LA BLOGOTHEQUE USA

Various Musings of Mine Own (2006-present)

2008-05-25T22:43:00.000-07:00

Woody Allen wonders aloud, "What makes life worth living?"

I say: the scorched feeling of my body after a day in the sun. Before I realize that I am now, sunburnt. My hair and my skin are salty and dry, and all I want to do is to drive home with the windows down as the wind blows in my face.

I say: viewing a riveting, emotionally exhausting live performance of the musical kind-- that reminds you that yes, you can feel and yes, you too want something more, something better, something beautiful.

i say: love, the eternal kind.

Interests: staying up late, accompanied by candlelight and music. I wish I had a record player. I could use the worn quality of the melodies and harmonies that would run alongside my cogitations. My weighty cogitations.

Big, soft, breathing eyes. Follow the path to the source. I like you the best when you are undone. Undo me, too. My hands run over your broad back. I have freckles on mine, too. Let us live by the morning light.

The moonlight dancing atop the darkened waters. I miss the Atlantic and its billowing waves.

It may be a selfish thought, but sometimes I believe that I am the only one alive out there. I too, get sucked up into the idle rhythm of everyday life. Is anyone alive out there?

The sun has been shining brightly for the past few days. I love London drenched in light.

"The wonder of these sights impels me into night-walks about her crowded streets. I often shed tears in the Strand from fullness of joy at so much life." Charles Lamb

... you must be able to step outside of yourself somehow. To possess the ability to look differently.

I finally read Slaughterhouse Five. Kurt, I know how you feel. If I ever had the chance to meet him, I'd have liked to give him a hug. I would not say a word. I'd simply walk toward him and I would wrap my arms around him. I would then step back, gaze into his soul, and then wordlessly walk away.

Outromancing the romantics, once again. I like to listen to the wind and the sounds rising from the street in these small hours of the morning.

Hearts of Gold, Hearts of Grass

2008-05-16T22:52:00.000-07:00

"Heart of Gold," a mighty song. I love the down home twang and its ebbs and flows. The lyrics are not of language one cannot comprehend. Today, it has been on repeat.

Brand New Feelings!

2008-05-15T05:02:00.000-07:00

Last night Andrew and I attended Nick Scapa's birthday party at the Honor Roll house. It was not so much a birthday party for me; I would have described it as "an end of an era" party. I do not mean this in a defeatist or exceptionally sad way... but last night I felt affected. Strong hands pulled my heart in all directions. Hands that were not my own. The hands of many, fine, cosmic spirits. I want to now review the moments in my mind as I listen to CoCoRosie's "The Adventures of Ghosthorse and Stillborn."

Joe Rehmer, "Goodbye, Forever." His words cut me, man. My eyes began to spark tears. I cannot think about such a phrase as "Goodbye, Forever." I want to see Joe again! I want to continue being friends. I am not going to let a false conception govern our to-be longterm relationship. The term "forever" hurts. So does "Goodbye." After conversation with Joe Rehmer last night, I began to experience the pain that comes with leaving your friends.

17 years old: I left Long Island with no problems. I didn't cry when I left my friends, my family... I hate cliches but this one is making me laugh on the inside, "The time was right for picking." As my former life friends and I move into our new lives, I haven't felt sad. When we talk, I recognize that we are not what we were, and that's ok. I have yet to produce tears over their and my latest existence.

But Joe! We haven't been "friends" for very long at all, but his absence affects me. He is a strong individual and he is the first of my friends to leave.

"Goodbye for a While."

Last night my connections with certain people were realized. When Richard and I stood around in a group laughing and reminiscing PANAMA, I felt something strong and very real and in tune with a person who I had not necessarily felt a shared fire with. Our fire burns for Panama. We were connected and connected we shall be.

And Geneva! Geneva and I have been friends...we were friends but we never had a personal relationship... until the other night: she saw something and I saw the same and we shared intuitive recognition! I will feel her absence, too.

I love my friends. I don't think I ever felt true love for a group of people before. I love my friends for the stuff they are made of. I love their stuff.

Winter in April

2008-04-16T04:11:00.001-07:00

Last night our home smelled of winter. I am not sure if the source was the incense burning in my room, the pomegranate molasses I made over the fire, or the open windows through which the cool air effortlessly entered.

what am i doing? what am i going to do?

