excited to make more memories with them this year. Fifth, I AM GOING TO ITALY. HOW COULD THIS YEAR NOT ROCK WHEN I'LL BE SPENDING THREE MONTHS OF IT IN ITALY. So I'm super excited about that. Sixth, I am doing really well in school. I love school, I love learning, and I love what I'm studying. I'm going to apply to honors sociology and I hope I can get in and really delve deep into my major. Seventh, I'm young, I'm happy, I'm sassy, I'm smart, I'm heathy, I'm employed, I'm so very very lucky. Which is why when the bell drops tonight at midnight and the clock strikes twelve my heart will absolutely shine with anticipation.

Have a good New Year, be happy, make resolutions, reflect, predict. And be safe bitches! Call a cab or take pubic transportation or have a DD or something. You actually have to make it alive to 2012.

Close Encounters of the Familial Kind

It is the third night here in LA and Christmas celebrations have wound down. It's been a good Christmas all things considered. No drama, which for any family, is impressive.

The morning started with me waking up before everyone else, before even the sun. Maybe it was the anticipatory child in me but I felt clear headed and ready for the day. But as I lie in bed, I mean couch, I found myself drifting back to sleep. Then suddenly I woke up again to a house thrown into chaos. Being in the midst of the chaos purely by sleeping in the living room, I rolled over and tried to make conversation with my uncle. Half asleep and thus incoherent, I rolled back into the pillow and back to sleep. What I was waiting for was my 7 year old acid monkey cousin to wake up and rush to the overflowing pile of presents under the tree.

It happened very unclimatically actually. He woke up finally and mosied over to his stocking with his sister trailing slowly behind. I've never seen such lethargic children on Christmas morning. Maybe it's just me (it's not) but when I was 7 I tore out of my bedroom at the crack of dawn screaming and shredding paper from packages as fast as my little hands could. Nothing could deter me from the presents under that damn tree. Those kids leisurely finished their stockings before stopping and having breakfast. What?! What!? I wouldn't eat, breath, sleep, shower, etc until all my presents were openned and lined up for all to see.

The rest of the day was normal as far as Christmases go. We all lounged around browsing our presents as well as others'. Because of the impracticality of bringing presents to LA just to bring them back, our family subset didn't bring many presents for each other. My presents from my parents (aside from one awesome one) are all still at home torturing me from afar. Tomorrow I will return home and enjoy my plunder but until then I must appreciate a few gifts from extended family. I also was not able to give presents to my parents which made me feel bad, but tomorrow that will be remedied.

Christmas dinner was also a success, which given my vegetarian uncle was a pleasant surprise. The turkey was well done, and I don't mean overdone, and there were mash potatoes and fruit and gravy and stuffing and all the other traditional American feasty foods.

Now we are watching Close Encounters of the Third Kind, not quite a Christmas tradition, but lovely to cuddle up with all of us and watch a movie together. All sitting, all quiet, all calm. I have never seen it before but the title reminds me of this weekend. Close encounters with my family. All ten of us crammed into a house built for two. In every room at least two people find respite, on couches, inflatable mattresses, chairs... And in a way we are alien to each other. We see each other a couple times a year or less and in reality we know very little about each others lives. Only what we can glean from the couple days we have with each other. It's not always as spooky as Close Encounters, although sometimes...

Dear Santa,

As you may know, it is in fact Christmas Eve. This is a big night for you, as you, I'm sure, are well aware. I know I may be a little old to be asking things of you but I have a few requests.

First is good weather. Seattle is infamous for it's rainy days. But for Christmas I'd like a nice warm sunny day while I'm down here in LA. I know it's probably hard to deliver a sunny day down the chimney but maybe you could set it outside the biggest window so I can wake up with it shining in. That'd be great.

Second is good food. I'm serious. I want a damn good meal on Christmas. I know this might be hard with my vegetarian uncle preparing the meal but if you could just slip in something nice for me, that' be great.

Third is a good Pandora playlist. Seriously, with all this down time I need something to keep me going, and recently my Pandora hasn't been inspiring me. If you could like... fix that... That'd be great.

The other stuff on my list would be an Italian dictionary, a suitcase with wheels, the ability to beat my boyfriend at hanging with friends, a cure for acne, a cure for dry skin, matching socks, The Help, the cure for writer's block, a phone case, a tour book for Italy, a pair of skinny jeans that aren't too short and/or awkward, some carmex lipbalm, sun glasses, perfume, and unfaltering peace of mind.

Last year I tried to convince you I was good. This year I'm going to give you plenty of space to decide that. This Christmas I've already gotten more than I wanted or expected from the people I love and I hope they feel the same.

Thanks for listening Claus. I'm sleeping on the couch again so I guess I'll see you tonight.

What's Up LA?

Well we've arrived here in LA and I am currently sitting on my uncle's couch between my mom and my cousin, Maggie, 13. My other cousin, Neville, 7, runs around like a monkey on acid. Unlike the other 7 year olds, his energy is not borne out of holiday sugar. In fact, as far as I can tell he does not eat anything. My grandmother sits drinking a small glass of Baileys confusing Tapas bars with topless bars and Tina Fey with Rachel Ray. My dad sits in a chair in the corner trying very hard to curtail his snarky comments-- somewhat unsuccessfully. And my uncle who's house we've unapologetically invaded runs around trying to salvage the damage Neville has begun to inflict on this posh Los Angeles home. The rest of my family sits around the living room dodging the whirling acid monkey. The LA Christmas Family Adventure has officially begun.

It's Begining to Look a Lot Like Christmas

Here we are. 3 sleeps until Christmas. 1 sleep until I head down to L.A. to spend Christmas with my mother's side of the family. My uncle lives down there as a composer. I haven't seen him or my aunt in a few years. I'm excited to be down in L.A. and I'm excited to be with my mom's family.

For those who have been readers for a while you may remember last year I talked about how my parents families don't mingle socially. I forgot that that's not exactly true. There is some intermingling between a subset of each family group that intermingle for Thanksgiving. That has happened the last couple years and some how I just ignored that truth.

That aside, it doesn't change the fact that my parents families have separate celebrations for Christmas. To recap for those who don't read EVERY post I write (damn you), my dad's family gets Christmas Eve and my mom's family gets Christmas day.

Here is where this year is different. For the first time since I was one year old I will not be spending Christmas Eve with my dad's family. That is 18 Christmas Eves with the same people. That's quite a record people, and I'm proud of it.This year I will be in L.A. hanging with my mom's family and, like, famous movie stars.

At least it will be a warm Christmas. I'm hoping it will be a quiet Christmas. I'm not really sure what I should expect. It's been so long since my mom's whole family has been together, and certainly never in L.A. at my uncles place. This has never been attempted, and I wait with uncertain anticipation.

On (un)related note, it's almost Christmas. Santa is packing up his sleigh and it's snowing places (not here, thank god) and kids are amped up on candy and I'm so so happy. Christmas is my favorite time of year. The music, the food, the family, the friends. The fucking presents.

I'm sorry, maybe I'm just a little girl but I love presents. I just do. There is something about getting a surprise gift you weren't expecting. And it's the people who love you that give you those gifts.

But I love giving gifts just as much. I love shopping for them and I love watching them being unwrapped by the person. I just fucking love presents, bitches.

Trains of Thought

Eight AM the alarm rings
And the first train of thought today
Pulls out of the station.
The slow chugging can be murderous in the morning
--The cold engine stutters--
But when that shrill whistle blows
The call of the tracks is loud and unapologetic.
In the bathroom, it is hard to differentiate the steam in the shower
from the steam engine now picking up momentum
The train is now moving down the line at a startling speed
The workers on the tracks stop and take a step back
as they see the determined front wheels barreling towards them
There is a coal deep in my soul that fuels this train.
If a train of thought leaves one side of my brain
at a hundred thousand thinks a minute,
and another train of thought leaves the other side of my brain
at a hundred million thinks a minute
at what point would those two thoughts collide?
And furthermore what would become of it?
If a train leaves my brain
at two hundred thousand thinks a minute
and another train leaves your brain
at three hundred thousand thinks a minute
who will say what they are thinking first?
If my train passes your train
at an unquantifiable speed
will we still look back at each other
after we’ve gone
and wonder what would have happened if we’d have been on the same track?
At some point on your journey you forget where you were headed when you left.
But somehow it’s okay because the engines won’t stop, the engines can’t stop
So you just keep rolling
Until the engine breaks down,
or the conductor gets tired,
or the tracks end
Or the station you now remember you were headed for
Can been seen on the horizon.

Love and War

I wear combat boots
Marching into a war that should have ended years ago
But at the end of the day I still unlace my boots with care.
I hang them up for the nights I spend with you.
You said all’s fair and I said no fucking way
The history of war looks a lot like the history of love
So I pull my boots on tighter every time you say
I love you, Kiera.
Because you said you would stop with holding love like it was a threat.
Your troops gathered and one by one they shot promises into my barracks
Shattering the armor I had built up for the last 20 years.
My life spent building great walls daring someone to have the energy to tear them down
Someone to think this land was worth conquering
Veni, vidi, vici
I’ve been defending my territory since the day I met you.
My armory was not equipped to defend the front lines
I retreated, scrambling to maintain whatever territory I could still call my own
But you kicked down the walls of my barracks,
Invaded my trenches,
Ripped off my pants and upon seeing me defenselessness cried
This is fucking Sparta, Bitches!
You ended up on top,
Thrusting your sword into me until I thought I would die.
You took me down black opps style like I was an enemy of the state.
This is war. This ain’t some Call of Duty Modern Warfare pussy shit.
I never knew catastrophe until I saw the nuclear missiles lying behind your eyes
Mushroom clouds clouding the meaning of your words.
You mistook this for a grenade
You saw a time bomb waiting to envelop you in flame
But what you don’t understand is,
You dodged shrapnel that was never aimed at you
You became the causality of a war I never meant to start
And in the end, our love was collateral damage.
A battle field riddled with the bullet holes of broken promises
Of broken barricades. Of broken hearts.
As the dust begins to settle I tell myself
Next time. Next time I will say a farewell to arms

Dear Gotham: 2.0

Last week I performed in my first ever slam poetry competition. I have been writing poetry for a little less than a year. I've been performing at open mics since about the same time. Last spring I wrote my first slam poem. It was called Dear Gotham and I performed it at the last open mic of Spring Quarter. I posted it here back then but since than I have edited it. And then I performed it at this slam. Well... I didn't make it to the next round so... Ha. Maybe it's not that good. But I thought I'd share the updated version. Also, I have two other slam poems that I wrote specifically for the slam poetry competition that I'll post in the next couple days although I'll warn you ahead of time they are pretty weak.

For a first ever slam poem, I can live with it. (also, any weirdness in spelling, format etc, I'm sorry, it's spoken word poetry, I'm not thinking about how it is read as much as how it is heard.)

I lost my identity the day
I called it Secret
I masked myself,
forgetting what was hidden underneath
Who I was blurring with
who I was pretending to be
Until slowly the facade
became the flesh

Now I fly the streets at night
Suspended by the city’s invisible puppet strings
As I spin my wheels,
my head spinning
I think:
What happened Gotham?
What kind of bleak,
post-apocalyptic society
thought up you?
Your people are dying, Gotham.
Consumed by fire,
consumed by hate,
Costumed by their own gaudy misdeeds
Your streets stink of the poor and down trodden—
Trodden into the dust of your crumbling walls.
Do you embrace the ugly, Gotham?
Do you welcome the misshapen misfits?
Does your modern gothic architecture beckon like liberty’s silhouette from across the sea?

