Alone Together

Alone Together


This highway is like a ballet,
each car leaps in time
with the symphony we play.
Headlights and tail lights intertwined
pirouette together, flickering Red and blue.
We trade melismas for fermatas
As we glide seamlessly to a slow and steady
Grand. Pause.
As the conductor holds us in suspense
and stare at myself in the unbroken mirror
of my neighbor’s inescapable glass.

Lane changes are choreographed perfectly,
mechanically,
to the adagio drip of classic rock
leaking from my radio;
coming so close but making sure never to touch another.
Engines drone on with the low reeds while
the horns shout their appoggiaturas
in that all too familiar call and response.
My car sings out her soprano descant above the chorus;
the same old song that never changes key.

I roll down my window
as the piece crescendos
to forty-five and reach out the window
so I can finally shake hands
with someone in my section.
But everyone knows that you don't talk
in the middle of a performance.
You look straight ahead, remain silent,
keep your hands to yourself and
never ask a question if you don't understand what's going on.
How can so many people play the same song
but never meet another musician?


I was talking with a friend about this poem as we went for a long drive. I was talking about how surreal it felt to watch traffic glide so effortlessly in and out of itself and that it almost seemed like a ballet and that's why I wrote this poem, I've posted it on here before but I reworked it for my last poetry class and I think it has a bit more energy now. Hope you enjoyed it.

If you have ever played classical music, this one's for you.

Finally someone speaks up!

three cheers for mediocrity! HIP-HIP!

...yeah me either...

so grades will be coming soon. I'm not terribly thrilled about that notion, but at this point I really want them to come and go. This semester was....odd. I've definitely done a lot of growing this semester--as a person, as an artist, and as a friend. But for some reason my academics just weren't on point. I don't totally understand it, I guess it's sort of like physics--water can't change physically and thermo-dynamically. If I'm doing well as a person, as a student I have to take a break. Maybe it's just me. Or perhaps, I'm just getting tired of the same circus that school presents me with. I'd never thought I'd grow tired of learning in a class room, but the truth is I'm loning for something else...some sort of education that is more tangible.

As for right now, I am all but finsihed with this semester, and looking foward to the coming break. Maybe by next semester I'll be ready to be taught at again.

Music Geek

There are certainl different level's to one's geekiness. This takes a special kind of music geek.

p.s. thanks Post Secret

WHOA.

Julianne Moore's son is named Caleb.

=o

course correction

It's as if my life is a series of vectors, each a semester long. At the end of each segment I take my entire life in account--everything I have done, and everything I want to do, shuffle my life around, re-roll the dice and trudge on. Problem is I really don't know what all I want to do with the rest of my life. There are so many things I want to do, want to try. There are a number of things I'm good at, but I am really no closer to knowing which one I want to make a career of.

Unfortunately my school doesn't agree with such a laissez-fair take on life. You have got to know what you want, and get to doing it soon so you can start making money and living your life just like the rest of us. It makes me tear at my hair and shout from the top of my lungs "WHY!?" In reponse I get a mildly confused stare and "....because that's what you do.."

So once again I come to a pause, and ask my self "where the hell am I going?" I know that I want to help, I want to make the world a better place to live--but is that an education I can really get in school. Don't get me wrong, I love my poetry classes and I'm doing well in them. I hear almost daily from Jennifer what a wonderful writer I am, and I take for granted her (and everyone's) compliments. I know I have the potential for being really good...but I guess I wonder what the benefit is being good if I don't use it for good?

"Some of the most interesting people I know didn't know at 22 what they wanted to do with their lives, some of the most interesting 40 year olds I know still don't..."
-Baz Lurman

Old Crow Medicine Show

this song has brought me home when I couldn't be there.

Wagon Wheel

Headed down south to the land of the pines
And I'm thumbin' my way into North Caroline
Starin' up the road
And pray to God I see headlights

I made it down the coast in seventeen hours
Pickin' me a bouquet of dogwood flowers
And I'm a hopin' for Raleigh
I can see my baby tonight

So rock me mama like a wagon wheel
Rock me mama anyway you feel
Hey mama rock me
Rock me mama like the wind and the rain
Rock me mama like a south-bound train
Hey mama rock me

Runnin' from the cold up in New England
I was born to be a fiddler in an old-time stringband
My baby plays the guitar
I pick a banjo now

Oh, the North country winters keep a gettin' me now
Lost my money playin' poker so I had to up and leave
But I ain't a turnin' back
To livin' that old life no more

So rock me mama like a wagon wheel
Rock me mama anyway you feel
Hey mama rock me
Rock me mama like the wind and the rain
Rock me mama like a south-bound train
Hey mama rock me

Walkin' to the south out of Roanoke
I caught a trucker out of Philly
Had a nice long toke
But he's a headed west from the Cumberland Gap
To Johnson City, Tennessee

And I gotta get a move on fit for the sun
I hear my baby callin' my name
And I know that she's the only one
And if I die in Raleigh
At least I will die free

So rock me mama like a wagon wheel
Rock me mama anyway you feel
Hey mama rock me
Rock me mama like the wind and the rain
Rock me mama like a south-bound train

Giving thanks

Football, Parades, button-front pants. I'm sure this isn't what the pilgrims had in mind. I'm also sure they had no idea that simply getting on a boat to get away from a England because it was "too loose" would cause such a mind-numbing frenzy of consumerism, feeding some primordial desire to get more stuff. It is ironic, if only a little, that the day after thanksgiving is marked by a nation-wide manhunt for the biggest and lowest deal, causing consumers to put themselves through tortures they would never normally put up with. Even still, something tells me that the very idea of thanksgiving was far from anything about a hundred sea-sick, starving people had on their minds.

But still, Thanksgiving is what it is. It is a day designed to say thank you for everything good that has happened to us this year. Thank you--it's a funny word isn't it? We aren't born knowing thank you; society has told us that we must be thankful for everything we get--whether we deserve it, have earned it, or if some cosmic probability pulled our number. Am I thankful? Absolutely. I am thankfull for my family who love and support me unconditionally. I am thankfull for my friends who are constantly at my side and at my back giving me a trusting place to fall. I am grateful that I am sitting comfortably in my home away from any real danger. I am thankfull I am not in Iraq, which saw one of the bloodiest days in the entire war yesterday.

I didn't ask for most of what I have in my life, but the truth is I am grateful. The truth of the matter is that we all understand gratitude, society teaches us how to express it--we just get so caught up in what we're excpected to do that we forget why we do it. Tomorrow, while you're shopping and someone holds the door for you say thank you. Then wonder why...

C-RAP

We Came.
We Cheered.
We Lost.

Our heads are still high.


This Saturday a huge group of our RA's met with RA's from five or six other schools from around the central area of California to talk about RA-related things. We went to each other's programs, bounced ideas off each other, and met new people. But most of all we all were competed for the coveted spirit stick. *cue the glorious choir music* The spirit stick was given to the school whose RA's had the most spirit.

WE ARE DYNOMITE! YES WE ARE DYNOMITE! AND WHEN YOU MESS WITH DYNOMITE, IT GOES tic-tic-tic-tic-tic-tic-tic-tic BOOM DYNOMITE!

Spirit. We got it.
However we evidenlty did not have enough.

Spirit was divided into four catagories: The Banner, The Roll Call Video, Philanthropy (CD's collected for a CD drive--whoever got the most got the award for best philanthropy), and actually spirit that day. It fairly unanimous that we had the best video ever. And as for spirit that day? Well it's like the video said--it was reckless. We were cheering, dancing, screaming, gyrating, and embarassing ourselves ALL DAY. We didn't stop; most of us lost our voices. Still it looks like the politics of "philanthropy" outweigh the ability to spell CSUN three-demensionally using people.

Still, the impression has been made. Our spirit on them, their ideas on us. I networked with a few RA's from other campuses and we're planning a multi-campus awareness program for the geonocide in Darfur. You can't get that without getting out and meeting new RA's. No we didn't win but when you leave with other schools saying you SHOULD have won, you know you've done your job. Next year that stick is ours.

Midterm

The amount of shit that went into that essay left me reeling for water for fear that I may die of diarrhetic dehydration.

Chi'Gong

Today in Tai Chi we being to learn meditation. My instructor doesn't realize what good time she has.

Prefixes: The Root of All Evil

It's kind of funny...don't you think?

The power that words have. You ask someone "what's the most beautiful word in the english language" and you can't an answer that has deeper meaning that just the random collection of letters and sounds. You ask the opposite question, and you'll get the same result.