2008-04-05T10:29:00.000-07:00

i am going to stalk around my house for a few more minutes repeating "what am i doing, what am i going to do"... and then i am going to go watch lots of japanese films at the japanese film festival. oof.

the shortcomings of language

2008-04-04T14:36:00.000-07:00

i love to write; language cannot express that which the mind yearns to. language falls short of feeling. real writers envelop feeling and invoke feeling by means of their words. i can tell you that i want to give you a hug. i can tell you that i need to give you a hug. these strings of words may sound trite or banal. i am sure if i dropped the words and instead used my eyes, my hands, my body, you would understand. words are often misunderstood. i often misunderstand words. i think too literally and expect people to say exactly what they mean when i don't always say exactly what i mean. i wish i could give you a hug.

abandon language! abandon language...

Tea Leaves, Virgins, Monkeys, Tea Houses

2008-03-26T14:40:00.000-07:00

One of the most exciting professors at UM (a man who is the chair of the Classics Department) loves tea. He is a tea connoisseur. He will not drink tea from a bag, he will not drink tea from America. He orders his tea from China and/or Taiwan. He has a tea blog. He called the Religious Studies Department from Hong Kong in order to tell me how delicious the tea was and how he doesn't want to leave his leaves and his friends. Upon his return, my friend Navied and I were engaging him in a teas-cussion and he told some Asian teas are marketed like so: "These leaves were handpicked by virgins." "Monkey-picked" tea. There is a legend that the most exquisite leaves in existence are located on this one cliff that humans can simply NOT get to. Therefore, a few keen men taught monkeys to acquire that which they wanted. How they taught the monkeys to pick the leaves and bring them back? Neither Kirby, Navied, nor I can answer you this question. I told the two about an incredible tea place I had been to with Andrew: "Dushanbe Tea House" in Boulder. Kirby lost it and asked for the pictures I had taken. Look above, reader. Boulder, CO is a sister-city with Dushabe in Tajikistan. In celebration of their union, Mayor Maksud Ikramov decided to build the jonint. It is incredible. Andrew and I spent lunchtime talking, kicking eachothers feet, sipping delicious tea (i had blueberry tea) and sharing samosas. Reader, if you have the opportunity to go to Dushanbe Tea House in Boulder... then you go to Dushanbe Tea House in Boulder.

i feel like a little girl

2008-03-17T14:46:00.000-07:00

who has licked the ice cream off of the cone right onto the sidewalk. my eyes well with liquid but my cheeks remain dry. man. i am not fond of self-pity, self-loathing, und so weiter; however, i do believe that wallowing every once in a while is a healthy yet arduous task. the pains may be strong, but i am going to appreciate them for what they are.

early this morning i decided that i need to be more mindful of my emotions. i occasionally drift when i talk, when people talk to me... it isn't necessarily a bad quality. i'd like to be more "present" without ignoring my emotions and using Christian language, Eckhart Tolle!

i am not sad. i am not resentful. i am just disappointed that i have not yet been accepted in the programs that i have applied to religious studies. i can't help but not question myself and my abilities. sure, i have a great gpa. ok, i thought my essays were quite good. i don't get it. and then i wonder if i am being too confident... i don't want to tell anyone in my family, because (excluding my Aunt Annie) they think i'm "strange" for (1) being me (2) pursuing that which interests me (e.g. religious studies, while i am "without religion") (3) my vegetarianism. sadly, i am neither joking nor exaggerating. i would love to call my dad and tell him how disappointed i feel and how i want to cry but the tears aren't coming because i know that i'll be ok wherever i end up because i am me... but i can't.

today is the first day he expressed any interest in what i have been learning in school this year. he asked me about my reading ability in german. i felt surprised and excited that he seemed to genuinely care. i told him about it and how i am so excited because i am growing and learning and remembering and practicing... this is what i do! this is who i am!

man. (long, exasperated exhale)

i don't know. i feel overwhelmed and impotent.

1984 or 2008?

2008-03-12T02:42:00.000-07:00

america, we love you. i am sitting in a terminal, watching peoples faces and the orange signs... apparently one is at a high risk flying, for there is an elevated fear of a terrorist attack. i wonder why the airport officials don't tell us why. luckily, fort lauderdale hollywood airport offers free wireless. i trekked to the US homeland security website to try to discover why. Apparently "[t]he National Intelligence Estimate cited heightened activity overseas and [theyre] mindful of the recent arrests in Europe. There has also been an upward trend in propaganda tapes ad messages coming from Al Qaeda and affiliated networks over the past year." Has there been? Why don't we hear about it? Well, the media is backed by the government. I relish in the name of the committee, "the National Intelligence Estimate." I think that such heightened awareness of "the Other" contributes to feeling of discrimination and danger in the atmosphere of an airport. Is it more likely that a little dark-haired "typical" teenager is a terrorist or a Hasidic Jew? Sometimes I feel like finding George Orwell's grave, waking his bones, and letting him know that he is right. I think it would be much safer to not live in America. I think it would be safer to support a politician who advocates hope and change. I think the White House needs to make a serious change before more countries begin to harbor pure hatred toward us. I don't think it is easy to be an American these days. I don't think it ever was easy to be an American. We have had such a problematic existence. We have made our homes on the land of those who look and behave differently. I don't think that our actions from a few hundred years ago differ from our actions today.