Who is left to clean up, but those who created the mess?
Our ancestors built this city on the bones of the dead—
My ancestors built upon
your dead
And I alone have sanity enough to stop it.

My heart is black like this city.
Black with soot.
Black with broken dreams
This city never had dreams.
It only had the broken
blackened people
who knew better
than to dream.
Count me with the dreamers, Gotham.
Tell the folks back home I pulled this city up by my
spandex.

This city,
where the evil cry out their sonic song
Where the glint of hope in a child’s heart
cannot be seen through the smog.
Where are born the worst scum of the earth—
Sent to disrupt the already
disturbing existence of these wretches.
These wretches that crawl across your dirtied streets,
Slither through your slime
They come out like night crawlers
in the dark,
Looking for dreams
to make nightmares
Their muddy hands thrown up in front of their faces
as dawn approaches

In the dark
the demons come out.
They are locked in little
gilded cages in the light,
But their pen doors are unhitched in the last fleeting rays of sun.

The demons play
upon the temples
of Gotham’s people.
They tap-dance
across craniums
until the pitter-patter
echoing through the skulls
bid a Scarecrow
come and play

We are all afraid, Gotham.
Of bats, of leather-clad cat burglars, of the seething poison
that you spew.
We are afraid of you, Gotham.

I picture you 100 years—
No,
1000 years ago Gotham.
I picture you with gullies
and meadows,
and no smog
so you can see the sun.
What wondrous wildflowers
used to stretch along
the streets
that are now decimated
by Harvey’s dented coin

I know better than to think of you like this.
You were the breeder of pond scum from the beginning
and you will be the breeder of pond scum until the end.

You were built on mysteries
that not even Edward Nashton himself could answer
But riddle me this, Gotham.
Why do I carry on
through all the vacuous desolation?
Bats are not solitary creatures
by nature, you know
Do not fear, citizens of Gotham.
You’re knight
of the dark night is here.

I watch from on high,
my senses buzzing with the thrum of Gotham’s hum.
Not so much a hum
as a roar

At the end of the night
I find myself drunken
with apathy,
Dribbling curse words
down my chin,
Making spit bubbles
out of my shattered
emotions.
The sun rises
and I am reminded of the poor scattered souls,
who made it through
the night,
To live another day
in this city.

Why Etch-A-Sketches, Pencils, and Backspace Keys Have Made Me A Bad Person

Let's all face that facts on one thing right now. We all make mistakes. We forget birthdays, we lose our tempers, we bomb tests, we spill water all over our friends new macbook air. And in the very moment that we realize our mistake, whether it be trivial or catastrophic, we wish wish we could undo it. Or that we didn't do it in the first place. You have a stupid conversation with someone and you say, "forget this ever happened". You get your bag of chips stuck halfway out of the vending machine and you just wish you could take back your $1.25 in dimes and go on with your life like nothing happened.

You don't rear-end a car and go, oh well. Or at least I don't. I go, OH NO! I WISH I COULD UNDO IT. I always wish I could undo that mistakes I made. Unsay the thing I said when I was mad at my boyfriend, unprocrastinate studying so that I could have time to learn the material (what was I doing on youtube for this many hours anyway?), unspill my coffee or uneat that chili dog that is quickly looking to exit me in a noisy, gassy way.

Even if they aren't mistakes, sometimes my timing is wrong (I should have studied hard and then spent four hours watching cat videos cuz at least I wouldn't be stressed). I wish I could go back in time and do it differently.

How did I develop this desire to undo everything I've done? Or, maybe, how did we develop this as a human culture? I blame inventions that allow you to undo. Fuck the Etch-A-Sketch that lets you shake away your mistakes. Damn the pencil that allows you to scrub away any silly doodles about how JRL+KP=LUV. Curse the backspace key on my computer, the key I consistently use more than any other key.

Let me draw in fat, felt tip markers. Let me doodle in sharpies. Let me pry this backspace key off my keyboard and be freed by the fear of moving on from mistakes.

Because how can you move on from mistakes, how can you recover, or rationalize your mistakes if in a blink of an eye that mistake is gone? No one knows. No one will ever know. You can deny your failings. They might as well have never happened.

But they did.

You FUCKED UP BRO.

You held down the shift bar a little too long and typed > instead of .

You didn't hold down the shift bar long enough and typed !!!!!!1111 instead of !!!!!!!!!!

You just hit that parked car. You just broke your fourth iPhone. You just yelled at your roommate. You just damn screwed up, son. There ain't an eraser for that, friend. Everyone can see, everyone knows, and you can't delete that. You can't undo anything.

You have to learn to accept mistakes. I'm not saying that when you mess up you should not care or just say fuck it all. I'm saying man up and recognize, brotha. You done effed up. See it, name it, and deal with it.

Etch-A-Sketches, pencils, backspace bars, they just delude people. It's not real. Remember what's real. Mistakes are real. Embrace them. Cuz they aren't gunna disappear.

English Class

I'm taking an English creative writing class this quarter because, well, what the hell right? Why the fuck not. Well I've quickly come to the conclusion as I read more and more peer drafts that my future in writing... Is so much more likely than theirs...

Okay, okay, that's a little harsh. There are lots of factors that make or break a writer. Skill is only one. Especially since this is just a class. People are learning and if they are anything like me they aren't trying very hard. And some of the students are good. If maybe a little canned and prescribed. But, hey, so am I at times. It's hard finding your voice. That's why this is here, this blog.

But seriously. I'm going to confess something to you. I have a huge complex with English classes. My mom always said when I sent her mixed messages that I was making her schizophrenic. Well, I feel like that with English classes. Or at least I felt like that with high school English---but I guess being almost twenty I should move past high school, eh?

Well in high school I basically hated English about as much as I loved it, which was, as it turned out, a lot. I loved reading and writing but if I even so much as glanced at another student's better grade I felt like hurling. If I failed a history test that everyone else aced I shrugged it off with a better luck next time attitude. But with English I felt the competition boiling under my skin.

It only got worse as high school progressed and I masochistically (am I using that word right? ah, who the hell knows/cares) registered for higher English classes. I remember being in Junior year loving my class (Oh, Charla) but CRYING (being 16 was hard) when I thought I couldn't compete with the other honors students (who I realize are all facebook friends with me and could very well be reading this, and, undoubtedly judging me for my use of masochistically). Senior year was no better. I could actually feel myself starting to hate English and hate Mrs. Mayer (real name, that's how strongly I feel) and hate the other bitches in my AP English class (who, yes, are also facebook friends with me and probably are busy unfriending me at this point). Right around the time their college acceptance letters started flooding in from Harvard, Stanford, Cal, and other high brow upper educational establishments, I started getting my rejection letters...

But hey. Now I am at the University of Washington, I'm a Sociology major, I have a social life up the fucking wazoo, I am in a residence hall leadership position (yay for learning how to prepare a funding proposal this weekend), I am the officer of a school organization that gets more and more well known by the day, I write a fucking blog, and finally, I may be the best writer in my English class.

And I give no credit to Mrs. Mayer. (Though I give hella props to Charla).

Maybe I'm being unfair. Maybe I shouldn't be so harsh to my fellow classmates and maybe I should give credit to Mrs. Mayer.

To my classmates at the UW: I'm sorry if I sound harsh. Maybe I should sugar coat it for y'all. But here's the dealio honeys. No one sugar coated it for me. You either write or you don't. And you either write good or you don't. If you can get better, if you can take a class and improve, that's great. But know that good writing is all relative. Relative to my AP 'peers' I was nuthin'. And relative to published writers I'm the shadow of nuthin'. But someday maybe I'll be something. Something to someone. Maybe what I have to say on the page will touch someone.

To Mrs. Mayer: I don't want you to be reading this. At least not yet. Maybe someday. If, somehow, it does get back to you, know this: you are a foster-er of young hearts. You are a gardener of young souls, do not prune haphazardly. We are the angels of a new generation, and you are the patron saint of shitting on our prayers. You're criticism, it should push us forward not hold us back. Ready students for what's ahead, don't tell us not to step forth.

In conclusion, I have no conclusion, because I'm a mediocre blogger. The end.

Mrs. Mayer would probably give me a 4/9 for this, because that's what she always gave me.

New Heights of Free Writes

This is a post dedicated to all the people out there procrastinating. It's midterm season and I really shouldn't be writing this. And you really shouldn't be reading this. But here we are anyway.

The sky is low in Seattle. Chicken Little would not like it here. Its oppressive clouds press down on your shoulders as you walk across campus. You feel like a mime, trapped in a box with an invisible ceiling. I don't know why I have this feeling about Seattle. I know the clouds above are far away. But even on clear days like today, this feeling of shallow atmosphere prevails.

In Minnesota the sky is topped like a cathedral. Domed and grand it seems very tall. It's clouds are cream puffs far off above a blue that goes on for ever. It's like you can see the end of the universe in the sky.

I can't tell how tall the sky is in San Francisco. Maybe it varies. Maybe being a local, I don't notice it anymore. It doesn't feel low or high. It seems normal.

Normal normal. Moral. I've lost meaning in words over-used by people who forget that they used to carry weight. They throw them like shot-puts only I never learned track or field. I can't understand what others forget to comprehend.

Laugh. Because what do you need to be quiet about? Do you know that laughing burns calories? You look sour, sweet girl. Sour like old milk. Sour like gym socks left unwashed. Dry sweat isn't crisp. It's soft salt.

Like ocean breezes. Take me away sea salt air. I'll wave away in the tides of self-consciousness. Like kelp or jelly fish. I won't sting you. I have no armed tentacles. My arms are not armed. I have no exoskeleton, I'm not an invertebrate. I am not spineless but I carry no spines along my backbone.

I am soft but my voice is not. Don't hit record, I do not want to hear this again. My hips make more meaning than my mouth when we are together but I still talk too much.

I wish I was small. Palm-sized. You could caress me like prayer beads. I hope God hears what I wish for, even if I never knew where to look for him. Old stones never seemed holy to me, even if they were built up into spires.

I built up the deities of too many men before you. I never learned sacrifice was sacrilegious so I gave myself to your alter long after his Holy Ghost had stopped haunting me.

I read a lot but never the Bible. I tried once but couldn't get through the first chapter. The creation of man left me puzzled and the creation of woman left me angry.

With one less rib was he weaker? Did he fall first after they fell from grace? I never knew what happened after everyone beget everyone else.

I drank the kool-aid before I knew about artificial flavors. So is it meaningful that I can't stomach artificial things? Does it mean that I can't stand anything false. I am not a false woman, although I used to be.

I sleep in my own bed. It is the only thing that is mine and I forget what that means when it's cold sheets do not comfort. I don't know what it means to be alone until I remember what an empty bed looks like. My bed has never been full. I have filled beds but mine is void. There is one warm spot, not two.

In sleep I can be with him. I wake up happy we spent a night together, especially since it felt like a day. We are not lost in space, we are grounded and at night I feel him. I see him but I feel him too. He is there and I am there and together. Distance is not a factor in my dreams.

Time. Distance. The every tick of the clock eases me into the future I am moving towards. With more time there is less distance. Steps. Walking. Finding a path and following it.

Myself. I move myself. I move for the fall. I move for the forbearance. I move for the forgetting. I move for myself.

I used to know what life is. I used to know what life is. Now I understand what life was but know I'll never know what life is. I forget to remember what life is until it has passed over me like the waves of the ocean.

Like sound waves. Like light waves. Like waves of goodbye.

Airports and train stations away. Away away. Away await away. Goodbye butterfly. Fly fly a ways away. I move more directly than butterflies. I move like arrows or bullets--direct but in no direction. Shots to the sky.