But it's all words are, isn't it? When you break it down to the bare bones of what we call language, words are nothing but a representation of what we're saying. We assign sounds, we assign syllables, we assign meaning; words are symbols for what we want to say. Haley commented on the first question and brought up a very interesting point--that people who don't know our language find beauty in words we would find repulsive. "Diaherra" It almost sounds like an Opera. Any word in french is a pretty word, "poubelle" "devoirs" "maird" ("trash", "homework", "shit", respectively). Personal opinions of opera music or the french culture aside, these words do sound very nice, they're sort of fun to say. Yet if you asked anyone in their native tongue what they thought of these words they would say that they are ugly.

So what makes a word ugly? After all words are just symbols and symbols have no more power than what we assign them; "Cross" what did you just think of? If it was anything close to religious than you see what I'm saying. I remember vividly accidently saying the word "nigger" in front of my mother when I was younger. Her reaction quickly led me to believe that it was never okay to say that word. Yet if you examine the current hip hop culture, one of the primary objectives is to reclaim the word and desensitize it, to strip it of it's meaning. Is this a wrong thing to do?

I love words, I don't think theyre is anything more powerful or beautiful or tumultous as a word. I believe that, when used well, words pack a force that nothing can stop. Words can topple governments, words can make a fortune, words can define a relationship. But the only reason any of this is true is because we let it be true. I am a writer, and I believe in the power of words. I believe that words are like any other tool--use it well and you can change the world.

So what do words mean to you?

another question, a little less random

What is the ugliest word in the english language?

Random question:

What is the most beautiful word in the english language?

celebration

So I'm 21...

Cabin Fever

I've spent every night this week alone in my room. In fact I've spent nearly every moment not in class in my room. I wake up in the morning and I get ready for class, make myself some breakfast and a cup of coffee, get my bag ready and walk the same route to class every morning. After class I walk back, come to my room and sit down and get online, visit the same five or six websites I always do and generally let my eyes glaze over while the hands on the clock march steadily towards the next hour. How did this happen to me?

I have organized my semester so that I would have time to get away from this very symptom--the same symptom I find myself in time after time. But it seems no matter how strong my convictions or how well-placed my intentions complacency reaches up and grabs my ankle and just pulls me back down. Why do I let myself get caught up in this same struggle time after time? I know the solution to my problem, I just don't know how to get there. I get so comfortable in my room that I simply don't want to leave. I get so comfortable in my routine that I simply don't want to diverge.

This is the same problem I'm constantly fighting against--it's the one issue that seems to always be able to drag me down. There's so much I want to do, and so much I want to see, there's just so much I want to think about that I don't know how to cope with it. I feel like it's pushing me away from my friends, I don't know how to connect to them. So when I try I feel like I'm coming on too strong. This is the last curve that bends this issue into a viscious cycle. So now I find myself at a cross-roads. I know I need to get out and do more. I want to spend more time with my friends, but I also want to find comfort in spending time alone again. Problem is if I go too far towards the latter I won't see anyone at all. I'll become a transcendentalist and go off in the mountains bymself...but even Thureau had friends.

I need to get away--I need to change my cycle. I need to clear my head. I need to get back to stony point (and not talk myself out of going). I need to stop being so afraid of the outside world. I'm not sure what has made me feel this way again, but I want it to stop. Maybe the Tai Chi will help....

wtf, crane?

So I woke up this morning to a cool, crisp breeze. It's overcast out, and the sky looks wonderful. I went outside three minutes ago and it's serene and peaceful and very relaxing and has absolutely nothing looking like a crane. I go back outside just now and, wtf? Crane!

thanks, crane, for killing the mood.

Skankadouche.

Gloat

click the title.

The man responsible for the single greatest art project of our modern time is speaking at my school in eighteen days. At 3:30 pm.

Be jealous, it's okay.

so much time, so little to do...

wait a minute; strike that, reverse it.


I love Yesterday's Books of Modesto California. I love them. If I could take some action to that would make my love legal I probably would. However given the state of the current conservative marriage laws in California, I will continue to worship from affar.

Wednesday, as I was leaving my english class we were instructed to read 154 pages of The Rise of Silas Laphem by William Dean Howell. I was 100% sure I had this book and was ready to read on my arduous journey home to Modesto. Turns out I was 100% wrong. I did not have this book, and from the reports of others in the class had no chance of buying it anywhere in Los Angeles. At all. Ever. Unsure of exactly what I was going to do, I put it behind me and concentrated on the upcoming trip.

Planes with propellers are cool.

Saturday it was time I left with Kasey to look for the book, problem is by the time I drove half a mile from my house to Barnes and Nobles the sum of the information about the book I could remember was that it had something to do with "Silas" and the author's name had an "H" in it. Still the deligent detectives at B&N found the book (my hats off too them) however, they did not have the book.

Enter "Yesterday's Books" the quintessential around-the-corner-used-book store. I show up and hand them the sheet with the picture of my quandry. "I'm looking for this book," I say. "ooh, Howell...I think I've seen one title by him in section 21." I trek back to section 21, and sure enough "The Rise of Silas Lepham" by William Dean Howell, the only Howell title there. It was $2.50. I love Yesterday's books.


Now, I have the book. the next step is read the 120 pages I haven't read yet that I was supposed ot have done by today. 130 pages and negative three hours to read it. Guess I better get started.

keep your coins

pretty sure this is my new motto:

Random thought:

If you had a superpower what would you want?
What would you do with it?
Would you use it for altruistic or self-serving purposes?

now I'm easy, easy like sunday morning.

it's funny how bad situations can sometimes just fix themselves (especially if you complain about them enough). Hiroko and Tom are visiting me. They are visiting me for a loooooong time, I haven't really wanted anything more than my own room back the past couple days but there's not a whole lot of places to go. Having him here was my choice, so really I've been reeling at my own inability to realize that having two people here this long is INSANE. It's been stressful.

However, they decided last night to take off for Santa Barbara today, and since Dave is going as well, they all decided to stay at Dave's place last night. Wham-o, Bang-o, I have the place to myself. When I woke up this morning my room looked like that. It was warm, sunny and a cool breeze was blowing. This morning was beautiful, it was so beautiful it was almost surreal. I felt like I was in a jewelry commercial...or the beginning of a cat food commercial (because they start off the exact same way). I made myself bacon, eggs, and toast, and worked my sketch book and talked to some very dear friends.

Funny how little problems can just sort of work themselves out sometimes.

whooda thunkit?

I stayed in last night and mended my favorite pair of jeans instead of going out and partying. I watched a little TV and read some poetry and sewed my old blue jeans. Who would have thought I would find that more fun than going out and partying?

lets give them something to talk about

I've avoided writing this, my 50th post on this site, for want of something to write about. Actually it hasn't been the lack of topics but the wealth of them; and picking the right one to express what I felt about it.

as most of you know, I'm a resident advisor in one of the dorms at my school. 56 people live on my floor. 56 people coming from different lives and backgrounds and ways of thinking and all of them collecting here on my floor. What happens with 56 people come together to live? What happens when 4 come together (hopefully) coexist? Now all four individual personalities are under 4 equal microscopes. The values of one are weighed against the values of another in a constant--yet silent--struggle of "who is right?"

A week ago one of my residents came to me complaining that the fourth roomate was not working out. He was brining people over, letting strangers in at all hours of the night, and smoking marijuana on the balcony. The first resident was not happy. I told him to talk about it as a room try to sort it out and talk to the fourth roomate, then if it didn't work to come back to me. They came back the next time telling me it still wasn't working. I tried to help them as much as I could but our system does not allow for a majority rule. Everyone has a fair chance at CSUN.

An hour ago there was a loud banging on my door, I jumped out of bed and tore open the door (expecting it to be a prank) when to my suprise my resident was standing the yelling about calling the cops. Three peope had pinned the fourth roomate down while the first was yelling at me about the fight that had just happened. It felt like seconds before the cops were arriving on the scene and taking contorl (I was glad to give it up).

These guys, the firs three roomates, came to me asking me to fix the situation. I pointed out all the recourses available to them, I did everything in my power to allieviate the situation. But our system does not take sides--it does not decide who is right. Our system is put in place to help residents find mutual ground to respectfully coexsist without killing each other. So if it boiled down to a fight tonight did the system fail? If there was a death threat did the system fail? I've done everything in my power to alieviate the situation and still the police showed up on my floor tonight. I know I haven't failed as an RA, in fact I've done everything I was taught to do. But I still can't swallow away these nagging questions:

Is there a point in which the values of one outweigh the values of another?

Who is right?

It's the most wonderful time of the year

well, some would say so...