Les poesies

2008-03-05T02:39:00.001-08:00

I don't think I slept at all. According to my research this morning (4:58 am), I experienced a WILD. A "wake-initiated lucid dream"... this occurs "when the dreamer goes from a normal waking state directly into a dream state with no apparent consciousness." I feel as though I have not slept, but I did. My consciousness did not shift, however. Instead of feeling poorly...whining, drinking lots of coffee, und so weiter, I decided to engage my emotions and I wrote a little poem. After writing one little poem I wrote another (that has no proper rhythm). Please ignore the absence of accents, for some reason the blogger won't allow me to copy and paste symbols. Yes, they are in French again!

Le corps derive avec les sons du soir,

je voyage dehors.

Les jambes marchent a l'origine de toutes,

Je marcherai loin.

La pluie tombe au ciel,

Je n'ai pas besoin d'un impermeable

Les feuille me servent au

Parapluie, et pour memoire de toi.

C'est pas parfait, mais j'aime ecrire les petites poesies.

Et une autre...

"Je suis un immigre en terre etrangere"

Je ne sais pas que le monde est gris

J'espere que les couleurs fondent

enchaine des larmes.

Je ne comprends pas les mots que j'entends

Je souhaite que je peux.

Je me sens comme un immigre

Je n'appartiens pas

Je me sens comme un immigre

Je n'appartiens jamais.

Elles sont tristes, je pense. Cependant je les aime.

are you a speculator?

2008-03-04T20:34:00.000-08:00

The hour is before midnight and I am lost in the cobbled streets of Paris. The Amelie soundtrack has transported me there. Last night, I fell asleep to the timid eddies of strings and the diving, pulsing ripples of the accordion. Tonight, I will fall asleep to the timid eddies of strings and the diving, pulsing ripples of the accordion.

I ought to read for my classes tomorrow, but I cannot stay focused. I feel like resting and listening and speculating and drifting.

A friend left me a note today on the Facebook; on my Wall (of all places), she stated that she is going to reevaluate our friendship. I am not ruffled if she is serious, I am not ruffled if she is joking. She and I are not the friends we were in elementary, middle, and high school. We are different. I am different than I was when I wrote this sentence. I think the inconsistencies of the self are beautiful. We are ever-changing beings. How can anyone be exactly the same all the time? I have migrated (literally and figuratively, I guess). I believe that some people grow in parallel lines and others become perpendicular. There is one solid commonality... but everything else has changed, whether it be positive or negative (that's for all you math nerds out there).

I like the process of whittling down. There are a few individuals who I care deeply for, as comrades, as kin. Their ages span decades. Some individuals I have known for many years, some I have known for one, and some I have met in August. Fancy that. These people know me better than others who have known me since... who knows when. I love that they know me. I love that I exude who I am so strongly that they cannot not know. I love that they exude who they are so strongly that I cannot not know them.

Some people are really special.

Epic Walks

2008-03-02T20:33:00.000-08:00

The hour is before midnight and I am in Ireland. I am walking for hours without intention and direction. I am thinking about my predecessors, the Romantics. The men and women who set out for Europe and walked in order to experience nature and the depths of their imaginations. I would like to abandon responsibility, and set forth.

I am re-experiencing a memory of running around the Aran Islands, thinking that I hadn't been this happy in months, that this is true happiness, that there was so beauty I felt like crying. I felt childlike, which is perhaps the most wondrous feeling existent.

I wish I could share these thoughts with him now. I laid in bed day-dreaming not too long ago, listening to Heima...I envisioned smiling with and walking alongside Andrew... setting off into the verdant ocean of leaves, trees, and shrubbery. The greens overwhelmingly green, the odors were fresh and pungent. It was such a soft descent into another world. A world that does exist. I do not want to live where my surroundings are gray. Sometimes I wonder if one day we (the collective human) will awaken to find a world without color and vibrance... all that exists will be smoke, fog, sidewalks and cellphones (I believe that most people like to stare at these items while walking)... There is so much more. There is so much more! Bruce Springsteen once (maybe more than once) said in concert, "IS ANYBODY ALIVE OUT THERE?!" Well, is there?