Shots in the dark. Black light making teeth and nails glow. Clean hands. From too much scrubbing. Loud loud loud. Shots in the dark. Corners and crevices of hope found in corners and crevices of wine and whiskey. I never knew how to take shots in the dark. I liked to see where I was going.

The sun the sun you forgot us here. You are here but you forgot the warmth. November niceties about cold crisp mornings and evenings. Not light sweater days. Warm jacket and hot coffee days. I eat to remember what a warm belly feels like.

By the by and furthermore. Continuously kept up appearances but not for appearances sake. Insanity can't be called insanity if you are aware of it, can it? I can't hear my breathing but I know I am alive. Brain functions continue regardless of want and eventually I remember. Midterms. School. Responsibility. Future.

One Year

I know it's been a couple weeks since we have talked. I've been busy which I know isn't an excuse. I've been stressed which I also know isn't an excuse. But mostly I've been having trouble writing which is both the worst excuse and the most honest. But today is a big day and I must acknowledge it. I have made it one year of blogging. Last Halloween I christened this post duumshit because I thought, who am I this stupid freshman? writing a blog about a life I know so little of? But I made it. I made it through my first year of college and am now a month into the second year.

People always ask me on birthdays if I feel different. I guess they want to know if I feel older. Aging is a gradual process, and as such it's hard to recognize the difference between 12 and 13, 18 and 19, 45 and 46. So I always shrug off the answer and say "Nah, I feel the same".

This time I don't. I do feel older. A year later, this blogs birthday, feels very different than a year ago. I have different priorities, different problems, different dreams, different perspectives, different loves. I can feel it in the feel of my skin against my sweater. I can feel it in the feel of my sore muscles from mud-sliding this weekend. I can feel it to my bones. I can feel it to the center of my heart.

Today I feel old. I feel 80 years old. And my 80 year old self scoffs at my 19 year old self for being presumptuous enough to think I know what that feels like.

A year is a long time. Time. Everyday I am reminded that it never stops. The days I want it too it always speeds up and the days I want it to speed up it always slows down. I guess that's just.... cliche. But there is a reason somethings are universal.

Last year. Holy shit last year. Anyone even remember my first post? It's scary. And not just cuz I wrote it on Halloween. Last year was so... dramatic. This year is so.... dramatic.

This year. That's what I have started this post to talk about. This year. The present and the future. The past is past and thank god I survived and THANK GOD I came away unscathed. That's not true. I was plenty scathed but THANK GOD I healed. That's what this one year has done. Healed me.

Healing. The reason to be positive. There is a person in my life who needs that reminder and I am here to remind him that. Healing is the reason to be positive. Not because if you're positive bad things won't happen to you. Being positive isn't a shield. Being positive isn't being in denial. Being position is recognizing that being scathed is okay. Because who knows what will happen in a year? Who knows what the truth will hold for you in 365 days? Not fact. Just truth. Because the facts of a year ago haven't changed. The truth I have taken from it has changed. Because I healed.

I healed on my own, I healed with my friends, I healed with my family. I healed with the people who loved me. I healed because I had 7 billion people to listen to me heal. To read along. To watch me grow. And so what if only in a year I got 2700-odd page views? (A bit off of 7 billion) This blog let me put to the world complaints, memos, updates, thoughts, ideas. That is what is beautiful about my year of blogging.

The summer after my senior year of high school I thought of an idea. It was a concept I had never considered before, but once I had it seemed so obvious. I had to become my own best friend. Not because I don't have best friends, Caitlin and Claire have always been there for me, but because I had to live with myself everyday. This summer I decided to be my own lover. Not because I didn't have a lover (no further comment), but because I have to sleep with myself every night.

I'm not saying its easy. That I just decided to do that and I did it and it's great. It's like any friendship or any love affair. There are insecurities, judgments, arguments, frustrations. But I don't think a break up is going to happen anytime soon.

Being my own best friend and lover, I have found positive thinking easier than ever. Healing is faster with a close friend to lean on and who is closer than yourself? Nothing is ever too much to handle with my own shoulder to cry on. I still cry on other people's shoulders but... I feel healthier.

One year. I can't believe I kept this up for a year. My roommate and I both decided to start a blog at the same time. I'm at 78 posts over the last 12 months. She lasted for 5 posts in 3 months.

It's therapeutic... I guess I need a lot of therapy. Hah. It's also a life style. It's a habit. You know, like shaving. You don't have to do it everyday, but you end up doing it a most days anyway. (TMI?)

You know what else is therapeutic? Music. I forgot that. I can't believe I forgot that. I used to listen to music for more hours in the day than I slept. I listened to music for more hours in the day than I DID'T listen to music. Then it was like summer and the only time I listened to anything was like the top 40 station while I was driving. Now back at school I'm like, "WTF, you think I have time to listen to music????" Plus my pandora stations are all old and tired. But a coupla days ago I put on a play list I hadn't listened to since senior year named "Low Key". Holy shit. Music Renaissance! Artists who I never listen to anymore or who I only like one song of abound in this ridiculously motley play list. Since then I've listened to only that play list on shuffle. Sometimes you just need a little soft alternative rock to placate you during stressful times.

So. In conclusion. Happy anniversary! Keep reading! Be positive! Heal! Befriend yourself! Love yourself! Write! Listen! Grow! Grow! Grow! And know, I'll always be here for you. And I'll always have something to say about it. :)

You Say You Want A Revolution

Here's the thing about college. It has always been the same. It never changes. New majors may appear, new teaching methods may develop, generation after generation will pass through the golden arches built by the founding fathers of whatever university you may attend but to the core it will always be the same. Although the education system in this country is not ideal, the educational process found in most universities is idealistic. This is a place for thinkers, yet to be doers, but ready to step out into the world--maybe not today, but certainly tomorrow. 

Thinkers in centralized locations like universities think and because of their close vicinity with other thinkers they often think together. This is where the common theme of college throughout time and space comes to a head.

What I am trying to say is invariably college students discuss. And in this particular case, they discuss politics. And in this way we are cliche.

How cliche is it for college students to discuss politics? Um. As cliche as any Hugh Grant romcom or Vin Diesel action flick. So cliche.

So here I am today talking to my friend Pamela about politics. Talking the state of America, specifically. She is a good source of information and honestly a good sound board for my own ideas.  The thing I like Pamela that she doesn't do pleasantries. We can jump into an involved discussion without so much as a "how're you?".

I really couldn't recount to you all that we talked about but it was in depth. What began as a conversation about what we did over the summer turned into have you heard about wall street? I had not, but I got some info on it from Pamela. Then that turned into what's happening with the American government and what's happening to two party democracy. That evolved into comparing contemporary issues with historic revolutions.

The problem with talking about politics is it's really easy. It's so easy to have an opinion. Action is the hard part. I don't think of myself as an activist. Pamela might, she certainly has activist tendencies. But for me. If I'm recruiting for anything it's probably for an open mic. I believe in the power of movements but I have trouble in getting behind them personally.

I'm a radically moderate individual. That means I fiercely believe no one should fiercely believe in anything. And I'm an individual which means I think my ideas are too unique to box up and ship prepackaged to the nearest picket line. Ideas are complex-- they can't be written on one poster. 

I'm not even sure they can be written on one blog, but I'm trying.

I also have conflicting ideas. Pamela is older than I am, maybe she knows better what she believes. I don't know but it doesn't feel right imposing belief systems on people when I don't know what even I'll believe tomorrow. I have questions for the world. I still need clarification. It would be unwise to assume this will be the mind set I will have the rest of my life.

Pamela and I talked a lot in theoretical terms. Lot's of ifs. I have theories about why the world works the way it does, politically and otherwise, and I talked about them. Causes of the current status of the world, conditions for change historically, etc. All theories and none of them tested.

Oh college. Everyday you amaze me. Even the expected things are exceptional.

Road Trips

My mother and I, for reasons too logistically complex to explain here, decided the wisest course of action in getting me to Seattle this year would be to road trip there. We packed my mother’s Rav-4 full with boxes, suitcases and road trip food and headed north. We left on Sunday morning and arrived today. Two nights and three days. Not bad. Not good.

It is my belief that it is a very all-American thing to do, a road trip. In this case I am not all-American. I don’t really like road trips. I know everyone’s all hippy-dippy, bumper-sticker-slogan, I-have-a-guru-who-tells-me-crazy-shit-to-make-me-feel-better-about-my-wayward-life but “Life is about the journey not the destination” is a crap sentiment. It is. It just plain is. If I’m going to Seattle I don’t want it to take three days. I wanna goddamn be there inmediatamente, por favor. Especially when everyone I know in Seattle keeps texting me about when I’m gunna be there already, and everyone in back home is all sad I left. I either wanna be in Seattle or I wanna be in my home town. None of this transitiony-limbo crap.

Road trips are hard. I just don’t like them. I wouldn’t say I don’t like traveling but I don’t like traveling… For example… I like traveling to Mexico to sit on a beach in a foreign land where mocha men can serve me cold drinks with brightly colored umbrellas in them. I just don’t like traveling to Mexico on a BART train to get to the airplane, an airplane to get to a cab, and finally a cab to the hotel. It’s the moving around that I don’t like. And well that’s kinda the point of a road trip…

I like being here and there. I like point A and point B, it’s the route from one to the other I could skip. That’s why it is my firm belief that I teleportation should be every inventor’s first priorities. Beam me up, Scotty.

Art and Wine: The Perfect Goodbye

My last summer day in California was spent at my favorite event in my home town. The art and wine festival in this San Francisco suburb is, I think, rather average. Paintings and sculptures and boutique-style wall art and smelly candles and soaps and jewelry and generally pretty things with big price tags and small practical use. Even if they are extremely aesthetically pleasing. And of course wine. And food. Which is of course greasy, over-priced, small-portioned, and oh so delicious.

It is, as I have said, an average Art and Wine Festival. So why is it my favorite weekend of the year? Why do I drop everything for it, even schedule when I am leaving for school around it?

Because it represents my home town in essence. Beautifully. This is the weekend where all the people I see everyday, who I grew up with, who I shop at the grocery store next to, who cut me in line at Peet's coffee, who raised the kids I used to play soccer with, who were the leaders of my Girl Scout Troop (okay,I never made it passed Brownies), who carpooled with me to elementary school, who are everyone I've ever known to any extent all coming together for one weekend. It is a huge congregation of peers, parents, teachers, bosses, co-workers, friends, and acquaintances. And they are all uncensored. They drink their wine, they buy their art, they walk their dogs, they scold their kids, they hold hands with their hubbies.

Everyone is themselves. You can recognize them a mile away: The sporty soccer moms with their lulu lemon yoga pants dragging their kids, still in cleats from this mornings game, around with a blue-tooth in. The posh moms looking for a new pair of earrings, or set of wine glasses, who leave their kids to hang on the arms of their husbands who wander around dazed by price tags and lulled by the beer they hold slackly in their hands. The old, retired people who walk methodically up and down the aisles, waving to middle-aged people they knew when they were kids and forgetting that they are not grade-schoolers anymore. The young couples with the infants who have just moved into the neighborhood who grapple with the stroller and the wine glasses, and end up grumpy by the end of the day, not used to the heat, the booze, or the crying baby. The folks who are my parents age, whose kids have all left for school and yet are still bragging about all their child's accomplishments, which I know, knowing the kids, are excessive exaggerations. And the kids. Middle school and high school students selling water bottles to fund school events and sports teams. The younger ones, leaping at any opportunity to stray from their parents, to sit on the curb with a mom-funded shave-ice and giggle over the newly discovered freedom. The older ones, lackadaisical as they slump around in hoodies, pretending it isn't 85 degrees outside-- the perfect display of an Indian Summer. They roam in packs, flooding aisles with no money for food or art, and not yet old enough for wine. They come because that's what you do. You go to the Art and Wine festival. At least I did when I was their age, which admittedly was a very short while ago.

