Wednesday, October 20

You're too young and eager to love....


Sometimes I zone out in a crowd of people and just see the shuffling of bodies. Flesh moving in different directions, moving away from each other, moving away from me. I hear these distant sounds of creaking doors, these swooshes and clicks. I want to call out to them. I want to be a part of this, of them. I want to be here, but I'm not. I'm looking for love, but I don't know how to ask you. I don't know if I can. If it's even my place.

This world of ideas I live in is lonely and cold and sad. I want the warmth of your body. I want the melodies of your voice to call me back to existence. I want you and I to matter just as much as power and sex and death. I want to enjoy the temporarility of it all. I want to be beautiful.


Tuesday, October 5

I'm going to be so cranky come the morning...

I can't sleep. I only come to you on such occasions. Life is tough shit for a blog, I guess...

I wonder if people see straight through me, if they see right down to my bones how disingenuous I am. I'm not really here; as much as I want to be. Where is Athia? Somewhere else. I've rigged the mechanics of these limbs to move in sync, but I don't belong here---not in this world, not with these people. I can't seem to ground myself in the present. It hurts because I want to.

I want to change. I want the world to change. I say it so loudly and so often that you can hardly trust me anymore, no? It's just that I'm at a loss. I don't know how to start. I keep stopping at the first. I keep writing the first paragraph over and over again, attempting to block off my good intentions into neat frames, but before I know it I've said nothing. Time is up. Moving on. I haven't finished, but we're all moving on, moving along, moving to stay alive and clean and well.

I can't sleep and I think of Emily Bronte. I think of Franz Kafka. I think of Virginia Woolf. I think of people who don't really belong here either. I think of the work that they tried to do and how reading their writing is a painful experience, because I experience truth. In any lifetime, a work of truth can only be written once. It's as though my body convulses in spasms from the honesty and passion---my first instinct being only to hide. A stronger body would be willing to embrace this knowledge and move on. A more able body would not tremble.

I tremble, often.


P.S. I don't take as many pictures as I would like anymore.

Wednesday, September 22

Double Take...

In class today, Dr. H talked about a Deconstructionist who says that there is no truth in writing---that one can never trust the author of a text because the moment of writing begins the moment of censorship. I repeat: there is no truth in writing.

Earth. Shattering.

(What happened to the mimetic power? )

Then again, it's rather contradictory of me to suspect ALL narratology while still being steadfast in investing in a lifetime of literature.


I'm sorry you hurt. I'm sorry your life didn't turn out the way you wanted it to. I'm sorry that I can't reach you. I'm sorry that I can't fix things for you. I'm sorry you don't realize that everything I do is for you.


Tuesday, September 14

Wishful Thinking...

I can't sleep. I'm so tired right now, but I can't sleep.

So I think of you instead. It isn't healthy. God, it is so unhealthy.

I get to you sometimes, don't I? I get under your skin and in your head and I make you dizzy with my craziness. I tumble you around with my words. You're usually so calm, so collected. Indifference, you claim. But then you have those outbursts of emotions that confuse the hell out of me. We share secrets in quiet corridors. I whisper I love you. Waiting. Even as the words never sink in, I'm still waiting. Why?

It's silly. We all hate to admit that we write love poems. But my love poems aren't opaque pools of a lover's eyes. I could never be so crafty. They're letters, letters to a boy who just doesn't understand. Maybe he never will.

The funniest part of all this? People say I give great relationship advice. They say that I understand people. Ha. I constantly psychoanalyze people because I'm trying to rationalize us. I'm trying to understand you and I.

The only conclusion I've come up with thus far is: being your friend fucking sucks. I hope you know that. I hope you know how hard it is for me.

Eh. I have to see you tomorrow, don't I? No. Maybe I'll just blow you off. Not even tell you. Hide out in some other corner of the world where you can't find me.

I won't, though.

Sodding idiot.


Wednesday, July 28

Displaced Blame, Displaces Anger...

I'm trying to make sense of things. Thoughts are slipping out of their usual neat boxes and I soup them into my hands, attempting to put them back in place.

I want to say something profound. Like: life is the constant struggle to get along with people. At least, that's what it feels like to me. We push and pull and are confounded by how we're suppose to act and what we're suppose to do. Enter into postmodernism, I suppose. Shed the weight of the structuralists and their rules of etiquette, what do you want from me?

No one really knows anymore. That's the glory of our movement, no?