I head back to school Friday. No, our school isn't starting monday; I simply have JOB TRAINING! woo! We have to be enthusiastic about it--it's in our contract. The staff at school has nearly every hour for the next three weeks of my life scheduled out to properly train me to be a resident advisor. That's right, for one whole year I will be responsible for the safety and well being of some 63 students all going through the same struggles, tribulations, and confusing path-choices that I am, I will be largely responsible for helping them--guiding them through these decisions this year. God help us all.

Still, I am very excited to be getting back to LA (never thought I'd say that in my life..), this has been a trying and confusing summer and at this point I think the only thing that will help bring clarity is being able to get out of everything--lift my head above the smog as it were. I miss my friends in LA, hell I miss hanging out with people my own age. I think it's funny just how far apart people can be in thinking even if they're the same age or just a couple years apart. I suppose it's just part of growing up, everyone goes down different paths to get there.

My books and DVD's are packed, my new kitchen stuff is organized and sorted. Friday I'm LA or bust.

Who are you?

Some say that we are defined by the friends we make. Others say that we grow as people because of the environment we put ourselves in--by the friends we take into our lives. But at what point do we grow because of our friends, and at what point is our growth hindered by them?

Everyone is familiar with the tired old addage "be yourself." While i'm not disputing it's validity, I wonder how sincerely we keep to such a rigid rule. How does one "be themselves" anyway? I suppose it would start with knowing who you, as a person, really are. This takes us back to the beginning: we are what our friends make of us. Is this absolutely true? Absolutely not. But I believe that we would be fooling ourselves to say that we do not (at times) bend ourselves to fit the image of what our friends want us to be. There are times we do not make a snide remark out of politeness because it may offend one of our friends, even if we find it hysterical. We forgive our friends for saying something inappropriate because "that's just how they are."

Everytime we let something go, everytime we don't say what's on our minds, or on our hearts we placate ourselves to the image we want to maintain in our friends eyes. We are all guilty of allowing ourselves to fold the will of others, simply because being true to ourselves every waking moment of every day is just too tiresome. For those of you who are currently shaking their heads I do not say that it is done intentionally, or even consciously; but I'll bet that once or twice in your life you've really wanted to do something and thought better of it because of what others might say.

So, we cut our stones against that of our friends, in order to help shape who we are. Doing so is neccessary to make us well-rounded individuals. So when do we decide when to chip and when to be chipped? Friendship, relationships, life, everything is about give and take. It is a dance between Person A and World B and I suppose the real trick is not letting your partner step on your toes.

If none of this made any sense, then I only hope you don't feel like you wasted your time here. But if this sounds familiar, then please tell me. If you feel that sometimes it just feels like you've bent over backwards so that world can push you a little further, then talk to me--reach out and let me know. Perhaps we can found a support group, and maybe between the two of us we can find a way to put a stop to it.

Troublesome

I was sitting in my living room last week with three other people, watching a very good movie. "An Unfinished life" starring Robert Redford and Morgan Freeman--two ranchers who've lived together on their farm in Wyoming almost their whole lives and who probably love each other but would never admit to anything so propesterous. The movie is touching and heartwarming (in a roughneck sort of way) and is an all around good movie about reaching out and finding a connection with someone.

Yet at the end of the movie, as the credits began to role, the lulling sense of a good movie was brutally interuppted by the loud voice of the person sitting beside me "well that was a chick flic!" Said the booming bass. The other two people heartily agreed. I protested that it was not a chick flic because it showed emotions. The reluctantly downgraded the movie to a "date movie."
I have noticed a pattern (mostly with males) that any movie that displays a person's emotions candidly and vividly is written of quickly as a "chick flic." That is to say, any movie that breaks through this shell people put around them and expose the naked and vulnerable side of who we really are cannot be enjoyed by guys--emotions are for chicks. Such a mentality leaves a taste in my mouth not unlike old milk. What are we so afraid of that we cannot openly look at the relationship between two people without the need for some sexual controversy to justify this foray into their feelings? More importantly why is it automatically assumed that because a movie is dramatic, it cannot be enjoyed outside the context of romantic involvement?

decisions

I'm trying to write a letter to the head of my department, telling him I've decided to switch majors. Is it ironic that the hardest thing I've had to do with the jazz department is tell them I don't want to be a jazz major anymore?

Sojourn

Decided I needed to go to Sonora, so I did. Hopped in the car completely decked out with the new CD player, and my camera with a role of black and white film and drove up to Sonora. Spent the afternoon walking in and out of random shops, talking to strangers, and gabbing about chocolate confections (by the way, if you go to Sonora, visit Vicky at Yosemite Fudge Co. she's awesome).

Decided to travel up to Columbia after to the old town--found a girl my age smithing horse shoes and nail puzzles--a young girl blacksmith...that's cool.

been needing to get out of town for a while, just see something new. I'll show anyone who reads this what I saw after I get the pictures developed. Til then...

teeter-totter

Music was his life, it was not his livelyhood...



I have found myself realizing recently that I have been dragging myself down the wrong path through the dark forest of higher education. For three years now I have been struggling to be a music major--practicing, studying, and playing for three years trying desperately how to express myself through music and playing catch up with those who already can. I realized that I already know to express myself through writing, and I've been denying my ability because music was the "right path for me". When all of this became clear to me, and that music isn't the path I should be seriously persuing, I realized that I knew this a long time ago.

I have been writing almost as long as I've been playing music, and even when I grew tired of playing music, I still found solace in writing. Writing gives me a chance to clearly express my thoughts, my ideas, my feelings so that when I tell other people about them, I hear them say "yes". Yes is a powerful word. When I wrote for the bee, I would recieve almost weekly-praises about my articles--people loved reading my articles and I loved writing them. When I played trombone the most common response was "not bad, but..." When I play, I rarely here a genuine "yes."
In this recent internal sojourn down the path of what-do-I-want-to-be-when-I-grow-up I realized that my problem has always lied in the decision making process--the choice of what we do with our lives doesn't come from the path of least-resistance. It comes from the path of most-praises; both personal praises and praises from other people.

...it made him feel so happy, and it made him feel so good...


This decision wasn't easy. My dad is a musician, my mom is a musician, my sister is a musician, my grandmother was a musician, all of my friends are musicians. Music has been my life, literally, since the day I was born. Since I can remember I've always known that I would be some sort of musician, even through the constant search for which is the right career for me (you know the routine, astronaut, fireman, police officer, member of the X-men, the usual) I knew music would someone be in there. It was logical for me to simply go with music, but there lies the problem. There is a fine line between passion and career, and the problem with all passion is that soaring highs can easily turn into desperate lows. I was working so hard at playing music that it stopped being fun, I began to forget why I wanted to be a music major, and slowly but surely it became clear that I, in fact, didn't. I love music, I absolutely love music, I love music so much that if I keep trying to be a music major I'm going to wind up jaded towards it and I will lose the passion I already have--I can't bear for that to happen.

Sometimes the only thing that tells us if we're redy for the plunge, it to go ahead and take it. Sometimes we find out it's not the right one. The trick is getting off the path and starting over before you get too far down the line. The more I think about it, the more I dwell on it, the more I (heh) write about it; the more I realize that writing is where I feel at home.


...and he did not know how well he sang, it just made him home...





(thank you, Harry Chapin--for everything)

"It "ain't what you don't know that gets you into trouble...

...It's what you know for sure that just ain't so."

-Mark Twain


When you were five, your world didn't go much beyond the block you lived on. When you twelve, your world didn't go much beyond your side of town, maybe your town at best. Now you've grown up, now you're all grown up and you have learned all about the world around you. Or have you? It is difficult to accept that what we think we know is inaccurate (or even wrong), yet how often do we find ourselves redifining what we know with a wider definition of what is actually true?

Global Warming has been a hot issue for a long time now. There has been growing acknowledgement that the way we live our lives is detrimental to the environment around us. Our complaceny, our thirst for a more convienant life, has come at the cost of dramatically altering nature. You get in your car to drive to work, stop on the way to get a latte and a bottle of water. It's hot out today--seems much hotter than it did this time last year--so you turn on the air conditioner at work; without thinking you crank the dial down four or five degress. The day ends and you get back in your car and drive home. The house is a mess, so you start cleaning up, throwing away all the newspapers and plastic bottles from the same routine from the days before. To someone who's day mirrors this, it may not seem all that bad. You're just one person, right? One person is all the difference when it comes to global warming, you do have an affect, and that is the point of the growing global warming movement, and the point behind Al Gore's an Inconvienant Truth.