There are few kids my age. For the most part school has started for my peers. It is about to start for me after all. I am hyper-aware of this. Parents of my peers who wave me down to chat ask me when I'm leaving. Some, those who know me less well, I can tell are timid to bring up the subject. Presumably, their kids started a month ago, like most not on the quarter system. They attempt to ask neutral questions like "So what are you up to this fall?" or "So are you going to school at this point?" And I have to pretend not to notice their worried and/or confused expressions about whether I, being the rebel they have imagined, have poo-pooed formal education altogether. I answer like I assume they know everything about me with, "The U-Dub doesn't start until the end of the month but I'm leaving tomorrow". The knot between their brows untangles as they smile and are reassured that my hometown is still churning out winners.

I am there in the morning with my man and his dog and goddamn does that dog attract people of all shapes and sizes from practically a 50 mile radius. Dogs are everywhere at the Art and Wine festival. But this dog is top of the line cute. I mean he was turning cop-security people into melty puddles of puppy-loving goo. But as for me, well, I was focused on another cute boy altogether-- feeling myself turning into a melty puddle of man-loving goo.

In the afternoon I got a second wind and I came back with my folks for Art and Wine part two. My mom shopped for a cutting board after destroying our last one while my dad and I were in the back country. My dad bought raffle tickets for a canoe (cuz he didn't get his fill...). And I bought wall art for my dorm room. It was all around a very successful second round.

Walking back to the car I got my last tastes of this community. Pre-teen bros on BMX bikes with Beiber hair riding around the streets like squeaky-clean hooligans, preppy high school girls with whore make-up and too straight streaky hair gliding from booth to booth with a vapid unawareness of what they are looking at, parents chasing toddlers with wispy hair meticulously rubber-banded in an undignified tuft on the top of their heads, retirees' with their callused, arthritis-stricken hands clasped as they stroll with wine glasses tipping precariously in their other hands, moms with blackberries and jogging outfits, dads with blue-tooths and loafers, the usual suspects, all who I love. Not because I recognize every face or know all about their lives, but because they represent all I am leaving behind. A sort of oddly unique yet poshly cliche community of people all here, downtown, looking at art and drinking wine.

This is my perfect goodbye. Now I am road-tripping up to Seattle, back to school, with my dear mother. It is day two and we are now in Portland. Last night we were in Ashland. And tomorrow, well, we can talk about that when we get there.

Canoe-Palooza Part Eight

I realize that the number of posts have now exceeded the days in which I actually spent canoeing. It is day six, the last evening, and I still feel there is so much left unsaid. The portages—I have not even begun to talk about them. The water—which I promised posts ago I would elaborate on. The bugs, the campsites, the wind, the rain (minimal but not non-existent)… They all seem vital and I want to flesh them out the best I can now. Time is fleeting and what I have to say, catches at my throat. “Quickly!” I say to my brain, “before I leave and forget it all.” But my brain says, “Hush, slow down or you will deprive yourself of valuable processing time. You want insight, not observation.” In the presence of all this I find endless inspiration.

On water: The water is black here. It would be a mistake to call this blue water. If a plane flew by from above (which is not often) it would not be cool blue pools of water they looked down upon. Big, black and with the potential to be ominous. From afar they might look more akin to gigantic tar pits than lakes. So many lakes, for so many miles, so sprawling and with such uneven shores you almost wouldn’t be surprised if it all ended up to be one big lake and lots of islands, instead of the other way around. The water is not dirty, not polluted or anything like that. Just..black. Just black with no bottom. Deep until infinity. My dad tells me it is because of the peat in the lake but my imagination has not processed that. Black like infinite space. Even five feet below the surface things are swallowed by the darkness. The darkness. Full of mystery. Full of despair. These lakes have the shining black surfaces of crow’s eyes. Like hot black lava, like molten black glass. Solid-looking until the paddle breaks the surface. Not impermeable but seemingly so. Not infallible but with that unmistakable façade.

On portages: Now that I have broached the subject I find myself with not much to say. Simply put, they are what you do when you reach the end of a lake and have a bit of land between you and the next lake. You must then take yourself, your backpack, your food, AND your canoe on land and plop it back into the water on the other side. Sometimes there can be one or two portages in a day and sometimes as many as seven or eight. And some are as short as a few feet and some are as long as a quarter of a mile. And always it takes a coupla trips to get everything on the other side. It can be a nice break from the monotony of paddling but it can also be fairly strenuous.

On bugs: None exceptionally bitey although the first night they took some chunks outta me. Mostly, they provide a harmonic hum to the already melodic environs of the Minnesota back country.

On campsites: This is what I have learned about campsites. They are just like houses—they come in all different styles and sizes and inevitably you find one that suits you. I also know that you are not particularly picky after a long day of paddling.

On wind: While canoeing it is always consistently in your face, providing a nice cool breeze but still making the task of paddling more difficult nonetheless. “Feather your canoe” my grandfather shouts at me from the other canoe (even when, on the odd chance, it isn’t windy). The wind. A curious thing, the wind. A meteorologically explainable but psychologically mysterious phenomena. Weather patterns have always intrigued me. I think they intrigue human beings in general. Myths about certain seasonal changes or what have you, by now all explained away by science still hold influence in certain societies. Phrases as well. “Whichever way the wind blows”—a phrase too often thrown about by people who have not had to fight against it for hours in a canoe, wet and tired and cold and yet still sweating from the effort. Whichever way the wind blows could treacherously be into a rock; causing a hole in our fragile Kevlar canoe; into a fallen log, causing us to capsize, our belongings tossed into the black depths of the lake; away from our destination. Following whichever way the wind blows can be a dangerous game while canoeing. It could be that is the case with living as well.

On rain: Oh Seattle, you are a wet and rainy gem. The Emerald city, you lovely, rainy wonderland. Nowhere, in no situation, at anytime, anywhere but with you will I ever again complain about the rain. I know, you glorious, rain-soaked metropolis—seemingly small praise. But oh how it is so, undoubtedly, undeniably true. Day one and day four were wet and I did not even flinch. A tad cold perhaps (it is Minnesota) but the rain was anything but unbearable. As we departed on day one, someone said this is our impression of Seattle. Oh, if only they could measure up to your spectacular wetness. If you were a vagina, oh how I would fuck you. But alas, you are not. You are a city and I must endure you as a place of residence. You are not a wet slut, you are a slippery sidewalk, a drippy awning, a never quite dry pair of socks. All weather is good weather when compared to you.

In conclusion: Well folks, as I have timed it this last canoe post comes just in time. Try as I might, I cannot in fact write it all down. Every minute, every experience. So much is left to say and maybe in the future I will write more, but now is not the time. Tomorrow I leave for Seattle again. Time for a new page in my ever filling book of life. To dwell on something past will not make time slow. It ticks on and I must step in time or be left in the dust by my own quickly-paced life. Tomorrow’s post will be a goodbye to canoe-palooza along with some other things.

Canoe-Palooza Part Seven

I was in a canoe paddling with my dad when I noticed smoke on the horizon. I saw it first. Then, breathing deeply, searching with my nose, I smelled it. Softly rich like dissipating cigar smoke. Like city smog it clouds the details of the horizon until the trees blur together into a vague dark rim around the lake we are paddling on—like a ring around a bathtub. A forest fire—my mind flickers to the new saplings only four years old—now consumed.

My mind is engulfed with thoughts but in my hands is a canoe paddle not a pen and paper. I need my pen and paper, god dammit, before the flames of thought licking the insides of my brain—flashing from one synaptic branch to another—spreading fast like the fire I could smell. I need to write before the ideas disappear like the smoke—fogging—blurring. Shore is here and I jump forth to grab my notebook, abandoning my father to pull the canoe up to shore by himself.

Smoke wafts into the campsite from afar. I cannot see flames but I don’t expect to. This is not a close fire. To see the smoke before smelling it—that means something. A loon croons—possibly smelling the smoke as well. I imagine it recognizing the pale grey as a death shroud. The smoke fills his lungs and he cries out, siren-like, the alarm. Another loon calls back. As we sit in camp, discussing the happenings rather matter-of-factly, we hear a plane overhead and know help is on its way. If only I could tell that to the loon.

Update from my dad’s facebook: I learned that over 100,000 acres have burned east of Ely and southwest of where we were and almost all entry points to the BWCA have been closed. No damage to the area we were in this year, but it sounds like it completely wiped out the area we were in a few years ago.

Canoe-Palooza Part Six

Philosophy of Fish Gutting

I have now watched my father fillet three fish at this point. Two he caught, and one of mine. The process is slow although I suspect it is because he is simply unskilled. He confirms this, but is unembarrassed by the fact. He gets the job done.

The process is both brutal and systematic. It is certainly not malicious but I still cringe at points, though morbid curiosity forbids me to look away completely. Startled by the thud of the fish’s head hitting a rock jolts me, and I can’t help but exclaim. It kills the fish in one quick pound on the ground but it still stings. The knife pierces the flesh at last and scarlet tears fall from the fish’s ivory belly, mourning its death with trickles of its own blood.

After the initial blood slides down the fat body and drips from the tail, the guts are removed. In a maneuver that seems complicated but is too fast and involved for me to see the details, the insides of the fish are suddenly not on the inside of the fish. On inspection, my dad notes that it is a female as he unceremoniously pulls out a hand-full of red eggs from what I had previously referred to as an “it”. She, as I now understood it, was an expecting mother.

Suddenly, a thought wormed to the center of my thoughts. It this how God does it? Assuming for a moment he exists—and I for one have no idea—no proof from personal experience suggesting either his presence or lack thereof (although this is a whole other thought process for a whole other day). Is this the method under which God operates? As a hungry fisherman, reeling in victims for above, taking them and scooping them up with his heavenly fishing net? Only later realizing the details of the life he has just taken; gutting not them, but the lives of the ones who loved them. How many expecting mothers has God taken away? Countless, undoubtedly. I have, of course, not killed countless fish mothers. Even saying fish mothers seems ridiculous, although it is not false. Does it put me in the same category? The same category as God? Hmm…perhaps false. Perhaps too assuming. But I cannot help to lament the fish that could’ve hatched from those eggs—if only because they would never grow to into catchable sized fish for me to vanquish.

The guts—eggs included must now be discarded. Flung back haphazardly, the intestines catch on a branch, hanging unapologetically from a tree. Accidental, I know, but the gesture seems to add insult to injury. Or death, in this case.

Canoe-Palooza Part Five

Yes, you do have to endure another blog post about my canoe trip. I had a lot of time in which to write. As always I will say if you are just joining us now, you may want to start at the beginning so you get the full story of my expedition through the great outdoors.

This one is about camping. The actual tent, sleeping bag, camp fire, etc experience. It takes stamina. It takes stamina to do everything outdoors style. Stamina to sleep in the cold, on the lumpy forest floor. Stamina to eat everything boiled, canned, dried our otherwise packaged. Stamina to bathe in near arctic water temperatures with no soap and a very small hand towel that as hard as you try is never quite dry by the time you need to bathe again. Stamina to pee in the woods where you pray the whole time a mosquito or a spider or a chipmunk or a snake won’t take this opportunity to bite your exposed-ness while you struggle to find a log that won’t leave splinters in your ass. I don’t know, maybe that’s too much information, but anyone who has experienced the glories of backpacking can hardly deny it. Not that I’m complaining but you have to come prepared. I mean physically prepared, yes, but ultimately mentally prepared. It takes more than a fair amount of psychological stamina to camp. I’d like to think I have that.