I was listening to the radio this morning on the way to a meeting with my adviser and my gym date (both equally painful, but very necessary). I wasn't paying much mind to the station, until one of the jockeys mentioned a self-defense class for women that they were offering this weekend. I immediately perked up. It sounded great, actually. They hoped to promote awareness over the physical and sexual abuse women encounter on a daily basis and give practical tools for women to exercise in case they find themselves in a compromising situation.

Every 2 minutes, someone is sexually assaulted in the United States. Please, take 2 minutes to think about that.

I was very excited that a mainstream station not only brought up a serious issue, but was attempting to open dialogue over a topic so delicate. Many of us are petrified into silence with the mere mention of 'sexual assault'.

Then, to my utter disappointment, the only woman on the show---in proper self-loathing fashion--- says, "Yeah, it'll be a great seminar. I mean, there are things that we ladies do---without even realizing it, maybe---that causes these situations. It can easily be preventable." (Note that I am paraphrasing. I don't remember her words exactly, but that was the general idea). The other two men on the show agreed with her and recanted observational experiences where they felt that women were 'just asking for it'.

What. The. Fuck.

In my rush of anger, I lost my words. The only thing I could think was why? why? why?

I understand the interconnectedness of us all. I understand that our actions cause reactions from others. But what I don't understand is when it became acceptable to negate and displace individual responsibility for individual reactions? We never ask for anything. It is you who decide to shed your humanity. It is you who decide to assault, abuse, rape.

No one ever asks for it. Regardless of how a woman dresses. Regardless of when she decides to go out. She never asks for it.

I shouldn't be afraid to go for walks around my neighborhood after dark. It's not even a shady part of town---it's white suburbia, for fuck's sake! My friend shouldn't have to worry about having her ass grabbed at a theme park. We shouldn't have to carry around pepper spray and rape whistles and fear in our purses. I am tired of being branded the guilty party. I'm tired of constantly taking preventative measures, of teaching my sisters to do the same.

Let the blame fall where it should. Let the guilt fall where it ought to. Not on us. Not again.


P.S. I hope you are well, folks. I'm very interested to hear some thoughts on this.
P.P.S. Sigh. I really hope there are some thoughts on this...

Saturday, July 10

Must I Go To Work Today?

I've been feeling foolish, lately; tripping over my words like a clumsy oaf. You see, I have prepared dialogues to run through when I'm waiting tables. Add a punch line here, some sass there---everybody is happy. The problem is when they come back. I have to update the routine, but that can only go so far. Then, it gets to the point where I have to genuinely interact with these people. I have talk to them. I have to uphold the image I've created of myself, of my family, of the life they think I should lead. It's all so exhausting. Remembering all the details, romanticizing stories, holding my tongue---fuck, it's a miracle I haven't physically hurt someone by now.

I often do fantasize about toppling a bowl of spaghetti on someone's head. Or throwing their drinks in their faces. Or saying: Dude. You're a needy little bitch. Stop attempting to monopolize my time. I don't like you.

The funny thing is that it's hard to pull yourself away from a conversation, regardless of whether or not you wanted to be involved in said conversation in the first place. That's when I start to panic and look for excuses to walk away.

I can't decide if I don't like people or if I'm actually afraid of them. I've always been devout to the former assertion, but these days I'm not so sure.

Anyway, I just feel awkward. I feel uncomfortable in such charged environments and I use to want to unwind in the safety of solitude. Now, I want to spend time with people I am comfortable with---guard down and everything. I love my friends.


Monday, July 5

Neon Trees Got Me Going Purple...

I'm about to burst into something crazy, folks, and there's going to be splattered Athia all over the counter-tops.

It's a new day and I've got a new dream---making me bundle inside with the type of nervous energy the besties scoff at. I can't sleep because I'm too excited over the possibilities of what could happen if I let life take me there. I know optimism isn't sexy, but it's here. Present and waiting for me to unfurl my fingertips.

Alas, I'm getting ahead of myself. This isn't exactly a new dream. Just...a renewed mini-dream; a side project, if you will. I'm going to make kick ass music. But in order to do that, I need to find my musical soul mates. And learn an instrument that's a bit more hardcore than level five violin-ing. Singing is useless if you can't even accompany yourself.

For some reason, I have it in my head that in order to do this, I need to go to Columbia for grad. school. Forget that Columbia was the dream before SLC, before writing, before literary criticism, before Foucault, sex, and cynicism. Columbia is where I'm going to find my band mates. I just know it.

I told this to Green Eyed Bestie the other day. She laughed.

I'm not ridiculous. Promise.


Wednesday, June 23

I'm Nicotine. I'm Coming Clean.