An Inconvienant Truth, part environmental presentation/part behind the scenes documentary, follows Al Gore on the road as he goes from place to place, country to country give his "slide show" a detailed presentation on the adverse affects of global warming. His friendly demeanor and charming charisma draws you into listen to every word he has to say, whether about the ice shelf of antarctica melting, or of his son's near-death experaince when he was six year old. Gore cares about this issue, as much as he cares about his family, and in his soft-spoken way, make you realize that they two are absolutely related. Gore's presentation is poignant and well-assembled, he successfully addresses every issue that has caused a contraversy with global warming and effectively crushes them. His facts are solid, his graphs are colorful (and numerous). The presentation is suited for any audience who may see it (using an explination of global warming from television's "Futurama" certainly helps).


The movie is good, the message is better. I was on the fence for a long time, but this movie has certianly enlightened me. I've heard many say that this issue is just politics. I've heard many rationalize this problem as nothing more than cyclical. This movie answers your questions. Go see it while it's still playing at the State.

If You Can Read This

then go see "An Inconvienant Truth." It's good. It's really good.

• An Incovienant Truth

Opening a door to what we've forgotten

I've been reading a book over the past couple of weeks called "How to be a Gentleman: a contemporary guide to common courtesy." It's an interesting guide to the most affective way of being polite and well-recieved in company. Little things like "a gentleman never carries his cell phone into a movie theater. If he has no choice but to take it in than he certainly does not allow it disrupt the show;" "a gentleman says excuse me if he must inconvience someone by stepping over them;" "if a gentleman is walking his dog, he takes responsibility for his dog's poop."

Yes the little things seem trivial. And it would obviously be easier on us if we simply over-looked them. But it is that little extra effort that seperates the good men from the assholes. We all get annoyed by the person in the theater who talks on their cell phone. We all get annoyed by the person who turns suddenly without using their blinker. So why be that person? These are not rules, they are not required nor should they be. Because a gentleman would want to make sure that he does not put anyone off because doing so would be putting himself off as well.

Chivalry is not dead, it is simply forgotten. It is part of an ancient language comprimised for express lanes, cell phones, personal data machine and drive-through coffee. Yes, chivalry takes more time. Yes, doing what is right can sometimes be an inconvience or even difficult. I am not a saint, I have made a right-hand turn without signaling. I have carried on a conversation on a cell phone while in a checkout line. No one is perfect, but I would optimistically think that we all have some common sense (at leas to some degree) and when you think about it, that's all chivalry requires. Being nice to someone else. Going out of your way to help someone. Restraining yourself from saying something rude, that you know would hurt them. Why would we want to do this--what do we gain? Nothing, whereas a gentleman may have nothing. But he still has respect.

My Mother's Kitchen

It always begins with boiling water.
Add a little margarine, three quarters cup of mother’s milk,
and a dash of Sundays-after-church.
Mix together children playing football
in the back yard in a large bowl,
add in the men sitting on the back porch
slowly.
“Don’t forget the rosemary!”
little Rosemary always says.
Poppa always makes sure to toss in his
Louis-Armstrong from his jar of
sun-dried-music-records
(when he’s upset he always orders a side of
Beethoven).
Every time he tries to pick out the Gramma-singing-along
but mom always smiles at him and said it tastes
better that way.

When the foamy white cream began to bubble,
then momma hands me the spoon--
I get to stir, it’s my favorite.
Watching everything blend together
into a sea of white with tiny flecks
like little singing green fish.
I stirred until our family couldn’t get any closer,
then Mother would pour us over fleshy yellow noodles
and we would eat in silent reveries on the warm sunny table.

Poppa’s died, and Miss Rose-Marie
has moved to California.
My sauce isn’t as creamy as Mother’s was,
it normally comes out kind of gray.
I try to make it likes she does,
but it just doesn’t taste the same.

feeling much?

I miss this...

25x'25

It is true that our country has found itself in an unfortunate addiction to oil. The addiction oozes to the very core of our society, so that it is improbably to function without it. Oil has been a growing problem for several decades, evidently to hot to deal with immediatly and thus put off for the next administratioin or generation to deal with. Yet in the midst of pointing fingers and procrastination, a small voice sings out an answer.

The idea is that home-grown U.S. energy from corn and soybean byproducts can offset the nation's growing dependence on oil imports and relieve consumers and businesses suffering from escalating energy costs. -Washington Post

In addition to the ethenol power is the use of solar and wind power, giant power farms stationed in places like the dakotas that reportedly have enough wind to power the entire nation. These ideas are not necessarily new ones, alternative feuls have been preached by their advocates for a long time, possibly as long as we've been in this oily crisis, it seems that no one was quite ready to listen.

They're listening now. The "25x'25" movement (the idea that by the year 2025, 25% of our feul should come from ethenol or other alternative feul sources shources) has been growing it's grass-roots numbers with wild-fire tenacity. This legislation has tremendous support from both sides of the hill, from former House Speaker Newt Gingrich and republican governor Jeb Bush, to the former Clinton cheif of staff John Pedosta and the democratic party from Iowa and Indiana (the two biggest corn producing states of the U.S.). Support has also come from the big-three auto industries of the U.S--General Motors, Ford, and Chrysler. With support like this it makes you wonder, why isn't it a done deal yet?

25x'25 is a bold step, one that has been blocked by partisanship and personal agendas. Wouldn't it be nice to see politicians do a little governing instead of placating to the popular interest? We shall see...


The article

the 25x'25 official website

complacency

If there's one thing I've noticed in my endevour to become a better artist in any sense of the word, it is that the process of becoming better never ends--there is always more room to become better. As such, the one thing that has the ability to end art is complacency. How do we create when the burning desire of inspiration dwindles to an ember of self satisfaction?
It is the insatiable hunger to better one's self that creates new and better art, and is why the painter continues to paint, or the writer continutes to write or the singer continues to sing. So what do you make of a singer that ceased to struggle for better music? When a group of singers get up and sing the notes on the page instead of the music that was intended, how do you combat that without being accused of being to tough or "mean?" What do you say to people want to sing but don't want to listen?

click me

If you click the title, it'll take you to of a kid beatboxing into a harmonica. It's cool.

The art of creation

So I'm starting an art project. For those who don't know, I'm building a coffee table. I know to most a coffee table would hardly seem like art, but it's something I've been thinking about for a very long time. I see most of the design in my head, and I have most of the skills I need to complete the task, so really, why shouldn't I?

I'm not building this table for anyone but myself, so that it will look good sitting in my apartment. But mostly, so that someone sees it, and appreciates it I can say "yeah, I built that." That's the thing about artwork, while it has been given countless purposes throughout history, utlimately it's primary purpose it be aesthetically pleasing. We like art because it looks good (with the rare exception of some post modern art that is intentionally "bad"), and we like creating art because it's nice to be recognized for doing something good.

I'm not one to say that all art is good depending on who you're asking, but I will say that all art is appreciated at least by someone. I believe there is generally a limit to "beauty" and that we, as a society, can put parameters around it. But this still isn't the point of creation, I believe we create because the artwork is an extension of ourselves. And when we do really well on something it is a reflection on ourselves. We can look at the artwork we've created and we can see ourselves looking back--proud.

So I'm going to create a coffee table, not just any coffee table, a special coffee table. My coffee table. Once it's done I'll post pictures and you can tell me what you think, and then if you really want one, maybe we'll talk ;-)