Camping with my family takes a certain strain of psychological stamina. We are quirky. We have unique communication skills. We basically squabble like bickering chipmunks, getting out ideas out at once until all our muddled brains arrive at some cohesive conclusion. It’s organized chaos but as far as I can tell it hasn’t failed us yet. To the third party obsever it might seem like the blind leading the blind, but I’d like to think happily so.

Essentially, camping is just like living normally. At least on paper. Theoretically there is in fact very little difference. And for some people, there may be no difference in reality—oh! A squirrel just nearly attacked me!—ehem—but for me I can make the distinction.

Maybe all of you reading this are expert campers and backpackers and canoers. If that is the case than maybe you find the details of it uninteresting. Well…then…I really don’t know what to tell you other than maybe the next post will be more to your liking. If, however, you still decide to continue reading, you may find I have some interesting, if not particularly peculiar observations about life in a campsite.

Morning starts at dawn and I suppose always does although I am not often enough awake then to vouch for it. My grandfather is up then, like an old fox—silent and thin, he sits in the frail morning light. What does he think about in those pale morning hours with no one’s company to distract him from his own mind? Sharp as a tack, always, and one to speak his mind unfailingly, I can’t help but ponder what he does with those thoughts with no one to share them with in these brisk mornings.

My father gets up next, like a bear, big and clumsy, but endearing. Like a teddy bear come to life, he stumbles out of the tent, read for hibernation to be over. Next my aunt shifts, like a nervous rabbit, unsure if she really wants to get out of her warm bed, but sure she’ll enjoy herself (and any coffee there might be) outside of the tent.

I am not to be disturbed. 7 o’clock, maybe 7:30 and I do not stir. I do not wish to stir. The sly old fox, my grandfather, tries to lure my out with taunts and teases, my papa bear’s hearty laugh a roar of approval. I am a little snake. I do not wish to be out in the unconvincing low morning light. It is warm in my sleeping bag, my crevice, and cold outside. Why would I volunteer to throw myself into the briskness so unceremoniously? Leave me be until it is warm enough for me to bask on a sunny rock.

The fox does not subside his remarks and now the gleeful bear joins in, always chipper in the freshness of a new day. I slither out of the tent, slitty-eyed and sip on some coffee until the sun is high enough to warm my back. As warmth returns to my body, I begin to perk up, ready for the day.

We canoe all morning and stop for lunch. We divide things fairly, making sure to keep track so we have enough for the rest of the trip. Then we canoe for a few more hours until about mid-afternoon. Finding out new campsite can be difficult if there are several choices or if we don’t know exactly where we (or they) are. But after much deliberation we always find the best one.

Afternoons are quiet, lots of reading or swimming (if we can stand it) or writing (for me). Not a lot of conversation happens until libation time (also known as cocktail hours for normal people). We are opinionated people, sure, and talkative when appropriate. But we are quiet folk, and out here is quiet country and we like the slow ecstasy of the quietude.

Then libation time. We sit in front of the campsites best look out and drink a small crystal light infused cocktail. Gin for my father and I, vodka for my aunt, and whiskey for my grandfather. We sit and sip and pop peanuts and pistachios and conversation ebbs and flows.

Grandpa has ideas—lots of ideas—opinions about the world:
1. Pessimistic attitudes about society and the grievous state our food industry is in ever since he started reading Omnivore’s Dilemma. I keep telling him to keep reading because it gets more optimistic but he’s stubborn and once he has formed his opinion he doubts he will ever change it. If you haven’t read it, you should—and trust me and not my grandfather that it is not a totally hopeless look on the way the food industry.
2. Personal preferences regarding things like commercial television—specifically, “what’s that comedian’s name? Seinfeld.” He says his favorite character is Elaine, and goes on an all out backhanded compliment spree, ending with a firm “not that I’ve got the hots for her”. I can’t help bursting into laughter at this—thinking of my grandfather watching Seinfeld and laughing at Elaine’s mannerisms.
3. And of course his observations on the surrounding environs—numerous comments said between great sighs and “Oh boys”. One choice comment I jotted down was, “Got, isn’t this spectacular? We are sitting on the ground, around a fire…bullshitting”. And that’s what camping is. So simply put. And in the most delightful way. It doesn’t need the frills of a resort or hotel or day spa. You can sit around and enjoy yourself just by… bullshitting.

After libation time is dinner which is either fish or something freeze dried and brought back to life via a pot of boiling water. After that is tea and cookies and then more sitting or talking or reading or writing. Then old sly fox goes to his tent and papa bear and auntie rabbit and I tread, tired but happy, to our own.

Canoe-Palooza Part Four

Welcome folks, to part four in what has becomes my epic tale of the canoe trip I went on recently. EPIC TALE PEOPLE. That means ya can’t jump in half way, so go read from the beginning and the rest of you diligent readers go on ahead. There will be a test and I expect all of you to ace it.

This post I dedicate to the art form known by most as fishing. You make be familiar with it. You may also be interested to know that I participated in the age old method of subsistence. I do not fish often and in my memory I never fished will. In fact, in my memory I have never actually caught a fish. Sure, as a kid camper I probably caught a little minnow-type-guppy but:
1. I have no definite recollection of it.
2. It was probably really my dad who did all the real fishing and I just kind of had the impression of fishing.
3. The story of how I caught fish on my canoe trip would be less thrilling without the added bonus of it being the first ever living fish I’ve ever caught.

So… I CAUGHT MY FIRST EVER BONAFIDE FISH!

I know. I am as surprised as you! What a plot twist, how unexpected, who could have guessed?!

Even more impressively, on my first day of fishing I not only caught my first, but my second, third, fourth, fifth, AND sixth! ALL IN ONE DAY. I don’t want to sound cocky but I think I may be the best fisher in the western world. Probably the whole world. Perhaps the universe—assuming there are fish on other planets and that (semi)intelligent life (if they are not indeed those very fish) fish for them. And I am the best. I mean, Gordon Fisherman status. That’s saying something, people. To go from none, nothing, nil, never, ever in my life to six in one day—dayum people, stand up and applaud for that.

The first one was small—caught me by surprise actually. After all, I was not expecting to turn my fish catching rate around after 19 years of miserable statistical evidence of my fish like failures. Now I got excited. Much shrieking and a few pictures (damn straight) later and my first fish was on his way back to his fishy life. Too small to keep, however .

My second was immediately after the first. I mean immediately. And he was…small. He was bigger than my first. But…still small. We were too far from camp (a good several hours away in fact) to drag to back with us. But that was okay. I could care less if we ate it. I just wanted to catch more. This is when I realized.

I LOVE FISHING.

I learned after a good long span of time casting line after line with no more bites that I in fact did not like fishing. I like catching. It was only enjoyable to throw a small rubber lobster into the water over and over again if a slimy green flopping fish was attached to the end.

Then I hit another hot spot and three more very small fish were added to the list of fish I had defeated. Then, nothing again. Stupid, fucking fish. C’mon, bite you bastards.

After this I realized something else. Fishing is like gambling. And not the flashy Vegas kind with the bright lights and ultra-white teeth grinning at you while you rake in the chips underneath blinking signs advertising all day happy hour and all night dancing girls. No, this is the seedy gin joint kind where a skinny one-eyed man they call “Mr. Steve” deals the cards with a shaky hand and the overweight in-keep stares puffy-eyed at you as you order a drink that upon tasting is nothing recognizable as any libation you’ve ever had. Nothing is fair and though you don’t throw down bets haphazardly at first, the minimal if not nonexistent pay off pushes you to cast willy-nilly at any opportunity to play the game. Every time you say, “last bet, one last bet” Mr. Steve laughs and deals again. Again you lose and again you say, “last bet, one last bet” until you are desperately scraping together the last of your wits and the last of your dough and when you lose for the last time you are in need of another libation—regardless of its poor quality. You toss it back quickly—cringing at the taste—and for now it eases the pain. You stumble from the grimy bar empty handed, your collar disheveled, your mind bewildered, thinking “never again” but knowing that tomorrow you’ll be back for more.

That’s what fishing is like.

Sometimes, even with the best casts, the fish don’t bite. Ultimately you cast umpteen times more than you catch. And the majority of the time when you do catch something they are too small. It’s not like other tasks where if you work hard, are diligent, and generally have good intentions it will pay off. Sometimes the goddamn fish out fish you.

Then something miraculous happens. Or at least it happened to me. You do something with no hope of success—or in my case you do something stupid and it works out. This is the story of fish number six.

We had settled in our camp already and I, now hooked (pun very intended) on fishing, went down to the bank for one last ditch effort. Maybe if I caught a big one, we could have it for dinner. I grabbed my poll and cast it forward, not really paying attention. My lure hit the water as usual with a soft plop but a moment later I heard another larger splash and I looked to the water to see a large, long, thin something hit the water—maybe a branch I had unknowingly hooked when I swung the poll back. I looked up and immediately realized what I had done. The top half of my poll had come off and was now accompanying my lure in the lake. This all of course happened in a matter of seconds. Startled, I called to my dad for help. In a very hands off sort of parenting way he told me just to reel it in and take care of it myself. So I did. I reeled until I the top half of the pole in front of me. There was a goddamn, genuine, fucking fish attached to it. I reeled the poll, lure, and dumb fish in and realized the impossibility of what just happened. The fish, unfortunately, was too small to keep but the story of it was what was really amazing.
I think to wrap these very extensive chronicles of my fishing expertise I will add a quote my aunt said to me: “If we run outta food we just gotta send you out with half a rod.”

Canoe-Palooza Part Three

Here we are again, the third installment of my very own canoeing escapades. I said this last time and I’ll say it again, if you are just joining us, it may behoove you to start from the beginning.

Now that you’ve all caught up…Sorry we had a struggler. Now that you’ve ALL caught up I’d like to talk about the actual canoeing part of the trip—I mean paddling and boats and water and such.

On paddling: It is a simple concept. Long stick, flat end, in water. So, we have established the simplicity of the task at hand. That being said—easier said than done. The strenuousness of paddling the greater part of the day is to remain unmeasured. The first day you start off all happy go lucky and naively gung-ho—and let me tell you from personal experience, that first night you pain for it in back pain. I hobbled—HOBBLED—around the campsite. Complete vertical standing was out of the question and walking was sort of a think only done for getting out of the tent for food and returning to the tent for more sleeping.

Day two is better. You know to pace yourself and by supper you mostly feel creaky in your shoulders. Day three is a piece of cake—it involves pure, (mostly) painless exhaustion brought on by new found enthusiasm fostered by day two’s modesty. I will have to keep you posted on day four, five, six, and seven, being that I am writing this on the eve of three.

Paddling is very conducive to thinking. That is why, I believe, I have so much to share about my experiences. All the shoulder movement has got the cogs turning and I must cognitively process my experiences through words on a (web) page. You just think. You paddle and you look and you enjoy and you chat and you think. Sometimes you think so deeply about so many things that the quality of your paddling declines and your father who is in the canoe with you must tell you to paddle harder. But this doesn’t happen very often—only on very intense thinking occasions. Other times when nothing particularly riveting comes to mind to think about you can just think about paddling; down into the water, up out of the water. Sometimes it is windy or there are precarious rocks or whatever and then you most think very hard about paddling.