I'm curled up in bed with a pack of cigarettes in hand; contemplating whether or not I should light up so early in the morning. If I do, it'll set precedent for the entire day, and I'll probably have another somewhere down the line.

I wanted to sleep in, but as soon as it was seven, my stupid internal clock woke me up. That and my dad barging into my room six times within a fifteen minute period giving me various 'instructions' for the day. I cannot have the car, he says. It's basically his attempt at trying to keep me home and crippled.

God, I hate feeling so helpless. I hate being at the mercy of other people. I hate having limited resources to do my own thing.

Sometimes I think I work really hard for nothing. I'm hollowed out already. Sometimes I feel absolutely nothing and it's beautiful. Other times I just feel angry and it's frustrating. I'm constantly thrown back and forth between indifference and loathing and I can't decide which one I prefer. I don't think I can properly explain how it feels to be in this 'family'. I don't think I can convince you that it isn't a dramatization at all.

"I know you can't wait until you graduate and get the hell out of here, but until then, you're still a part of this family."

Well, at least they know I'll never stay.

Seems like a bitch thing to do, no? Just abandon them. Never look back. You have to be one cold hearted bitch to do that, huh?

I guess.


Wednesday, June 16

Day One.


I'm allergic to Adriana's cat, so every time I go over to her house, my eyes get all watery and itchy. I'm going to scratch my fucking eyes out at this rate.

This is the summer for self-improvement, I've realized.

Pounds lost: 25
Days since last cigarette: 4
Since last made contact: 23 hrs

Things are coming along swimmingly. :)


Tuesday, June 15

Summer is a Comin'...

Recently, my mom has taken to calling my dad fat. He is very upset by this and has retaliated by lacing her coffee with sugar. She is a diabetic.

I find their heated exchanges extremely amusing in the sickest way possible. Yet, they've never been happier together. Their relationship is less strained and they've been found cuddling on several occasions. I am perturbed, to say the least...

I'm roasted, in a tragically literal sense. I spent most of the morning gallivanting around Orlando on my little adventure with Andrew. I'm also quite displeased. It seems that he only wants to spend time with me so that he can attempt to snog. Me. Again. Ugh. Fucking asshole. Why I put up with his bullshit, you may wonder? He has a nice Porsche. Kidding (almost, anyway).

I felt very productive today. We have a slew of guests coming to visit us in the next few months, so my dad has made arrangements to make our house more visitor friendly---meaning, I made arrangements to make our house more visitor friendly. I spent hours pulling weeds, trimming, primping, and watering the neglected jungle that disguises itself as our backyard. I'm surprised most of the vegetation survived this winter.

This has always bothered me. I've always felt like our house is a vacation home to all of my parents' relatives and friends and that during the holiday months especially, I am displaced from my room. I particularly don't like the idea of people snooping around my shit and using my lotion. I'm very ardent about people not using my lotion. It's my fucking lotion. Back off.

But summer is in full swing and I am not naive enough to believe myself capable of stopping the cruel parade of barbecues, parties, and annoying familial relations from invading my typically introverted ways. I have the play the role of dutiful hostess. I hate it.


P.S. That's a picture of the basil I planted a week ago. It's beautiful. :)

Saturday, June 12

Horrible Conversations With Myself...

Whenever I get sick, I become so damn needy. Not that I act on it or anything. I sort of just lie in bed, wishing that someone would give a fuck about me.

God. I'd like to shrivel up and die right now.

I'm not saying that people don't care about me. That would be downright disingenuous. I have very lovely people in my life whom I respect and care deeply for. I just want someone to bring me soup. Or sit in bed and watch 80's movies with me all day, gathering warmth from big blankets and hard bodies. I want someone here. Tangibly here.

Someone emotionally available, I guess.

And I can only think of one someone that I want that someone to be--- that, my friend, is delusional.


I want what I can't have, what you're unwilling to give me. So instead, I take what I can get--- hoping that it'll be enough. But I'm afraid it never will be.

Who are you trying to fool, kid? You know it never will be enough.

Then what the fuck am I suppose to do?

Move on.

I can't. I've tried. God knows I've tried.

Then maybe you need to be miserable now so that you can be happy later?

I'm firmly rooted in the present, thanks. My generation is all about instant gratification, after all.

If you want to get better, truly get know what you have to do.

I don't want to.

You have to.

I can't.

This isn't good for you. It isn't healthy. Love is about caring for yours and another's emotional/spiritual well being. You aren't doing that. You aren't loving yourself. Remember what you've learned? Remember how far you've come? Please, please, please. Remember these things. You can't love him more than you love yourself.

But I'll miss him too much.

You'll miss the person you had the chance to be even more.