oh, that's very kafka-esque

If you've heard this statement before it's normally describing a very strange set of events that have no reason by someone who is trying to sound pretentious (and is normally succeeding). The reference comes from Franz Kafka's most famous work "The Metamorphosis"; a story about the unfortunate Gregor Samsa who is a hardworking young man and most regretibly turns into "a very large vermin." He spends the entire story deeling with life from this perverted perspective--most prominantly his relationship with his family who had been relying on him to support their living. Unfortunately for them, there is not hope for that as Gregor Samsa is now a very large vermin. Beginning to understand "Kafka-esque" yet? Yeah, me either.
Kafka uses the surreal idea of the metamorphasis to explore the fragility of the relationship between Gregor and his family. While the story goes out of it's way at times to be just plain strange, Kafka makes it subtly clear that there is a serious strain on the relationship between Gregor and his family. Gregor has gone out of his way to be the utmost polite, deligent, and professional young man he can be, any parent would be proud of the struggle this boy goes through in order to keep his family accustomed to their lifestyle. However, we later find out that it is Gregor who is the sole supporter of his family--his father does not work which Gregor rationalizes away due to a previous illness. It is clear to the reader that the father has become complacent with his lifestyle and does not want to work. Gregor's sister, Grete, is a beautiful musician who Gregor feels especially close too. Out of extreme generosity and love for his sister Gregor plans to announce that he will put Grete through a conservatory, but even the close bond he feels with his sister is strained beyond the breaking point after his random transformation.
Now, Gregor is a large insect. His family is understanably distraught, and since it is a particularly uncommon thing to have your son turn into a horrifying bug, it is hardly something they bring up at the supermarket. Their reaction is empathetic at first, but their self depricating attitude lasts beyond a mourning period into an awkward period of angst. Gregor cannot understand why his family is so insistant on remaining so dismal instead of tyring to remake thier lives into something that can be appreciated--is it that they cannot get over the sorrow of losing their beloved son, or can they not get over the sorrow of loosing their meal ticket?
Kafka obviously draws on aspects of his own life in dealing with his parents and his sister (whom he shared a close personal relationship with), and the various aspects of their lives and how they affected him. It is clear that Kafka felt burdened by the lower-middle-class status of his devoutly jewish family. Kafka had grown up during a time of quickly-changing philosophies, when the idea that your past defined who you were was lost to the idea of discovering the true self. Kafka offers a post-modern concept (not brought around until at least thirty years past Kafka's writing era) with a semi-traditional german folk tale. All of kafka's characters in this story can be considered allegorical (Gregor the vermin, the old charwoman and the three bearded tenants especially). And as allegorical characters, each represent aspects of Kafka's life that basically call him a problem. Ultimately this is a style-experiment giving Kafka a place to vent about aspect of his life that are plague him. However in doing so, he touches on the real plight of the every-day man which sets the groundwork for all his later writing, which is largely along the lines of Nietszche's philosophical school.


This is definately a fun trip to wrap your mind around--read if if you have a few free days.



seventeen people found this review helpful

A passing thought, and random thank you

In this world of indirection, artificial complacency, and pseudo-experiance, it was so nice to simply stop running and searching for fulfillment and sit down and watch a good movie with a good friend. I was searching for something fleeting and dull and got something much better.


So thank you.

Know Thyself

Who are you? Can you actually answer that question? I mean without writing an essay-long comment on this post (for clarification, I would welcome an essay-long comment on this post, if it meant people actually commented more than once, in fact go ahead! but I digress). I wonder how many of us truly know who we are, and what "being me" truly entitles. In literature the only characters people relate themselves to are the complex main characters of the story. The teen-age boy struggling between honoring his parents and his past and being his own man; the daughter desperately searching for her identity in a world that she feels she's abandoned her. Even still, these literary characters only offer us a fleeting glimpse into what we might deal with as human beings.
Even though we relate ourselves to these characters, they still fall short of defining us. It is a shame that our english language lacks the words to fully express who a person is. Instead we are a hodgepodge of nevaeu vernacular--words we either made up or else contorted to better fit the way we see ourselves. We wear patchwork hats of identity, and pull the most appropriate color foward to display depending on the situation. Today I will be a poet...Today I will be a car guy...Today I am a musician. Our immediate environment dictates to us who we are at that moment.
Our environments are temporary and fleeting. So why then do we allow ourselves to be clearly defined for a moment? It is possible, that by searching out every angle that is you, and understanding who you truly are, one may come across as pretentious. But why is understanding both your shortcomings and strong qualities such a bad thing? To know how one functions in all parts of your small take o the world is the only way one can help somone find answers with their problems.
Your friend asks you to give them advice on a very serious matter, how do you as a friend (but more improtably as a good person) offer them sound advice without first knowing how your would respond in that situation? You cannot offer clear sound advice to a person, advice that unviels all possible outcomes on their perspective of the world unless you have that very understanding of yourself. When we give up our multicolored hats and take the one that says "me" then we can take on the world, with the comfortbale knowledge that what ever situation is handed to us, we can and will come through.

mature for my age

I was in the third grade
the first time I ever said the word
Fuck.
My parents tried to hide it from me,
They kept the TV on the top shelf
with the hard liquor and the handgun,
but then again, they did say how I always liked to climb.

I was a Samurai, Fuck was my
double-edged sword.
I kept it hidden, under pressure
sitting patiently like a skeleton in it’s sheath
ready to slice through a prepubescent duel
with my cavalier coup-de-grace:
Fuck You.

I sent them home crying.
victory was sweet like the
blood of an orange running
sticky down my fingers on
a hot afternoon.
Fuck cut my throat like ice cold lemonade.
It was my friend and we didn’t need anyone.

I was the Emperor Ronin between
Holland and Grand—I was quick,
oh yes I was. I was sure none
were quicker. That’s why I was sure
of another sweet victory when I
went up against my mother.

She was not aware of my sojourn
To the top shelf, and when I said it;
Fuck you.
She was caught off guard.
But her geisha years came back to her,
her years of lipstick and fans and
that word.
her years without friends and without love
but with that word.
She told me to never say that word again
It made the air taste like salty corn.

I am older now and I have many scars,
Each one hurt less than the last.
I remember the bad old days,
When the world was on the top shelf
When I was pink-skinned and raw
I remember back then when Fuck was still my friend

Resolutions

It's easy to fall victim to such trite cliches and New Years Resolutions. The fact that they're so cliche is a good reason why they tend not to last. As a student, I find that summer is not simply a break from school, but a chance to rejuvinate, refresh, and come back to school a stronger person. That's why I've decided that this summer I am declaring my Summer's resolution; my resolution will be a few small goals I feel I need to come back to school and do a better job than I did this year.

This summer I resolve to slow myself down. I will drive less and walk (or ride) more, I will eat less and excercise more. I will start yoga.




what's your summer's resolution?

this has been plaguing me

what was the first college founded in the united states of america? I need a definate answer.

Alone Together

I spent the afternoon crawling down the 405
losing my mind trying to make sense
of all the bumper stickers.
And wondering the true meaning of
vanity plates.
The radio pumped classic rock
down my veigns from it's I.V.
lulling me into submission,
forcing me to stare at my own relfection
in the window of my neighbor through unbroken glass.

This highway is like a ballet,
each car leaps and slides in time
with the symphony we play.
Engines drone on with the low reeds while
the horns shout their appoggiaturas
in that all to familiar call and repsonse.
Lane changes are choreographed perfectly,
coming so close but making sure never to touch another
the make it look so easy.
My car sings out his descant above the chorus;
the same old song that never changes key.

I rolled down my window
as the piece crescendoed
to fotry-five and reached
my hand out the window
so I could finally shake hands
with somoene in my section.
But everyone knows that you don't talk
in the middle of a performance.
You look straight ahead, remain silent,
keep your hands to yourself and
never ask a question if you don't understand what's going on.
How can so many people play the same song
but never meet another musician?

Remembered

I think it’s funny how a random object can hold so much meaning to one person, yet go completely unnoticed to another person. This object may not be a particularly important or even unique thing, it is just that—a thing. It is peripheral decoration meant to be overlooked in mindless sensory grazing. To everyone around you it is nothing more than an objected painted on the canvas in front of them, but to you…to you, this thing is real. You can reach into the canvas of clutter and touch it, singularly. It alone is the only thing that actually exists. Seeing it, or touching it suddenly throws you back in the past, in the middle of a whirlpool of memories and feelings. While you are standing there, perhaps in a crowd of gray blank faces yours is light up by your eighth birthday, watching your grandfather bring an antique mason’s sword (the one that belonged to his father) and present to you.

Suddenly you’re back in the present staring down at the new-found metaphor for your life, suddenly aware that no one else sees the same thing you do. And what’s more there is no way you’ll be able to get them to. There’s no fault to be laid—to them it is just a sword. To them it is just a trunk. To them it’s just a music box, and they will never see what you see. But then again, what else is seen in that music box that you don’t see?

Anything can trigger memories and emotions. Anything can remind us of another time—maybe it was better, maybe it was worse, but either way it was different. Our past is a fundamental aspect of who we are; we base the decisions we make in life in large part off of our past. I suppose in order to understand someone, you must first be able to understand their past—where they came from, what they’ve done and most importantly why. But no one really know why walking into an antique shop and seeing an antique mason sword in a display case was so important to me. And they never will because I can’t explain it. So then how well does anyone know me? How well does anyone know anyone else? Thankfully we have more to go on than our past experiences alone, at least then, if you’re lucky, you may know what that sword means to me.

postponed

The last two posts were the beginning of a long series about the power of words. How they can hurt, how they can heal, how they can make us laugh. Howver, I haven't had enough time to think them out fully, so I will come back ot the idea at a later time.

in the mean time I offer you to think about this:

Rhode Island: It is niether a road nor an island. Discuss.

Share Some More

What's the best pick up line you've ever heard?

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What's the worst joke you've ever heard?