On boats: Surprisingly fragile although seemingly hardy. Bulkier than you’d like but lighter than you’d expect. As of yet, not much to report on boats. More on portaging another time.

On water: extensive thoughts on water. Mayhaps an entire installment required to extrapolate upon the plethora of water induced musings. What a pretentious sentences, I think I’ll keep it anyway.

Canoe-Palooza Part Two

Welcome back to the tales of my latest (and first) canoe trip. If you didn’t read the first installment (below) I ask—nay implore—you to read it. It may frame present and future readings better. I had just gotten to the paddling part last time and I will continue it presently. Or… maybe not so presently. I will get to it eventually but something else presses my consciousness more urgently then witticisms about canoes.

The surrounding is astonishing to me. Perhaps it is because I am of the west coast forest variety of red woods and ferns (with a pinch of moss thrown in for some flavor). The trees here are, well, I don’t actually know what they are—but they are different. The trees are various, the bushes abundant, the pine trees relatively minimal, and the ferns not to be found! Apparently in 2007 there was a forest fire. I say apparently because although burn areas are obvious, the growth that is coming in is remarkable.

Where it is worse, there are great grey skeletons—great grey giants—like monuments to the kings that once ruled the forest. Their carcasses lay scattered on the shores of the lakes, their limbs reaching—stretching—for the water, as if as they were dying they had some hope that the water would save them from incineration—once more ditch effort to find salvation. Those further up the banks—those who could not dip their last burning branches into the cold lake water—those still standing reach their arms to the heavens. Why? they must have asked as the fire spread near where they stood. Why? they must have cried as the first flames flicked their ankles. WHY? they must have shrieked as their trunks and branches were engulfed. And finally a mild why they must have gasped as the choked of their own smoldering remains. And all the while—throughout all the whys—they throw their arms up to beg God to save them. Not to burn. Not this hellish end. They could not fight their doom but they must not have gone down quietly.

Within the time of the forest’s ashy demise and the present, young trees have sprouted like green phoenixes from the ashes they were born. They thrive on their ancestor’s remains, feeding on the black memories of a now forgotten fate. But what are memories that have not—cannot—be remembered. Ashes, soot, dead smoke blown away by the unabating wind. The young ones do not know—although perhaps they have an inkling—of their own, identical fate. Such is the fate of all forests, sadly enough. All giants fall. All kings fall. It is hard for such young saplings to understand death. But the fire always comes. The gates of hell are always opened and its gaping mouth is hungry for new kindling.

Canoe-Palooza Part One

I have only just now realized that I left for vacation, leaving you for almost 2 weeks in the wake of my last post. I apologize for that, especially given the all but joyous subject matter of the preceding blog post. The only way I think I may be forgiven is with a more upbeat and hopefully pithy account of my latest experiences.

First, some basic facts of my whereabouts of the last 10ish days:
1. What: Canoe/ backpacking trip
2. Where: Minnesota
3. With whom: My father, aunt, and grandfather
4. Why: Tradition**
**More on this later

Now that the scene is set, let me start to fill in the details.

Every year for approximately the last decade some part of my father's family has taken a canoe trip to the Canadian boundary waters in Minnesota. They paddle around for about a week fishing and camping and singing kumbaya by the fire (okay, that last part isn't true, this isn't girl scouts). Until this year, all that meant was that my dad missed back-to-school-night (not that I cared, but those are the facts of the case). This year, with UW not starting until late September, and honestly, nothing better to do, I decided to accept my father's invitation and thus finally join yet another family tradition(**).

In the weeks preceding our embarkation, there was the usual languid preparation. My father vaguely directed me in how to pack and my mother, in a very mother-like-fashion proceded to drop money on me. Not that I'm complaining. We tore through REI with an intensity not seen in this day and age (literally, on the day we shopped no one of the age of 19 was buying anything at REI). Then, one day while I was going on a walk with my folks, my mother broached a subject I had been waiting for ever since I first agreed to go on the trip, many moons ago now. "There comes a time in every woman's life..." she said with a sort of wise austerity in her tone; "...when one must get their first pair of Birkenstocks. Ah yes, it was true, when Birkenstocks are involved, at least in this family, you know it is no laughing matter. My father nodded in somber agreement and I looked with wonderment to the heavens-- had my time really come?

Well... ANYWAY-- skipping any more of the drama of preparation we finally disembarked for Minnesota.

It became clear early on that nothing happened on this trip that wasn't a tradition** (here it comes). Everything-- and I do mean everything-- is a tradition. The first coupla days are spent trekking from the Minneapolis airport to the boundary waters, stopping to visit a relative (some sort of cousin who is almost disturbingly like the rest of my father's family even with the extreme distance and the once a year encounters with the lot of us).

Once we get to the canoeing part of the trip things get ever more exciting. I am currently writing this long hand in a journal I brought along and I do indeed intend on transcribing this all on the interwebs for your reading pleasure. It is the second the second day of paddling, but I think for the first installment this will do. Tomorrow will be part two.

August 24th, 2009

It was a Monday. My second to last day of summer. I was about to be a senior in high school. I was sick. I had a fever. One of those miserable summer colds that find you lying in bed sweating and thinking about death. But today I had one more reason to think about death. My grandma died two years ago today.

She had been battling cancer for something like seven years. That's a long time to be diagnosed with melanoma. At 75 she lay in bed on August 24th letting her last grip on life slip away. And I lay in bed an hour southeast with my life firmly in tact, all things considered.

It was both a surprise and not a surprise. I remember knowing I was not going to say goodbye. There was no chance that she would survive the week but for some reason it made sense not to let the sick, contagious, only grandchild into the room of a dying woman. I remember my mom telling me that my grandmother had said she didn't want me to visit her anyway. She didn't want me seeing her in the state she was in. Didn't want to see her weak. I never saw my grandmother weak, and she wasn't about to let me start now.

She wanted me to remember her as she was up until those last two weeks. She didn't want my last memory of her to be her in bed waiting to close her eyes for the last time.

My last memory of her was standing outside her house with my dad and a few other people explaining the upcoming months. It was during the infamous summer party I have already mentioned in a previous post. The white of one of her eyes had turned dark red, the cancer was spreading and had effected her eye. It was a sudden development and shocking. It had spread and wasn't stopping. Was it in her liver now? The doctors were worried that she only had a few months left.

A few months turned into one month, with her dying Monday, August 24th, 2009.

My grandmother was never supposed to die. If anyone coulda beat death it was gunna be her. She had the life force, as Eddie Izzard would say.

Contemplating death isn't something I am wont to do. I don't like dwelling on the topic. I know very little about death other than it happens universally. The cause matters little to me. Whether it's struggling with cancer for almost half of your granddaughters life, or it's being ushered out of life quickly, it hurts.

It hurts to the core. I'm not sure there is such a thing as a painless death. Nothing good ends unless it ends badly. Life is good. Life is beautiful. And the end of life hurts. You can't whisk the issue under the door.

There is a Bible quote about how you never know when you'll die. If I cared enough about the Bible or the quote, I would look it up. If you're that interested you should look it up. You could live until you are 101 or you could die when you are 27 (along with some other very famous people )

Some people call death the equalizer. Everyone dies. It is the only fair thing about life. I disagree. It's not fair that a mother diagnosed with breast cancer cannot watch her child graduate high school. It's not fair a father hit by a drunk driver won't walk his daughter down the aisle for her wedding. Death is not fair.

My grandmother didn't see me graduate high school. She won't see me graduate college. She won't see me get married. She won't see my children grow up. She won't get to see the woman I have become just in the last two years that she's been gone.

Maybe my grandma will always be watching me-- up until I become a grandmother myself. Maybe she has seen me grow up these two years. Maybe she's reading this from heaven shaking her head about all the fuss. I know she would hate all the fuss. The best I can do is live my life like she is still here. Like she is still watching me.

You Literally Don't Know The Meaning of Literally

Okay so I like hyperbole as much as the next person. But I will literally lose my mind if I hear someone use the word literally in a ridiculous context again. I decided to have a small little note about it. Mostly just by posting the definition and going, "See? I told you so!" If I'm wrong... I'll literally eat my hat!

So here it is (thank you dictionary.com):
lit·er·al·ly [lit-er-uh-lee] - adverb
1. in the literal or strict sense
2. in a literal manner; word for word
3. actually; without exaggeration or inaccuracy
4. in effect; in substance; very nearly; virtually

So sure. Am I literally going back to Seattle in 5 weeks? Yes. Am I literally 5'11"? Sure. Did I literally stay up until 4 o'clock in the morning on Thursday night? Well, yeah. Am I literally going to lose my mind of someone else uses literally wrong? Um.. Probably not.

What I found was interesting was underneath the definition was this caveat: Usage note: The use is often criticized; nevertheless, it appears in all but the most carefully edited writing. Although this use of literally irritates some, it probably neither distorts nor enhances the intended meaning of the sentences in which it occurs. The same might often be said of the use of literally in its earlier sense “actually”

So.... Wait. Has the dictionary foresaken me? It gave me the proper meaning but then.. It said it didn't even matter. *sniff* But--I--but--but... Waaaahhhh!! I literally can't handle this!!!!! I just might literally eat my hat now. Literally!!!

Women in Hip-Hop: The Good, The Bad, and the Guilty Pleasures

I want to clarify one thing before I begin: I really don’t know jack shit about hip-hop. I know what I glean from the two top forty stations programmed into my car, and literally nothing else. That’s not true, every year I watch the MTV 40 Best Music Videos of the Year show. It is two hours of watching music videos that are generally really cool, and then watching them get roasted. Who wouldn’t love that? But besides THAT hip-hop is not something I really pay attention to. I know the choruses of all the summer hits and I hum along to the verses.

I have paid attention to the women artists in particular this year because they are less common and they really seem to have busted it out this year. So I decided, why not say something about them? I have pretty strong opinions about certain women hip-hop artists. So here they are.

The Good: Beyonce. I love her! She is such a bad-ass. So she has a new song called Run The World. It is a salute to feminism if there ever was one. But in an effort to not just sound like a feminist all the fucking time, I won’t talk about that. Beyonce has been consistent in her career for making good songs. She really is good. And beautiful, right? And maybe the best dancer ever. Like, really, you guys. Single Ladies is crazy good.

The Bad: Rihanna. I’m sorry, dear, but what the fuck. You used to be so cute. Then you were so beautiful. Now you are fucking scary. Ever since Disturbia, you have just gone into a crazy downward spiral. Get some therapy or something. So Chris Brown smacked you? You wrote a song about it. And another. And another… It’s time to move on. (Look, what a non-feminist response to have) Lady, you are sending me mixed messages—you like S&M AND want to be the only girl in the world. You want a rude boy to tie you up and light the house on fire because you like that it hurts (S&M gone wrong?). I just don’t know what is up with you these days. Maybe it’s just a phase. In an interview you said you’d be willing to fall in love if the man earned it. Are you earning it sweet-cheeks? It’s a two way street, dear. Yeah, there are some bastards out there, Chris Brown might be one of them, but you don’t think any man is deserving of your love? You gotta work on yourself dear.

The Guilty Pleasures: Nicki Minaj and Ke$ha. I can’t help it. They are just so great. I love these ladies. They keep it simple—they wanna party, get fucked up, be sluts, etc. They don’t worry about social agendas they just want to roll up to the parties and dance. They don’t wanna fall in love. They don’t want to get over a dude who broke their hearts. They just want to have fun. When they are playing on the radio reality melts away in a world where the night never ends, the men are always sexy, and hang-overs are non-existent. Who doesn’t love that idea?