He makes you forget that you're amazing. You think you're ugly because he doesn't like you. You think you're stupid and foolish whenever he's around. You shouldn't. You're beautiful. You know you're beautiful. Why would you do that to yourself?

Because he might---

Change his mind? Never. He doesn't like you. He won't love you the way you want him to. You need to understand. Try to understand.

He'll be miserable.

Are you shitting me? He'll be fine. Doubt he'd even bat an eyelash.

I'll be miserable.

Yes, for a little while.

How long is 'a little while', exactly?

As long as it takes for you to move on.



Tuesday, June 8

Shiver Me Timbers...

I think the thing I'm looking forward to most on my birthday is massive consumption of sugar. It's been three weeks since I've had anything but the natural sugars found in fruits. I even drink my coffee black and tea raw nowadays.

I'm only partly joking. I really haven't had any sugar in three weeks, but it's not that big of a deal...ish.

I am not ashamed of my major. I have never been even though it takes me a full fifteen minutes to explain to people what it is exactly that I'm studying (and I still get those 'are you shitting me?' looks). Granted, it hurts when my parents say that I've given up on my life, that all the effort and money they put into my education has been a waste. However, I've always managed to let it slide. After all, I know that what I'm studying isn't an easier path. It's just a different one. Humanities, philosophy, literature---it's not a joke. They aren't easy courses. Hell, two of my classes last semester were 4000 level courses and they were tough shit.

Doctors and engineers have their power in immediacy or in the tangibility of the variables they can empirically measure. But words start revolutions.


P.S. So, it's kind of weird that I have three full length evening gowns in my closet. Does it help that I got them on sale? Well, one of them was on sale, at least.

Monday, June 7

Life Is Funny...

I have a bronze anklet. One I keep hidden at the bottom of my jewelry box. It's simple: made with little glass beads and tiny bells. It is pretty. It was a present from the boy who proposed to me two years ago. I remember the night he gave it to me.

We were staying at Gorashal in my uncle's guest house and had just gotten back from a boring dinner party. I was in a bitch of a mood. It was the eighth consecutive event we *had* to attend, for my father's sake, for my grandmother's sake, for the sake of the whole motherfucking Chowdhury clan. I was bored shitless. The entire evening was spent away from my cousins, away from him, mingling with strangers I didn't care about; all the while attempting to move elegantly in a sari. Not cool.

That summer, we spent many nights on the rooftop of my Uncle's bungalow playing poker, smoking, swearing, daring each other to do stupid things--- all the things we couldn't when the adults were in sight even though all of us were of age. It was dangerous. It was fun.

So that night, we were congregated on the roof, talking until it was past 4 am when most of us decided to call it quits. Not us. He and I were deep in conversation over politics, over books, over life, over love. We didn't even notice that we were the only ones still there. By now, our limbs had somehow managed to tangle together and the moonlight had a strange affect of highlighting the depth of his features. His broad shoulders and strong chin seemed even more prevalent with the dancing shadows around us. I rested my head on his shoulders, content.

That's when he took a parcel out of his pocket. It was one of those tiny brown bags you'd get from shopping at the village market.

'You look like you could use a present.' He smiled, shaking a string of beads and bells from the packet. He wrapped it around my ankle, handling the clasp and letting his fingers linger far longer than was necessary. A present, he said, so I'd think of him when I was back home, surrounded by the American boys and their big guns and games. I should have been swayed by his charm. I should have swooned. I didn't. I thanked him politely and kissed his cheek goodnight.

In a month, he'll be married to his betrothed and my eldest brother will be the 'best man' at his wedding. I don't really feel anything about any of this. It was summer. Everyone knows summer flings never last. Besides, a man like him---a man who was destined to head his father's corporations, destined to run in the same circles we both said we hated that summer---needs a trophy wife who he can frolic about with at those stupid dinner parties I detest so much. Keeping up appearances has never been my forte...


Sunday, June 6

I'm here again. At 3 am. Listening to the steady breathing of the inhabitants of sugargrove.

I should be exhausted. I should have collapsed hours ago. Instead, I'm writing. Yawing. Writing. Craving sleep. Not sleeping.

So fucking weird...

It's like I'm waiting for something to happen. Like I'm waiting for someone to burst through my door and tell me to stop bullshitting. Who are you trying to fool, kid?

So I just let the smoke linger in my dying asthmatic lungs. It feels so good. Waiting.


I can't really do it anymore. Any of it. It takes too much energy to be your daughter, your sister, your friend. Participating takes so much fucking energy. Keeping up appearances. Exhausting.