Afterparty

The three of us
you, me and tom.
What a laugh it was
sitting in the booth at 3 a.m.

Oh sure the waitress said she was fed up
but who can blame her at 3 a.m?
You could see deep inside
She was happy to see us
what with her normal clients
being greasy truckers and
mudd ruckers--the grime
at the bottom of the coffee pot
she said

What a laugh it was
at 3 a.m. the four of us,
you, tom the waitress and me.
The hipest people at the party
after a hard night's jam.
What a laugh it is,
when you're the only people there.

a random thought:

A giraffe throwing up....



it would take FOREVER!

Experiences you don't write home about.

In Ernest Hemmingway's book In Our Time, the predominant character, Nick, finds resolution for his restless soul by going off into the wilderness alone, to be alone with nature and his own thoughts. In the simple actions of pitching a tent, and fishing a mighty river, Nick calms his mind--rattled from the great war, and the ensuing disillusionment from living in Europe--and seems to find himself again right where he had left it, the forests surrounding his old home.
My english class let out into the rain that night, Monday. I walked with my friends through the cold and wet to my car. We said our usual goodbyes, the promises of seeing each other next week, and went our seperate ways. I sat in my car, dark and cold ruminating on the class we had just left. Had everyone else read the same book I had? Had they heard the same conversation I had? I felt like Hemmingway had reached through is book across time to touch my forehead and say "I wrote this for you."
At the end of every week on Saturday morning I sit in the quiet and I reflect on the past six days, trying to find some common thread of self-improvement that gives me life meaning, or at least direction. I should say that "quiet" isn't exactly that. There's something playing on my laptop, the TV may be on, some idito is screaming out his window across the park, no matter how "quiet" it is, there's always noise. It seems that everytime I try to concentrate on self-reflection, there is a little bit of flotsam from life's gutter openly trying to distract me. That was before Ernie taught me about finding my voice in absolute quiet, and that it is the only way to center one's mind. Hemmingway taught me (in this single book) that if I cannot find absolute solitude near me that I must seek it out, intentionally and willfully.
I learned that on Monday night.
Tuesday progressed normally, I didn't have any classes so I slothed about, ignoring my cluttered desk for the instant gratifcation of 99 channels of cable that I'm not paying for. Wednesday was hectic, bogged down with classes and insecurities of what the rest of my week was supposed to hold--so far it was turning into a normal week. So why this nagging feeling? What was this deep, gruff voice with a midwestern accent berating me about how trivial and idiotic I was being? Hemmingway was still there, in the back of my mind watching over me.
Thursday came, another break from classes. A second chance. A letter from the cable company remding me that if I did not return the cable box to them they would hire goons to come and break my face reminded me that I needed to take a trip out to Topanga Canyon to turn the cable box in. After looking up the address for the cable company, I realized that it was very close to Stony Point, the small moutain jutting up from the earth. A few miles before the nothern wall of the San Fernando Valley, it stands as the gate keep to the kings posing behind it. Stony point is a mecca for local fee-climbers, adreanline junkies, and adolescant romantics feeling their need to blossom in it's fertile trees. As I saw it's jagged rocks on the map, I felt a rough heavy hand slap me on the back of the head. That heavy, gruff voice was back "Go climb you idiot." Hemmingway isn't very nice...
Thursday afternoon I found myself at the base of stony point, starin up at it's summit. My car had driven itself there, my cameras and waterbottles packed themselves into my back pack, I felt after so much effort on their part the least I could do was oblige them. I hiked. I climbed. I found a trail and skittered along, barely taking time to breath I was going so fast. Each step propeled foward with greater tenacity than the one previos. When I came to a wall, I climbed. When I came to a view, I stopped and took a picture. After an hour I reached the summit and turned and looked out over the valley. I was standing on the shoulder of a giant, and he whispered his secrets in my ear with heavy gusts of wind. Secrets so big they nearly knocked me off his shoulder. I stayed on the top of Stony Point and found a comfortable notch on a ledge at the top of a very tall and sheer cliff. I sat down in the notch, I pulled out my Hemmingway and I read.
After that, everything made sense.

I'm not copying Joy, I promise.

If you were a breakfast food, what would you be?

eat, drink, and be merry...

for tomorrow you shall surely diet.

I need help. To anyone who is listening. I want to lose weight, I am unhappy with the weight I have or my body really and I'd like it to change. Before anyone goes accusing me of a low self esteem, or a lack of decent self-image, I'd like you to know that I can pick up a couch by myself.
That said, it is not really a matter of how I look, it is a matter of how I feel. I am discovering that the transition to becoming an adut is proving to be a hard one, and where I though I would have more control of my life, I am actually just trading one set of rules for another. I feel out of control, and I feel that a strict diet that I can stick would be something I can control. Getting in shape, and feeling good about myself, will give me an attainable goal that will leave me feeling like I have control of something.

So, any ideas?

It's a cloudy blue sunday morning. The masses are gathering in the tall sparan sanctuary in quiet reverence, some kneeling, some sitting with their heads politely bowed. In the back of the sanctuary a little girl sits by her father precociously, following every little nuance and gesture he makes. I walk in quetly, following a line of elderly people and my new friend, the other bass. The choir heads up to it's loft and takes their places and prepares for the worship service.
The general murmur that has crescendoed now dies back away as an austere man walks in slowly wearing a thick white robe and a heavy purple stole, followed by a succesion of elderly gentlemen looking like knights--with feathered plums in their hats and long floing glossy capes. I know that this exotic service is going to be an interesting one.
Most undercover reporters write about the time the spend embedded in a street gang in Los Angeles, or a Mental Hospital, or the the republican part in Washington D.C. I'm not that brave. Instead I chose a subject just as foriegn to me as the chicano gangs of LA: Catholics.
I was walking through the hallway of the music building and saw several fliers about a substitute bass/baritone needed "POSITION PAYS!" with no previous experiance neccessary. I call the number, because there has to be a catch. Getting paid to sing? The only thing easier is getting paid to screw. And singing has a little bit more dignity. Still, it seemed a perfect but I wanted to know more about it before I agreed. As I told Jennifer "the only thing that would make it a bit harder is if it's a catholic or a baptist church." So I call the guy, and everything seems to be in order.
"So what kind of a church is it?"
"It's Catholic."
"Of Course it is."
"What?"
"nevermind."
It didn't matter, because he wanted to pay me $50 for the rehearsal and $50 for the service. If someone wants to pay me a hundred dollars for four hours work, I don't even care what language it's in, let alone what denomination. Unfortunately as I found out Thursday night I spoke too soon.

Geeking Out

http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=399518662556032906

this is the coolest thing I've seen in a very long time.

all's well that ends well

Yes, it is a cliche. But cliche's are born because people find them to fit the situation at hand so well. I was sick, had a good day, and feel better: all's well that ends well. It's amazing how rotten we can make ourselves feel just by letting our emotions get overworked with worry. I was deathly afraid of both my creative writing class and my jazz combo class--having not prepared for either. As the day progressed I lost more and more focus until I finally showed up in creative writing simply not caring what would happen.

Apathy is like a comfortable bed: you know you need to get out, but you can never think of a good reason as to why you should, the longer you stay, the worse it gets.

Obviously all of my worry and my eventual lapse in passion was uneccessary and subsied quickly. I told my creative writing teacher that I didn't have my assignment done. "okay--bring it next time." In combo I stopped worrying and simpy just started playing (which is the essence of improv anyway) and didn't do too terribly.
This isn't the first time I've stressed myself out so much from feer and worry that it's made me sick. And yet, everytime I face the music (as it were) and just go through with it ,it never turns to be as bad as I thought it was going to be. Isn't it interesting how one tends to be one's worst critic. When we know we haven't done all that we could, or could have done something better, we come down harder on ourselves that anyone else does. When pen up our apprehensions it manifests itself into stress and eventual ailment; if we just let our problems go and quit worrying about what's going to happen, life is less stressful and actaully fun from time to time.
It's an easy lesson to forget, people get so caught up in self doubt and worry that we are sure the world will have a contract out on our lives by the end of the day. But the world doesn't really care about us, and that's sort of comforting to know. When I think about the hardship I have seen, the faces of the little of children who have to struggle through their lives without a possesion to their name, I feel guilty that I've wasted so much energy concerned that my teacher won't like me as much. I have an absolutely wonderful life and I should be thankful that I have it so lucky.
There is a neccessary balance between ambition and apathy. There is a place between two mountains of extreme emotion--a feild of calm and composition, of thoughtfulness and intellect. In this feild flowers grow as they are needed and do not grow when they're not. Shade is provided at the right moments and the when only blows to whisper the words "get it done." This is what I'm searching for--this place of motivation without compulsion, but relaxation without lethargy. When I find it, I promise I will show you how to get there too.