That's Ms. Battle-Axe to You

So maybe my feminist is showing but I don't like the term battle-axe in reference to women. I have never actually in real life heard someone call or be called a battle-axe, but that may be because everyone knows I would actually lunge at them with a REAL battle-axe if they did... Just kidding... Sorta. But anyway, that aside, I know the term exists and it's not exactly fair.

For those of you who don't know what a woman battle-axe is, here is what Merriam Webster Dictionary online says: a usually older woman who is sharp-tongued, domineering, or combative. Not an ideal description for a woman amiright? It gets worse.

Merriam Webster Thesaurus online enlightens us further: dragon lady, fury, harpy, harridan, termagant, virago, vixen, fishwife, gorgon; carper, castigator, caviler (or caviller), censurer, critic, faultfinder, nitpicker, railer, scold; belittler, derider, detractor; pettifogger, quibbler. It's getting worse for us ladies isn't it. Some of these words we know, of course. Critic, belittler, derider, vixen (actually pretty badass to be called a vixen in my opinion)... Those are straightforward. But dragon lady? An overbearing or tyrannical woman. Fishwife? A vulgar, abusive woman. Pettifogger? One given to quibbling over trifles.

No woman wants to be called tyrannical, vulgar, abusive... No person wants to be described as such. Even the strong willed women in the world don't want people to think they are given to quibbling over trifles-- in fact I think that is a feminist's worst fear.

Women don't want to be perceived as simply being whiny nitpickers or grating harpies. They want to be seen as reasonable human beings with reasonable problems that should be fixed reasonably. As soon as you call the strong woman in your life a termagant, you have defeated her cause. And you have defeated her.

The goal of a feminist is not to be ostracized for being derisive or radical. The goal of a feminist SHOULD not be that, at least. The point of modern feminism is not to freak people out. To make them mad or uncomfortable or resentful. But just saying the word feminism gives people a bad taste in their mouths. That's not what I picture the world as it should be.

Woman should be able to respectfully present their ideas and woman should be able to receive a respectful reaction. They should not be called a battle-axe for being strong-willed or frustrated with the current state of gender-relations. You are comparing the soft curves of a woman, the slow swivel of her hips, the cool swish of her hair draped down her back, the small of her back, the gentle touch of her hand-- to a fucking giant weapon of war-- and just because she has an opinion?!

I wish I could apologize to the women who have been called battle-axes for their efforts. But more importantly I would like to apologize to all the people who have ever called a woman a battle-axe. I am sincerely sorry you had to live in a time where a person's God-given right to speak their minds must offend you so.

Oh, well... I didn't really intend this post to be a silly rant... I was going to talk about my women idols somewhere in here... Ah well. Another time.

Old Works Revival: Alene

I have had a sort of Renaissance of sorts in regards to my writing, given I have had very little time to write any new material. I feel bad that I haven't updated in so long and I promise I will be better! I will even promise to write tomorrow and Friday. Writing is something that takes maintenance--once you fall out of the groove of it, it's hard to start again. So I am catching myself before it is too late! And since I don't have time to write anything new, I have decided to revamp something very old. Something I have not looked at (according to my computer) since November 2008. I have re-read it, revised it, and made it respectable for readers.

But first, an introduction: This is a script to be performed on stage. They are a collection of monologues I wrote together for a New Works writing class. It is still a work in progress, as in theory the show is supposed to be about an hour and a half long-- each scene being one person's experiences (think the Vagina Monologues but broader). I never have finished it. Maybe someday I will. Maybe tomorrow I will begin again. I wrote this in 2008 and re-reading these monologues I realized how much of myself I put in my work. Perhaps you will notice this as well-- but this feels like a very dated piece of work to me. Well, enough talk. Here it is.


ALENE-- NOV 2008-- EDIT AUG 2011

[Scene opens to blank stage except for a single chair, table and window piece. On the window sill an old fashion radio sits. No one is on stage. The sound of a door opening and slamming closed is heard backstage. A woman, ALENE, enters. She is a few years past middle aged and a bit bedraggled. She may or may not have some sort of dialect. It has been raining and she is wet. She is struggling to carry overstuffed recyclable grocery bags.]

ALENE: (Starting off stage, coming on slowly, weighed down by the bags.)They keep telling us these bags are the way to go. That they alone will help stop global warming. Have you been outside recently? It’s freezing! Global warming. Paw! (There is a pause as she stands taking in her surroundings. It is cold in the apartment and a shiver runs down her back.) Phew, it’s no better in here. (Drops all the bags onto table and moves toward the window frame) This town has been drowning itself all week, one rain drop at a time. (Opening window and shouting through it) Make up your mind! You’ve been telling all your scientific friends you’re getting warmer, but you're saying just the plain opposite to me, now aren’t you? Give me a little sun. I want you to clear up before Saturday or that preacher will be all alone on Sunday morning. (Closes the window, satisfied.) I don’t much like traveling in stormy weather myself. I wouldn’t have even gone to the store, if I wasn’t near starving here with no food in this place. Now it’ll get better. Sometimes all you got to do is talk harsh to something for it to do what you want. It’s just the same with the weather. Oh, don’t worry, the weather will be nice and clear by morning the way I told it off just now. (Phone rings form offstage) Now where did that darned telephone go to now. I can never remember where I last put it. (Phone rings again. ALENE walks off stage muttering. Last ring then a ‘hello’ from off stage. Then, entering and leaving spaces for response.) No, Mr. Phillips everything is just ducky up here… No, no, we’re all fine. (Smiles at audience, and covers mouth-piece.) It’s Mr. Phillips. He’s always worrying about me, the sweet old man. Lives on the floor below. (Stomps on floor then uncovers phone.) Yes, yes... No, no, that was just me. (To audience, forgetting to cover mouth piece this time.) He’s a bit nosey to tell you the truth. What? (Realizing what she’s just done.) Oh, dear. No Mr. Phillips not you! Of course not you. (Puts down phone on top of the pile of bags on the table) He hung up. He’s a bit touchy too. He’ll be fine though. Always seems to find a way to forgive me. Tomorrow he’ll call again or he’ll walk his little plaid slipperred feet up here and see how I’m holding up. I don’t know why he cares really. I pay my rent. I don’t use all the hot water. I don’t have a T.V. so I’m not turning that on too loud. (Walks to radio and turns it on, it plays “Friday I’m In Love” softly.) Maybe it’s the radio. (Slowly turns volume up until phone starts ringing. ALENE keeps turning up volume until ringing stops. Singing along) Tuesday, Wednesday—Heart attack! (Phone rings again. This time ALENE controls herself and turns down radio so that it is now playing softly in the back ground.) Well that answers that question. Mr. Phillips must not like The Cure. (There is a pause while the song ends.) I always thought they were wonderful. (Walking to table and unpacking groceries) I was in a band once. Oh dear, what was our name? (Laughing to herself) Oh yes, we called ourselves “The Magnificent Sevens”. It was a tribute band to the Clash; mostly we played their songs down at that old pub on 2nd Street. Back in the 80’s when they were popular. As I recall we weren’t very good. There were only six of us and I played the harmonica. If you are at all familiar with the Clash you’ll know, there is no harmonica. It was a great time though wasn’t it? That old pub is gone now. Don’t know what there is in it's place; one of those fancy expensive salons I think. It used to be that people just painted their own damn nails. There were no little Korean girls sitting on a cramped stool getting to smell all manner of feet. These days nobody can do anything themselves. (By this time ALENE has finished unpacking her groceries and is sitting in the chair) I don’t know what will happen for all our future generations, but I can tell you, with all the confused weather and cranky neighbors and—and helplessness nowadays; it don’t seem very bright.
[Scene ends, ALENE frozen in chair. Lights fade.]

[Scene opens- wooden desk- one man, Louis, in a suit walks in- sits on top of desk. Louis is in his late 30's, a classic business casual zombie, but this morning he looks a bit disheveled; the part in his hair isn't straight, his tie is crooked, and his socks don't match--or something of that sort.]
LOUIS: So I’m here now. Now its your turn to say, ‘late again I see’. You know what I see? You know what I think? I think there is a world out there that is too big not to see it. It drives me crazy having to be here, locked up like a prisoner. With you breathing down my neck all day long. (Takes off suit jacket and throws it to the ground) Dressed like a poodle in a dog show. I’m no accountant. (Pause) I guess my dad might have been. In a past life. Spending all that time telling me to be an accountant. (Mocklingly) ‘Math is fun. Honest.’ Well math maybe fun but actually living life is funner. Does that upset you, Mr. I have a comb-over and perfect grammer? 'Funner'. Nothing's 'funner'. Well with you, sir, nothing's fun. It used to be that everyone spent their lives, well, living their lives. They cooked, they cleaned, they farmed, they played in the river, they even went fishing—and that was a daily thing. I want to play in the river. I want to go fishing. The last time I went fishing was when I was nine. It was the year before my grandpa died and he took me. That day he told me stuff—stuff like fish bite only in places were there is a bit of back wash in the river, and stuff like what bait to use in what environments. But most of all he told me how to live life. To see things. To do things. He told me that he had lived in a time that didn’t allow people to live their lives. He told me I could live in a time where people could live. I could go see the great wall of China. I remember him telling me that. I even remember laughing as he told me I could build my very own great wall of China. (Laughs at the memory. Then the mood changes to a darker, grim one.) He told me I could do anything I wanted. Then my grandfather died. And my father, his own son wouldn’t go to the funeral. He wouldn’t let me go to my grandfather’s funeral. After that my dad just filled my head with sickeningly serious stuff—lies if you will. About life. My life, his life, but painfully enough, he filled my head with lies about my grandfather's life. He laughed at his memory. And I tried to defend him, I really did try. I told him about the great wall of China—and about how I could do anything- even make my own. But he just laughed and laughed. As years past I forgot my grandpa. He faded slowly into what I thought was the fog of silly dreams. And now here I am, an accountant— a nobody. And all because that’s what my father, what society taught me to be. So why am I here, telling you? Like you care about my grandpa. Like you care about me, I’m only your faithful employee. Well, sir, because I still have that bit of grandfather left in me. It's been burning quietly inside, like a smoldering volcano, just waiting to explode to the surface of my conscience. And now, finally, it has. Today, driving to work in my little silver normal Subaru I saw an old man walking down the street. Just walking. Bug-like glasses on and a cane and a sweater vest. So cliché old. But not happy. Just there. And as I looked pityingly at this poor excuse for a human man I realized something. I never want to be that guy. I never want to turn into a man who just rumbles along, dying slowly because he was wise enough not to do anything life threatening in his past. So now its my choice, right? Be like my grandpa and fish til I die or be like that man and just lay down my whole life until I finally die. Well I’m making my choice. I’m going to live. (Mocking himself) La vida loca. Whatever. Whatever it takes to see what I want to see. To think what I want to think. But most of all, I want to live the way I want to live. The way my father never lived. The way my grandfather lived. I want to fish.
[Lights fade as LOUIS walks away.]