I need a break. I need a break from everyone. Everyone expecting something from me, expecting me to act a certain way, react a certain way. Gnawing at my fleshy bits. Get the most out of me, ey? Fucking bastards.

You don't know me.

I don't want you to know me.


Saturday, June 5

Sleep Is Unbecoming...

I’m practicing gratitude. It’s kind of funny that I have to remind myself of this every ten minutes or so. Constant affirmations of the divinity within the self is common play in the sting of conversations I have. The dialogue in my head runs in an unoriginal loop these days---skipping beats entirely. I bounce between self-hatred, disgust, love, faith. I’m trying to find God everywhere.

Instead, I find you. You, with your big eyes and smooth hands--- with the palms of a boy who has never worked a day in his life. And I imagine the tired, cracked hands of my grandfather, of my father. Would you ever measure up a man to them? Whose expectations could you fulfill? Whose expectations could I?

Certainly, my limbs aren’t dainty, aren’t feminine in the least. Too use to moving swiftly through bustling crowds of hungry patrons, searching for something to give. But I’m too rough to exhibit a genteel spirit. You see right through me. Right past me.

I could be pretty if not for my continence. You could be handsome, if not for your timidity. I am a brute. You are meek.

It makes me sick, but I’m practicing gratitude, remember?


Monday, May 31

Tell Me Anything You Want, Any Old Lie Will Do...

Currently indulging in the beauty of the Fleet Foxes Ragged Wood album. Their music is simply pretty. Listening to it makes me feel light inside. :)

What makes good art? Forsaking subjectivity is certainly not an option. With any given standard we run the risk of modernism. I'd rather eat my own foot than be called a modernist.

I feel my brain slowing turning all gooey like the insides of a rotting banana. I am becoming weak in the mind and such a thing scares me. I'm so desperate for intellectual stimulation, I'm pushing dialogue out of people clearly uninterested.

You have to understand though. I need to flex my critical thinking muscles. I have to read up on theoriticians. I need to devour more philosophy. My days are empty. It is the pattern of work, television, exercise and sleep. If I have any hope of surviving in this house, I need to get my brain back in shape.

These days I find myself preoccupied with silly things. Like getting a manicure and playing poker. Like diet food and summer dresses.


Saturday, May 29

On Love.

I believe that my parents love each other. I mean, you can't really put up with someone's bullshit for 26 years without feeling some kind of attachment to that person, can you? But I also believe that growing up, I very rarely saw healthy examples of loving relationships. For me, love has always been incurably linked to responsibility---you received the reward of affection once you've proven yourself useful. Bring honor to the family, show off how bright and clever you are, and suddenly, your parents love you. Being useful does not give you a free pass to being loved. I have finally learned this after many, many years. Love has also always been presented hand in hand with guilt and passive aggressive-ness.

I will not say that I wasn't loved enough as a child. My parents love me as best they know how. Growing up Asian fucked me over, though. We don't show affection. We don't express love. We are compelled to act because of obligation, duty, responsibility. We are valued when we are needed. I need to be needed to feel like something.

How tragic is that?

I'm trying to discover new and better ways to love. The problem is that I don't really know how...




Tuesday, May 25

When dad went on business trips all over the country, he'd bring me back all sorts of trinkets. Sometimes, you could tell he just picked up whatever he could find in between work and the hotel gift shop---an after-thought present for his 'favorite' child. Other times, I knew that he went searching the streets for something he thought would make me smile, even if that meant forgoing sleep.

I loved all these things he brought home to me; the charms, the glass candies, the snow globes. I hoarded it all in a little colored box under my bed for many years and only later in life did I trash them out of spite. This, I regret.

I don't know how we've gotten here to this very moment where none of us speak of what is important. If I could turn back time to demystify the misunderstandings of my life crossing yours, I would. But I can't. Because we've forgotten that I was the little girl who sat atop your shoulders to see the world for the very first time.

Tuesday, May 4

I wonder is it's stupid of me to want so badly to study alongside/the words of female Asian philosophers. It's a little silly, I guess. But maybe they think the way I do. Maybe we have shared experiences which make our philosophy different. Maybe they have the words for the thoughts I could never string along coherently.

I dunno. Maybe it's not silly at all.

I'd write a longer post, but my word coffers are all empty from the past week's feverish writing of papers.

With that, I leave you.


Monday, April 26

Today, I have written a total of 15,000 words.

Academic words, no less.

Now I just want to tell a story.


Sunday, April 18

Would You Like A Roomie?