Yet another Thing I Wish I had Learned as a Kid

When your mother always said "don't go out in the rain without a jacket" don't ignore it. You will in fact catch a cold.

I feel miserable, and it's bright and sunny outside....damnit.

A Character Study

Grace Hodges – Mrs. Hodges is the last daughter of wealthy and powerful family dynasty. “Old Money” she always called it. In the waning years of her life, Mrs. Hodges has made it her sole intention to make sure that the family name leaves this world with the dignity and respect it is accustomed too. She is a woman brought up in the school of propriety, and clings to her upbringing the way a Baptist clings to a bible, especially in this age where propriety seems to be slipping from the attention-deficit minds of the youth. The youth: she always called it “wasted energy,” in fact she never seemed to like the idea of having children of any age around. She had a preemptive curtness for people she considered less refined than her, and children (and the working class) were definitely of that breed. Though neither want to be around her much with such a sullen face as she wears.

Grace Hodges is a formidable woman, with a disposition to match. Many have tried to break through the glacier she carries on her face—lawyers, brokers, and bankers alike but none have succeeded. When one looks at the icy face of Grace Hodges, one will not see any resemblance of emotion, save the mild annoyance with her oncoming feebleness in her old age found in the tight, down-turned corners of her thin lips. Indeed, Mrs. Hodges is a hard person to know. Yet beneath this cold exterior, lies the younger version of Grace Hodges—a woman full of mystery and intrigue. Her life was not always spent cradling the fragile pieces of her family’s reputation. When she was younger Grace would go on tours of Europe, safaris in the African Savannah; she could rub shoulders with business moguls and artisans in the same week. She spent most of her young adult life taking the world in by the handfuls—as much as possible at a time, much to the chagrin of her father.

Her father was one of the top business men in the country during a time when industry separated the mere men from legends. All he ever wanted was for his little girl was to settle down with a nice young man with a good head on his shoulders, for her to lead a happy and simple life away from worry, and to be safe. But Grace would not hear of it, she continued on in her own wild and charismatic way, growing more charming and irresistible by the minute. She was always “beating them off with a stick” as they say. she was never want for attention from her opposite sex; she loved every bit of the attention. But her father’s gone now, and Grace can never get over the remorse she feels every time she thinks about the way things were left between them. He never liked the impulsive attitude she took towards life and was absolutely certain she would squander and ruin the precious family name. It’s all Mrs. Hodges ever thinks about.

Those keen enough can look into her cold blue eyes, and see a disappointment that only those who must carry the entire history of her family on her shoulders. With a deep look into those pools of sapphires, one can see the fiery young girl full of adventure, the tumultuous young woman with a razor-wit and ambition to match, and finally the nostalgic longing of an old woman, who has had to endure the hardship of giving into the steady flow of time. But her father is gone and, having never married, Mrs. Hodges has resigned to being the refined woman her father had always wanted her to be. And now in her old age, all she can do is wistfully recall the memories of her tumultuous youth. If one manages to gain Grace Hodges trust, and she does let her guard down even just a little, then a clever person can see that longing her innocent eyes.

Seriously, I'd like to know...

Do the TV News people get bored in LA?

Starting Thursday of last week every station of the six that I get began reported on the white squall that was supposed to hit Los Angeles Sunday night. Circle your calendars in red ink. Fire stations started stock-piling sand bags, shelters started booting out the homeless that had been there the longest, Jesse Jackson led the entire population in a non-denominational-unitarian-politicaly-correct prayer. The figuritive "shit" was about to hit the metaphorical "fan". The tv stations came on every ten minutes with "breaking news" of the storm that would surely end our lives. Everywhere around Los Angeles it was raining, snowing, thunder and lightning were stealing lunch money from little children, giant frogs were falling from the skies and we were certainly next--the storm would be here any minutes.

Friday: no rain
Saturday: dry as a bone
Sunday (the day the invasion was to begin): NOTHING

So, you would think that the news reporters by now would have realized looking at the green highlighter they kept showing us that the storm was mostly north and wsn't actually going to be that bad. Well you'd be wrong.
"We think the storm will hit sometime Monday night. But man, it'll be, you know, bad."
"But you said it'll be here tonight."
"No we said Monday"
"well can you tell us when Monday night?"
"Monday night."
"yes b-
"MONDAY NIGHT!"

So 8am, Monday morning I'm driving to class because I am late and lazy, and as I swore at the light to change faster--the pitter patter of little rain drops start stinging my winsheild. 8am. So evidently, for the past twenty years when I thought AM meant morning, I was wrong. To be fair, most of the rain came during the evening and the streets did in fact get pretty wet. However this is where the events of Monday night and the TV report seperated. Instead of the pending apocolypse, we got some rain. Some. Rain. And frankly I was dissapointed. I was expecting canoes down Hollywood Blvd. Instead I got the relaxing sound of rain falling on windows. I wanted revelations not aromatherapy!
This morning I woke up and roled out of bed and looked up at the sky and my sleepy eyes were shocked open. IT WAS SUNNY AND BEAUTIFUL! WHAT THE HELL!? We spend four days on StormWatch'06, it rains for one night and then the morning after it's like it never happened? I tell you I feel cheated. Granted the clouds left over made the day look amazing, and the sunset this evening was a circus of pinks and purples cast across a sea of rolling clouds and it looked stunning. Nonetheless, the TV news programs owe me a thunderstorm. And I don't mean any sissy little april shower like last night. I want snow with lightning behind it. Maybe if they stopped trying one-up each other with the next big hit of sensationalism to feed the mass addiction with storm watches and high-speed-pursuits, we'd actually get some real news. And maybe then I wouldn't be jonesing for a nickle-bag of rainstorm.

Money Matters.

As I sit here at the Freudian Sip--the school's cafe--and eat my lunch, I contimplate the number of things I can no longer by with the four dollars and forty cents I just spent. A bottle of Shampoo, four boxes of pasta, a card...sure all of these seem pretty frivolous by themselves, but they represent a largey part of life that one cannot live without. It's easy to forget about the little expenditures we have from day to day. A ham and cheese criossant and a large cup of dark roast coffee....a video from Blockbuster (just this once)...dinner with the friends at Macaroni Grill (it's a special occasion, it's alright)....Yes there is a difference between buying lunch foryouself and going out to eat randomly at an italian resturant or wasting your time on yet another video; lately though, anything that costs money is being lumped together under the same catagory--a luxury I could probabl live without.
Lately it's become agonizingly difficult to spend any money. The idea of having to waste my money yet again means that it's money I won't have later. It is cold--it is final. This sudden scruplousness is a strange and new feeling for me, up until now I have never wanted really wanted for anything. My parents have always been good making sure I have led the life I wanted to, they have always been wonderful at taking care of me. But they cannot take care of me forever. It has occured to me lately that I have a serious addiction to spending money and to the aqcuisition of material things. Why rent a movie or check out a book with I can buy them? What's the harm in gettig another cup of starbucks today? And doesn't food at a resturant always seem to taste better? It has occured to me lately that my only goal spend money to indulge my five senses a little bit further. I have been skating through life hedonistically and it has occured to me that I need to stop.
Suddenly, Money matters. I have always been a man of action--if there is a problem, fix it. I think fast and I act fast and by god I want immediate results as my reward. This is a large part of my problem with spending money, it's immediacy. You spend money you get something. The end. Now the very thing that has been feeding the addiction is becoming to most difficult obstacle to overcome. Off the top of my head I can think of several ways to begin saving money, but as I said to Cindy today
"Everytime I get the inclination to spend money, I feel like I have to spend money in oder to prove that I can."
"Yeah," she said, "it sucks."
Of course the epiphany of how much money I spend and how much I need to stop is coupled with the realization of how much I need to spend in order to function. Gas, groceries, and laundry take a lot of my money by themselves. Sure I can drive less, buy from the 99 cent store and...well, I really should probably keep doing my laundry once a week....but even those solutions cannot take an immediate affect. It is the immediacy I need in my life, not just in fincances but everywhere. Perhpas my real issue is how impulsive I am.
Finances aren't the only place where I've felt stretched beyond my means. "Like butter spread over too much bread." And maybe it is that impulsiveness that is pulling me in so many directions without ever letting me go completley in one. I'm not sure exactly what my problem is, but I know that my life lacks discipline, and it lacks the ambition I once was so proud of having. I need more focus in my life. More focus and less spending.