[Lights come up on a single long counter top across the stage. Bar stools are lined up along the counter. The sound of a door opening and a bell ringing cues the entrance for JADE a young waitress in her early thirties. She is tattooed up in down her arms. She has dark hair, with a shock of red in the front. Thick, edgy glasses frame her face in an oddly butch way. She's not your usual diner waitress, but you can tell she tries to be the perky, peppy waitresses seen in old movies wearing roller-blades.]
JADE: (With forced perkiness.) I assume your having the usual?(Towards off stage) Order up: I need a stack of pancakes and a hard boiled egg with a side of—(Taking a second to remember.) whole wheat bread. (Pouring some orange juice and placing it on the counter top.) And some fresh squeezed orange juice.(Slowly losing the perkiness after a few words.) By fresh I mean from a container bottled in Florida using oranges grown with pesticide and herbicide. But that’s as fresh as you get it here in the city. What I’m trying to say is its not mom’s hand squeezed style. But I guess you know that. There aren’t many ignorant people that I see come into this diner. There maybe tons of people out there who are ignorant of what’s happening in the world today but none of them enter this old place. All of them seem to know where they’ve been and they certainly know where they are going. I hear a lot and I see a lot and I don’t seem to care what happens next. I’m not too old or anything but these days does age even matter? I guess I’m skeptical or cynical or something but as I see it there are kids out there so cynical that they go out and kill themselves. Or if they don’t kill themselves they go out and get themselves killed. They drive drunk or do drugs or jump off buildings. (Wiping off the counter as she speaks. Every once and a while she stops to take a breath. JADE is the kind of person who gets emotional easily.) I guess it was the same when I was a kid. I suppose I was just the same. (Pause from her cleaning as she organizes her thoughts.) Heaven knows my brother was. He was younger than I was by three years and he always wanted to act older then he was. Like he had to catch up to me. I was busy living my life as a young budding teenager with a dweeby younger brother when suddenly I find out he’s been smoking pot with his friends after school. No big deal, right? Then it got worse. He started doing other things. Sneaking out to go to dance parties and tripping on acid. Coming home from friends’ houses drunk. He was only a freshman. But the worst part was my parents wouldn’t do any thing—or couldn’t do anything. They’ve always been useless. (Pausing, suddenly seeming a little more angry.) He destroyed his life. But not only that, he destroyed mine. But I thought he was getting better. He went through a program. He told us all he was better. That he was done with it. He promised me he was clean. (Pause as JADE leans on counter trying to keep herself together as she continues.) Six months later he died. Cocaine overdose. He was 16. Why can’t people understand how precious life is? Does no one understand that you only get one chance to live? When my brother died I guess people would say I kind of lost it. I like to think of it more in the terms of I kind of lost myself. And now? Now I’ve found myself—(with a bit of sarcasm and bitterness but also sounding tired) working here every day of every week 6 am to 3 pm. I don't get no holidays and a don’t want no holidays. Sounds pretty hypocritical of me, doesn’t it? Telling you to live your life while I sit here rotting away. But I guess that’s what people are in the end; hypocrites. We all know what to do, we just never seem to get around to doing it. Well here’s your breakfast. (Placing plate on counter and moving back into her forced perkiness) Enjoy! And have a real swell day!
[The sound of the bell from the door is heard as the lights fade on her strained smiling face]

[Lights come up on completely empty stage. TED walks on with a bag and yoga mat. He lays down the yoga mat. TED is in his 40's or 50's. He's clean shaven, neat, tall, slick. He is angular and abrupt. He is a fast talker and a mover and shaker.]
TED: (Settling himself on his mat and sighs audibly.) Finally. I’ve been waiting for this moment all week. I really do need a vacation. A human really can’t be expected to work 50 hours a week forever and not go loco. That’s why I’m here. To relax, you see I’m a consultant for PG&E and work like crazy. I guess some people would say I’m a lawyer but I like to call myself a consultant. It takes the edge off. (Sarcastically) Surprisingly enough, people don’t open up to lawyers. Hey, I’m just doing my job. I help people, I don’t care if they are the ‘right’ people I’m doing a public service. Plus, doesn’t everyone need a little help now and then. It’s my belief that something is only wrong to the people that are negatively effected. The person who did it was thinking positive when they did what ever they did, right? If everyone was like friggin’ Dorothy in Oz, always thinking about other people and not herself, we wouldn’t get anywhere. No wonder she was stuck in Oz. (Takes out some candles from his bag and lights them.) Ah… Now that’s more like it. As I was saying earlier I started yoga to relax. Don’t get the wrong impression of me, I’m no hippy. I drive a giant gas guzzling SUV and take long showers and wear suits and use aerosol bug spray. That was a bit harsh huh? Well that’s exactly the reason why I’m doing this. My aunt swears by meditation and since my father has fallen ill I’ve been more busy then ever. With work and hospital visits and trying to hold together my family I’m so stressed I can hardly see straight. One day when I was visiting my dad, my aunt, his sister, waltz in and pecks me and him on the cheek and tells me she can’t stay long because she is on her way to some sort of pilate-whats-it class. Meanwhile I’m unraveling faster then a badly knit sweater and my dad’s nearly comatose from all the morphine they’ve been pumping into him. So it hit me, I could do yoga, I could slack off, I could take a break from my responsibilities once a week. Don’t I have a sister and brother who can visit my dying father? And they don’t pay me enough at PG&E for me not to take an hour or two off a week to go to my yoga class. As for my family, my wife has a new boyfriend and my daughter is six. She doesn’t want to do anything except play with her Barbies and watch High School Musical. (Pause, clarifying) My daughter that is. She’s not even in high school. That child doesn’t even know what a friggin' musical is. And as for my wife, I knew she was having an affair after she stopped sleeping with me and started screening our phone calls. Before now, I didn’t know how to handle it. Should I confront her? Should we try to work something out or go to counseling for a while? Or maybe I should file for divorce. But the thing is, I don’t need to. It’s back to the slacking off stuff I was talking about earlier. Filing for divorce would take to much effort. I realized that my wife has just become the lump in the bed, the thing that keeps TiVo-ing over Monday night football. She’s an object to me now, and I think, from her actions it’s the same for her. So she rather have sex with this other guy, it would be too much of a hassle to divorce me and marry him so she just… doesn’t. It’s not like we don’t like each other. We get along just fine, we don’t fight, or even bicker. I guess if you were into clichés you could say the passion just died. But is this yoga thing like a mid-life crisis? (Slight pause as he thinks about it.) God, I hope not, or I’m going to die young. Nope, I figure this is just something I’ve got to do for myself. And I’m perfectly happy with my screwed up, crazy, stressful life. Who ever said life was simple was insane, but who ever said life could be fun was right on the money.
[The lights fade as TED begins to lean forward in a stretch.]

[Lights come up on school desk and chair. School bell rings. NOEL enters quickly and sits down. He is a junior in high school and he has all the evidence of a teenage boy. Small, thin, hunched shoulders, and acne, he is nothing to look at. He's a bit neurotic as well, and he knows it. For a teenage boy, he is both oblivious to the world around him and innately attune to it-- a paradox that often frustrates him.]
NOEL: I can’t believe I’m late again. First period Spanish sucks. I’m American, I speak English, I don’t need Spanish. Half the time I don’t know what’s going on. I’ve been taking Spanish for four years and the extent of my knowledge is ‘Hola, como estas?’ Next year I’ll be a senior and I’ll be done with Spanish all together. Did you know colleges require four years of a language now? That makes no sense, I’m not going to study Spanish, or speak it outside of this classroom even. I won’t take college courses in Spanish. So why do I need to learn this stupid language? God, it’s too early to be trying to use your brain; I can’t even think straight. Not that that isn’t different then usual. You know how I was saying that half the time I don’t get Spanish? Well, half the time I don’t get life. It’s damn hard to be a teenager these day. I mean I wasn’t alive ‘back then, in the good old days’ but I’ve heard it was great. Now we have to take all these advanced classes and stuff. My mom stopped taking math in high school after geometry. Now I’m in what, advanced placement calculus? Crazy, right? I mean, man, I took geometry freshman year. I took my first AP class sophomore year, man, those were the days. (Shaking head in disgust.) School, school, school. I’m fucking tired of it, man. My home life ain’t so great either lately. So my parents are fine, so what? They’re just there, you know? My dad just works and my mom just drives around doing stuff. So much for woman’s rights, huh? She could do anything she wants, hang-glide or be president or go up into space and all she does it go to Macy’s and buy luncheon outfits. My grandma wanted to be an archeologist. I friggin’ archeologist! But when my grandma was, like, (Pause as he attempts to find the right words then gives up.) not old like she is now, there were no girl archeologists. So you know what she did instead? Of course you don’t ’cause I haven’t told you. She became a nurse, all day she filled prescriptions and stitched up cuts while there were guys out there finding dinosaurs. Goddamn living dinosaurs… well, you know what I mean. And now what? My mom is living in an age where she could do anything and she does nothing. So pretty much I think my parents are bogus. Bogus just like Spanish class. (Opens up backpack and looks inside) Bogus like my lunch. Leftovers. Yum. Some times I feel like a leftover. Like the thing no one wants to throw away because I may prove to be useful but at the same time the thing that no really cares about. I don’t really have friends, but at the same time I don’t have any enemies. As far as I know, no one likes me and no one hates me. I’m just kind of there. The only times when I matter are when I’m standing in front of your locker or when I buy the last cookie in the cafeteria. Tell me honestly, have you ever really thought about any details of my life? Has anyone ever wondered what my favorite color was or what kind of ice cream was my favorite flavor? (Slight pause.) Well, I like green and I don’t eat ice cream.(Pause.) I’m lactose intolerant. I think about those things. But not about just anybody. (Pointing discretely while speaking.) Mostly I wonder about her. Rachel, she’s a junior just like me. That’s basically the extent of my knowledge about her. (Pause, then explaining) I’ve never actually talked to her. But I think of what I would say to her if we ever did speak. I would offer to carry her books and we could talk about how horrible Spanish is or how horrible our parents are. But what if she likes Spanish? Or likes her parents? (Covering head in hands) Oh Jesus, she just looked at me. She must know I’m talking about her. What if she thinks I’m weird. What am I saying, I am weird! (Looking up.) God, can’t I be normal for once. Can’t I have a nice body and nice hair and nice looks? Can’t I be smart and funny and witty? Just once when I finally speak to her! I could do it! I could speak to her, finally after so long, I’m going to speak to her! I’ll do it right after class, as soon as the bell rings! I can do it, I can do it! (bell rings, the sound of other kids is heard) Oh God, (looks up) I can’t do it!
[Lights down on his figure, looking up towards the heavens.]

[Lights up on ALENE’s apartment again. The groceries are gone, now there is only a table, chair and window. As lights go up, ALENE walks on, the opposite way she did last time, as if to imply that she is entering from a different part of her apartment]
ALENE: Oh my! You’re back. I thought you might be. (Looks out the window.) The weather’s cleared up, do you see? I told you it would. The sun always seems to be faithful to our little planet. It always comes back, even when it seems certain it has gone for good. You know scientists say that the sun will explode one day and then Earth won’t be able to support life? I don’t believe it. The sun wouldn’t abandon us! We are like the sun’s children. And people and things, when they have a connection like that, it can't be broken. Some thing protects that bond, just like something keeps the sun from exploding and deserting the Earth. It’s the reason mama turtles come back to the beach they were born on to lay their eggs, its how daddy penguins can distinguish their baby’s squeaks from the rest. (Phone rings. Continues amused.) It’s how I can tell when Mr. Phillips is calling me to complain about something or other. Ever wonder about those things? Things like the sun leaving us. I do. And I hope things. I hope that I win the lottery. I hope Mr. Phillips will stop calling me and just come up and have a cup of tea with me and talk. I hope people find happiness. Hell, I hope I’ve found happiness. I hope what this is, this life that I’m living, I hope this is what happiness feels like. (Laughing about what she is about to say.) But most of all I hope Mr. Phillips finds his happiness; his plaid slipperred feet and all. (Stomps the ground.)
[Lights fade as the phone rings yet again.]