I’m taking a break from films and cultural critiques and papers to eat my chicken bun and Chai. I’m getting back to my usual self (almost) and am attempting to rejoice in a welcomed silence. I just wish I didn’t feel so empty.

I’ve been seriously looking for a new job and apartment. I think it’s time. And if my parents give me shit about it, I’ll remind them of their own choices.

I mean, my father left his country when he was just 17. If he had stayed, his wealth and status would surely have acquired him a power position as a state official or a high ranking judge. He could have had a perfect Bengali bride and obedient children. But he didn’t want it, he didn’t choose what was easy, what he was privileged to without earning. He made his own way in a foreign land, married a foreign bride---holding down his family by holding up three jobs. And I can’t tell you if he’s happy today, but I know he’s proud of what he has earned.

And my mother---if you would believe it---was once a radical (that’s probably why she talks about pot all the time). The proof is in the pictures. No, she’s no Angela Davis, but she staged protests and fought for political prisoners’ freedom. She changed my father from being arrogant and self-entitled. Her passion for life humbled his ego and cynicism. We often clash, but I have to acknowledge that I am like her in many ways.

It was destiny that brought the two of them together. How could they believe a child of theirs would yield? I was meant to resist and defy, just as they have grappled with their own choices. But they seem to forget these things. They seem to forget who they were in light of how things are.

It’s going to be hard. Learning to get along on your own is sure as hell going to be hard. I’m going to have to give up a lot of the comforts I’m accustomed to, but I have not earned these things. They have given me agency---ensured that I grew up with an open mind, that I had the best tutors, that I lived in a nice home with the newest gadgets. They gave me a taste of freedom---granted, it was greatly limited, but it was freedom none the less.

Now they need to let me build my own life. They need to trust in my capabilities.


Friday, April 2

Poem ...1...!

The ‘p’ word.

I know that look.

I’ve seen that look a million times
Mirrored in a million faces that blur together
To make my patchwork framework
From Preschool to present.

It’s that look that says you’re about to say
A very dirty word.

Dirtier than fuck, shit, hell, damn, or women's liberation.

You’re going to say it.
Even if I beg you not.
Not in front of the children, please.

Po-ten-tial , she says.

Apparently I overbid and stocked up on it to fill up two thousand lifetimes
And lifelines reading with greatness and brilliance in the margins of my bargain buy destiny
Fall short where it really matters,
Making me wonder if the Divine plays pranks on the pretensions.

Perhaps in my next lifetime, if I'm lucky
I'll come back
As a catalyst that’ll lower the activation energy
So the enzymes in my former brain
Can reach maximum capacity
And possibly think in a linear fashion.

But until then, maybe, this is all I am.

Fulfilling my ‘p’ word credentials
Is more terrifying a thought then
Learning to love myself or other people for that matter.
Because it means doing both.

Eh. Happy National Poetry Month! :)

Monday, March 29

Love Is Not Just A Word, It's a Verb...To Love Someone.

While driving home with the windows down and the music up, I was listening to some smooth tunes brought exclusively to me by the Smurf. It got me thinking of how memories are associated to music. And I wasn't listening to anything particularly compelling or haunting from my past (I was listening to J. Mraz's Common Pleasure, acoustic version). But it reminded me of a memory---nothing all that specific, just something I had forgotten in the bustle of daily life.

It must have been right after my sixteenth birthday, at the peak of my Jason Mraz obsession when I believed I could love no other man but him. This was before Sarah Lawrence, before smoking, before boys wanted blow jobs, before serious waitressing, before resentment and regret.

My parents had decided to get an above ground pool to cool off the blazing summer days (a bit tacky? Who gives a fuck. It was awesome). The siblings and I would spend nearly all day just floating about until the skin on our hands and feet would begin to prune and pale so badly, that we would have no choice but to climb out of the 12 by 30 foot cushioned walls that had---for those few hours---expanded into an ocean. We had fun, splashing around like idiots, jumping from ladders and just talking; talking about the future. What our kids would be like. How we'd have Barbecues and kite flying competitions at least twice a month. What sort of people we'd marry. What type of jobs we'd have. I guess we didn't always hate each other.

The best would be when our parents decided to swim with us. It'd always be late in the evening after dad got home from work; just when the pinks in the sky began to turn all shades of purple. It was like magic, I tell you. Fireflies would light up around the lanters we had. And I just remember my parents being so happy.

I hadn't thought of this in a long while. Things have changed. A lot.

Well, Good night darlings.

This memory has made me full with a kind of happiness I haven't been able to feel for a very long time.


Wednesday, March 24

There are a million things I ought to be doing right now, but I just ate another round of tofu dumplings. All I actually want to do is lie out under the spring breeze and let the miracle of the digestive system work its power.