An American Dream or American Nightmare

I’ve heard many conspiracy theories lately, theories of how the Republican Party is playing chess with the American government—positioning key players into a strategic trap in order to keep Bush and his executives in power indefinitely. The theories go on saying that Bush, in a truly Palpatine-like coup, will decide the country is in too great a state of terror for him to simply leave office come Election Day, but rest assured he will relinquish his power when the level of threat is permanently in the green.

These conspiracy theories seem to be just that—theories. The idea that the American People are dumb enough to allow such an atrocious coup to happen is fairly far-fetched to me. With media throwing news at us every nanosecond of a day, and with constant coverage of similar government magic-tricks, I find it hard to believe that the American People would allow the wool to be pulled over their eyes so easily. In my heart of hearts I know that the American People wouldn’t stand to see the system that has not only survived but became one of the strongest powers in the world destroyed by a handful of people.
But what if it did? What if the government was able to fool us just long enough to keep the current regime in power? Now we have a new form of government—a dictatorship disguising itself as the same democracy it always was. The problem is that this dictatorship is governing under a certain set of principles and values, principles that the entire population of America does not agree with. And considering our history with political disagreement, it’s inevitable that many Americans will revolt.

Karma

Well Yesterday I posted my long-winded report on my roomate Matt. Within minutes of posting it Matt informed me he was moving out. It wasn't anything I said or did (thankfully he didn't read the post) it was because of Kamal. The other night Kamal had a loud party that ended up trashing out bathroom (including Matt's toothpaste) and Matt blew up. I can't say I'm sorry Matt left he would have gotten on my last nerve sooner than later, but at the same time he didn't leave under the best conditions. He felt run out and I really didn't do a lot to stop it.
I didn't think it would ever really happen, but for the first time I feel like my sense of humor has outspoken my sense of what is right. I know it's not my fault but I certianly didn't help the situation. Funny what lessons we can learn form people we don't respect very much...

The Nature of the Beast

Let me break down my living situation for you. While nothing I tell you could ever truly paint a decent picture of my rooomates I will try to be accurate and true (and by accurate and true I mean I'm going to tell you exactly what I think about them). I will admit immediately that I am somewhat of an elitist and the guys who share my apartment aren't exactly "my type", but I am honestly not exaggerating most of what I say.
The first beast we come upon in this nature tour is Matt. Matt Madden. It’s no coincidence that Matt shares a name with one of the most popular (and obnoxious) commentator’s of football’s history. Matt is a football player. No I take that back, Matt isn’t a football player, he’s a football liver. His Favorite movie is Rudy—the heroic story of a young football player who struggles to make it even though he isn’t very good. Matt loves this movie so much that he’s gone so far to say “Football is a metaphor for life.” Though Matt still adamantly preaches the religion of football, his practices have moved from the field to the movie camera. Matt has decided his true calling in life is a screen actor—such a profession is genuinely perfect for him as he looks like the love child of David Hasselhoff and Sylvester Stallone. I’m not sure how else to describe him other than he looks like a giant toe. I find it utterly amazing that someone can look like a caricature of themselves. It’s plain to me that Matt would be superior at playing characters for the camera.
Not only does he have the face, but he’s got the type-a, ultra-charismatic personality to match. Matt is so charismatic he leaves it in the sink after he leaves the bathroom. Matt is the kind of guy who is so excited about telling you something that he will get three inches from your face to tell you. I’ll admit it’s a bit foreboding being five inches shorter than him, but I appreciate his effort make me feel like he’s really talking to me. Don’t misunderstand me, though, Matt is not a soft-spoken individual. Matt is sufficiently good at making himself heard from just about anywhere on campus (I say campus because I don’t have the recourses to test further). He is certainly a loud individual, but I sum it up to the fact that he’s just excited to hear from his friends. Like the other day when he was talking on his phone standing on the balcony—he was so excited to hear from his friend that his voice echoed off the building across the parking lot.
It’s hard to believe that such a large personality and giant of a man can be contained into one room. Don't worry, he is not. Like all dominance-seeking, overbearing males of his species, Matt cares little for the boundaries of other people and asserts himself on their territory as if it where his own. From the moment he moved in Matt claimed the living room (where I keep my DVD player and my TV) as his own. Matt permanently keeps his mattress, pair of 25-pound dumbbells, and inflatable work out ball here so that he doesn't have to inconvenience himself by going to his own bedroom to do such private things. Though honestly what it the use of “personal space”? Philosophers have been trying to determine the answer to that question for ages. Matt must certainly be an advanced individual to find the answer to the question so quickly. The way he uses my dishes, and my food and puts his things all over the bathroom counter; he must be simply trying to lead by example.
I must admit it has been hard, trying to grow accustomed to Matt's strange customs. But I am trying, the way he totally invades my personal space, and takes over everyroom he enters with either his colorful ways of using "fuck" as punctuation for his sentences; or his powerful spray-on axe deoderant obvisouly means that he is simply a more advanced person than I. And my way of living is simply archaic and unnecessary. This is the only conclusion I can come to, doesn't it just seem to make sense to you? Why else would he do any of this? I guess I have a lot to learn about what it measn to be a man. It's a good thing I have matt hear as a perfect subject to study. I'm sure I will have plenty more to report to you later about the adventures of living with such an interesting animal.

Thank you Tom Waits

I don't often post song lyrics, but there's just something about these that I can't get over.

The piano has been drinking, my necktie is asleep
And the combo went back to new york, the jukebox has to take a leak
And the carpet needs a haircut, and the spotlight looks like a prison break
And the telephone’s out of cigarettes, and the balcony is on the make
And the piano has been drinking, the piano has been drinking...

And the menus are all freezing, and the light man’s blind in one eye
And he can’t see out of the other
And the piano-tuner’s got a hearing aid, and he showed up with his mother
And the piano has been drinking, the piano has been drinking
As the bouncer is a sumo wrestler cream-puff casper milktoast
And the owner is a mental midget with the i.q. of a fence post
’cause the piano has been drinking, the piano has been drinking...

And you can’t find your waitress with a geiger counter
And she hates you and your friends and you just can’t get served without her
And the box-office is drooling, and the bar stools are on fire
And the newspapers were fooling, and the ash-trays have retired
’cause the piano has been drinking, the piano has been drinking
The piano has been drinking, not me, not me, not me, not me, not me

Funny How it Always Seems Like Goodbye

It's a little bit funny, this feeling inside.....

I've watched nearly every one of my friends this semester depart off to their home lands. Full of promises and reassurances that we'll see each other again. Yet I can't help but feel the same way you do when someone write in your high school yearbook "keep in touch" I know we all want to stay in touch, but we've been turned out onto the real world. Coming to this school has brought us closer than anything else could have, but now we're facing the real world and the challenges that come with it. Yes it is possible to get to Germany, yes it is possible to get to Japan...but it's not likely.

I'm not one of those who can easily hide...

I've delivered two good friends to the gates of the rest of the world now, Ina and Hiroko. I have to admit each time was incredibly dificult. These were people I grew to care for very much, and it is hard now that they are not here. I'm not the only one two feel the sudden absence of this social comfort-circle. I spoke to both Dave and Yoon today--two others on my floor who were close to everyone who's one. We all agreed through heavy sighs and lingering thoughts that, our neighborhood is very different--though we suspect that it won't be quite as good last semester.
I realized as I swallowed back that all too familiar lump in my throat as I said goodbye to Hiroko that I had not expected to make such close friends so quickly hear in Los Angeles, and falling so fast left me very vulnerable in the end, which is not something that I'm used to. Perhaps it was the ease I always felt around them, perhaps it's the duanting idea of how hard it'll be to see them but I cannot help but feel loss when I think about everyone who's gone.

I hope you don't mind, I hope you don't mind that I put down in words....

Writing is cathartic. No matter how deep the pain, if you just write the words that race through your head, they can begin to slow down and allow you to move on. As I sit and write this latest entry about how much I will miss my friends, somehow I know that I will see them again. I sit here and write about how hard it will be to get to Japan, but I know that I'll see Hiroko again. As I sit here writing these unwanted feelings it occurs to me that the very fact that I have them shows me how close we all were--how much they meant to me, and how much I meant to them. Sometimes when I'm feeling down, I tend to not let it go (and if you've been on the receiving end of that I apologize and thank you for your patience simultaneously) but both talking about it and writing it out makes me realize the most important thing that I keep looking over. Hope. Hope and love keeps us all together, it has kept me together with my friends before I left, and will keep me with these after they have left. Until next time my friends, it will not be to far off. Thank you for such a wonderful semester--you are all missed.

How wonderful life is because you're in the world...