Oh, you.

2008-03-02T18:27:00.000-08:00

I am envious of Goethe. I am envious of John Keats. Their contributions to world literature astound me. I feel as though both men could have never felt stagnant, or lethargic, or bleh... they were prolific writers who we talk about after death. after their death. What I like about Goethe, especially... is that he calls for others to act. He acknowledges that "yes, you too may possess a poetic eye, however it is no good if you solely ponder the universe and your surroundings. Get up and DO SOMETHING!" He is concerned with the process of becoming, opposed to the individuals who "are," as in they no longer become. And here I am, type-typing away on the blog. Oh well.

Bundle Bunny

2008-02-25T01:11:00.000-08:00

We dance together, we dance together. I look remarkably like a flapper. Andrew looks remarkably like a man who swings. Ja, brosie.

Sometimes in the middle of the night I awake from my slumbers and run my fingers through the raspberry kamikaze-coloured hair of a swinger. Sometimes in the middle of the night I arise from my bedchamber and drift down the sleepy hallway into the dark front room. I step down into the moon room and find myself reading and writing. Reading and writing.

An article in the New Yorker discussed a new book packed with six-word phrases describing a persons' life story. I have not tried to shorten my life into the width of a mere phrase... I believe mine is much more than that. Some of the phrases seem incredibly banal. One famous chef said something along the lines of "Brings to a Boil Often" (I am missing a word, I know). Cute. "Je me sens toutes choses" Peut-etre.

I am going to try to write poems in the French language. Bonne nuit.

Happy President's Day

2008-02-18T20:42:00.001-08:00

As I emptied some sweet, sticky sugar into my coffee this afternoon, I overheard a male student loudly profess his love of President's Day. According to himself, he believes that he is the number one Patriot. I turned around and asked him smartly who the 23nd president was. He didn't know. His friends were laughing and gave me high fives. Benjamin Harrison... in case you were curious. I was curious, too! Teehee.

compassion

2008-02-11T18:06:00.000-08:00

there is something wrong with the majority of the students at the university of miami. there is something wrong with the majority of students. there is something wrong with people, in general.

i signed onto facebook this evening in search of an animal rights group to join. instead, i find:

1. "i love animals... with gravy" for "those of you out there who love to eat meat or just hate those vegan nazis. i may have to share this planet with animals, but i'm doing my damn best to eat every last one of them."

hey buddy, you are an animal. this group has 59 members at the university of miami and has postings that read "great group" "hehe" "UM grilling society."

2. PETA, "People Eating Tasty Animals." According to these sympathetic individuals, "every animals has a place in this world. for most of them, that place is right next to my mashed potatoes."

ok, lady... "every animals?" every animals. evvverry animalS.

3. "vegetarians should die"

note: people BELONG to these groups

the ignorance and self-centered nature of all of these "ideas" sickens me. how could these people find "WRONGNESS" in vegetarianism?

this is not the sole problem i have with the students (i am speaking about the masses) of individuals at the university of miami. i am simply expressing my disgust toward those who lack compassion and awareness of other organisms.

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph

2008-01-06T19:25:00.000-08:00

I am currently listening to the Beatles Anthology Vol. 1 and it is incredible. I love the speeches and conversations intermittent throughout the music.

I am currently laughing at my frustration. I just hung up the phone with a person who attempted to make decisions for me. The first: the character offered resolutions that he/she had made for me. "To be wise with my money." I had just finished telling this individual that I have begun to save parsimoniously, next year I would like to move to a new city and to attend graduate school. I cannot do these things for free. I believe that there is a serious problem when individuals voice resolutions that they made for you. Aren't resolutions to be made for the self? If they are made at all? Everyday, people ought to make resolutions if they feel it necessary. Why wait until the new year? Oy vei.

The second was a "career" suggestion. I was asked, "Why take a job that will not matter on my resume?" I did not know what working for a Children's Museum was not good-looking on my resume. I applied for the job because I love to play with people of all ages, I like to communicate, and I like to learn. Who cares about my resume? If a company will want me, I want them to want me for the things that I can do, will do, and care to do. Meanwhile this person currently does not even have a job.

OOf.

I am going to go to the radio station and play some music. I needed to vent. I am better, now. I have new ideas for Andrew and my Sunday radio show. Check it out if you'd like to hear it's new format (I need to run it by Andrew, first).