I had my ‘meeting’ with Dr. Murphy today. I use quotes because it wasn’t really a meeting. More like an…interview? We sat outside one of the benches in front of classroom I, welcoming the sunshine and the outdoors. He pressed me for questions of my future plans, my current predicament, my position in the universal alignment. It was all very strange. He told anecdotes of his life, of writers’ lives; we discussed theoreticians--- I’d be remiss not to mention that it was a pleasant reprise from my typical interactions with adults and authority figures.

I thought he was going to chew me out for not working hard enough in his class. Or say that I didn’t reach the completely subjective, incomprehensible abstraction that is his standard. But he didn’t. He theorized my existence and came to the conclusion that I am an outsider in my own skin because of the contradictions and dynamics in my life. This, he contends, makes me a very interesting critic; though I shouldn’t let that pigeon-hole me theory wise. Oh, it makes me want to laugh. How can I ever become a writer when I can’t understand my identity? When no one can? Ha. Ha. Ha.

He said something rather epic, though. That my parents needed to show trust in the face of doubt---in me, that is. Because he said I was sharp and would succeed in living righteously while simultaneously making my parents proud. Eventually. That or have grandkids that they could fawn over.

We must have looked the odd couple sitting on that bench for an hour and a half or so. My face is roasted red from the unrelenting sun. But it was a good talk. It’s a nice feeling, I guess, having someone with the wisdom of years and experience believe in you enough to give you a mid-day pep talk

For a very brief moment chronicling this has made me feel less guilty. But the point has to be reached where the true intentions of a writer must be actualized. I want to share this with you, though I won’t have to strength to talk of it in person.

Maybe, if no one talks about it, it’ll just go away.

So, I guess I'm not talking about it. I'm negating its existence.


Monday, March 22

Motifs Are For Cowards...

Should be writing academic papers.

But I am not. Clearly.

Instead, I watched a few episodes of Dexter with my mom and cooked dinner. Geez. There's a lot of nudity and cursing...and romanticizing/eroticizing of murder. I mean, I'm all for shock-and-awe quality shows, reactionary writing, etc. But why bother when you've typecasted the supporting characters? The protagonist is fascinating, yes (I'd say I've got a bit of a crush, even. You know how I have a fetish for sociopaths)---and the depth of character is both compelling and refreshing. The rest of the lot? Not so much.

I'd write about the Electra-complexed younger sister, the boring female lead, the tyrannical mother-in-law, the British flousy, the angry Black cop, the flamboyant Latino, or the sassy Latina officer trying to get ahead in a man's world, but I'm not in the mood to discuss racist undertones and patriarchal practices right now.


Finally processed my previous conversation (and after having a nice chat with Pierce about it) I've come to the conclusion that Andrew isn't 'the one'. I'm good with that. He's just sort of there. He doesn't really have a reason to be there. He just is.

And I'm glad Pierce is supporting my delusions of grandeur. It really does make me happy. :)


I made Yellow Curry for tonight's dinner and decided to get a little fancy with the rice. Instead of just steaming some Jasmine in water, I used vegetable stock instead. I added ginger, thyme, and diced almonds into the rice cooker. I wouldn't say it was my best culinary experiment---namely 'cos we're so use to eating curry with plain rice, but it definitely beat out the crap that Alan and I ate for lunch today. It's a shame that his first experience with Thai food was a bad one. Oh well. He'll never be a complete hipster now.

I think my stomach is actually upset from that Pad Sa Eew. It was...gross. Sorry. I don't want to be mean, but it was really bad. And I was so hopeful, too! :(


I'm rambling. Because I just got yelled at. I'd like to pretend that I'm fine and that I can just shake it off. I know that once I stop typing, I'm going to start moping and brooding. I don't want to be that person anymore. I'm practicing gratitude.

I am grateful, friend. I am grateful for this beating body. I am grateful for the privileged life and perspective I hold. I am grateful for the future endeavors to bring about social justice and equality which I will embark upon.

I am grateful for my parents, even though they think me indifferent and cold. For the best friends who tolerate my bullshit.For the boy who doesn't really love me, but seems to at times. For the teachers who seem to see in me what I will not see in myself.

With love, always.


Thursday, March 18

Homi K Bhabha Don’t Play That…

I hate it when people use the word ‘potential’ on me. It turns me up all sorts of queasy and uncomfortable.

