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.