You see, the thing about the ‘p’ word is that it’s a very dirty thing. Dirtier than masturbation, blow jobs, or even Republicans. I always figured that once I finally reached my full ‘potential’ that would be it. It would be the climax of my life, the catharsis I’ve always waited for, the end result of my frustrations finally put to pen and paper. There would be no recovery from the peak, no ease back to reality, nothing more to do or say or want. I’d simply collapse into a pile of tangled limbs---my vessel empty, because there’s just no more use for a body.

And then I’d be floating intellectual matter in a dimension where everyone eats Jello pudding cups without the tyranny of pants and quotes Bhabha and Foucault and Scrubs all the time.

I just always figured that if I ever happen to fulfill my ‘p’-word credentials, I wouldn’t know what to do with myself after. I’d just sit around twiddling my thumbs, waiting to die.

Maybe I don’t want to reach that point. Ever.

Then again, why the fuck are the expectations so damn high? I try to wrestle through the overgrowth of self-loathing and disownment, but only manage to muddle myself further into the depths of my life’s greatest question: So what? I can spin a few pretty lines of poetry. So what? I can link theories together. Big fucking deal.

Why the fuck do you think I’m something special?

Because I can’t see it, that’s for sure.

Maybe I’m that pretend kind of special. You know. That person who attempts to convince you that they’re special and is such a good bullshiter that you start to believe them. But really, when it comes time to produce something, anything, they cop out.

Yeah. That sounds more like it.

I’m so pretentious that you think I’m brilliant, when really, I’m a two-bit remnant of a mediocre wanna-be poet.

It’s always a struggle for knowledge- for power- for domination and submission. The colonizer’s power is determined by the colonized. Subdue the effeminate other until he becomes a passive participant.

It’s an ugly business, this power/weakness dichotomy is…

What upsets me these days is thinking about masculine/feminine traits. What makes a man and what makes a woman?

I can accept that there are differences in anatomy, but to fix inalterably essences like rationality, intellect, and strength to gender and personhood is one penny shy of ridiculous. When are we going to move away from the macroscopic/reductionist view of things? When are we going to embrace deconstruction and rebuild?


I should really be doing legit work right now.


Thursday, March 11

You Keep All Your Secrets In Your Beard.

I start my posts with “I know I haven’t written in a while…” more often than I would like.

The truth is that I’m just really tired. It’s what happens when you grow up, I guess. You slip on that sacred robe of adulthood---the one they promised you’d look super fly in once your limbs grew an inch or so. But it never quite fits the right way and you always feel clumsy and foolish; knocking over butterdishes and shattering friendships completely. Always feeling like you’d much rather make due with your old clothes, even if they’re outdated. Leave the fashion for the fashionisttas.

One minute you’re making mud pies and playing midnight freeze tag with your best friends, pinky swearing forever and always, eating peanut butter sandwiches and playing hopscotch in the back yard---finding the world exciting and new and beautiful, thinking that the scrapes and bruises you got from the playground were battle scars. Then the next day, you wake up and find that you’re old, that you’re buried behind three weeks worth of papers, laundry, dishes, that you’re lost in the humdrum of waiting tables, of shuffling siblings to and from music lessons and volleyball practices, that you’re making dinner dates with creepy philosophy boys you truly have no interest in because you’re afraid to be old alone.

Those fresh eyes you once had area jaded. You start the day with a grande soy latte and side of cynicism. Mhmmm…Delicious.

I don’t believe in magic anymore---not the way I use to, anyway.

And I don’t know if this is making any sense, but I’d give up three lifetimes as a demigoddess, my secret stash of Tobleron AND my autographed note from Billy Collins if it meant that I could just, for maybe an hour or so, believe in magic the way I use to.

Anyway, I’ve got to get going on my nightly rituals. There’s lots of errands to run before work tomorrow.

Good night, dear ones.


Monday, February 8

Listening to: Broken Bells
Things lost: Wallet
Sense of Humor

I should probably be working on outlining West or taking a POCO quiz or writing a critical summary for Lit, but I don't really feel like it.

Instead, I've been letting myself get acquainted with some new music---this album in particular is one that boy-bestie has gotten me hooked to.

I can't help the fact that I hate coming home. I hate being around these people and being involved in these toxic relationships. I really do try. You know, some things shouldn't be THAT big a deal. Yes. I can't find my wallet. I'm sorry. Okay? But is it the end of the fucking world? Is it reason enough to crucify me over? Seriously? Why am I the punching bag?

So you had a bad day at work. Why the hell are you taking it out on me?

I stay away from you for a reason.

It's because I hate you. Everything about you all disgusts me.


I'm trying to write something positive.




Now fuck off.



Friday, January 1

First post of the new year.