Legends

2007-12-28T20:02:00.000-08:00

I am sitting on the floor of my bedroom in darkness. I feel tired, though I cannot sleep. I tried to for an hour. I gave up. Before my first attempt into the world of obscurity, I reread the short story "The Gift of the Magi" by the writer O'Henry. I remember reading it in the days of middle school. I did recall the overall message... and even the feeling I felt whilst reading it. A woman by the name of Della cannot afford to buy a Christmas gift for her husband Jim. She decides to sell one of the two most valued possessions they own... her hair that swiftly moves from a tight-knit knot into sheets of gorgeous, long hair. She then scours stores in order to find the perfect, in-ornate, classic gift for Jim. She discovers a simple, yet dignified chain for the second valued possession of their family-- the family heirloom, his self-assertive watch. At 7 pm, he comes home to find her in short "Coney Island Chorus Girl" curls... and he cannot physically react. He sold his watch in order to purchase combs that she had admired obsessively from a window on Broadway. They both retire and decide to put away their gifts until they can be of better use. Then O'Henry digresses and begins discussing the magi who visited "the Babe at the manger" and the purpose of their gifts. This bit somewhat vague. I believe that Della and Jim should not have rid their most valued possessions in order to purchase gifts for one another. I would hope that which binds them together, whether it be love, or something else, would connect them. I wish that they could have just collapsed onto one another on the couch and embraced... but it is somewhat childlike and sweet that they both sold their valuables in order to make the others' Christmas special.

O'Henry is the pen name of William Sydney Porter. He wrote 381 short stories whilst living in New York City. 381 worthy short stories. Oh... Henry.

If you'd like to listen to "A Gift of the Magi"...

Sylvia!

2007-12-25T16:10:00.001-08:00

Anita Ekberg! Oh, my! What a beautiful woman. This film still depicts her in the Trevi Fountain, before she is joined by the journalist Marcello (La Dolce Vita). In the film she plays an American actress by the name of Sylvia. I hope Anita was just like Sylvia in real life. She is so free-spirited and wild and...ravishing, really. I have a lady crush and a lady aspiration. She was deified by men for her 40D bustline. I would deify her for her feral nature!

A small clip from La Dolce Vita

My Favorite Christmas Songs

2007-12-25T13:42:00.000-08:00

Do They Know It's Christmas Time At All?

Santa Claus is Coming to Town

Snoopy vs. the Red Baron

March of the Wooden Soldiers

Psyche and Eros

2007-12-23T08:36:00.000-08:00

Psyche and Eros

On the aeroplane sky-soar from Miami to New York, I decided to be the one to do the crossword puzzle in the back of the American Airlines Magazine. Yes, I am that girl. One of the few answers I knew was "The lover of Psyche"... Eros!

In the Greek language, the word "psyche" means the human mind or the soul. In the New Testament, sometimes it appears three times in the same sentence- meaning "wind" "breath" and "spirit." It's a beautiful word.

In Greek mythology, Psyche was a young woman who was loved by Eros (also known as Cupid). He had sexual and emotional relations with Psyche, but only visited her at night and insisted that she never see his face. Psyche's sisters urged her to attempt to see him. She agreed, and lit a lamp whilst Eros was sleeping one night. She fell in love with him immediately. Shaken by his beauty, she spilled a drop of oil on him and he awakened. He left her angrily. In order to win him back, Psyche had to perform superhuman tasks set forth by Venus (his mother) before she could be united with Eros. The final task was to open a casket that supposedly contained beauty. Psyche was overcome by a deadly sleep. She was rescued however by the intervention of Jupiter. She was elevated to goddess-ship and was reunited with her godly man.

Psyche is often depicted as a figure with butterfly wings. She symbolizes the human soul, suffering in life, but emerging through death in a new, more beautiful existence.

The lover of Psyche? Eros. Mother of Eros? Venus. Jupiter = Zeus (same gods, different names).

I wish time travel were possible.

First Post

2007-12-20T17:29:00.000-08:00

I have not used blogging websites since high school. In the days of Livejournal, I used Deadjournal. After a few weeks of fervent type-typing and illustrating my moods with emoticons and song lyrics, I decided that I did not like to air my laundry, whether it was dirty or folded crisply. Brittany addressed me and stated that my thoughts ought to be mine own.

My thoughts are mine own, they always have been mine own. I may learn something more about them if i write them before me; you, reader, may learn something about you if you read them before you.

It is Friday morning and I am eating Kashi oatmeal, drinking orange juice, and watching TCM. The film I am watching is called "Knack, and How." It is a strange British film from the 1960s. I caught the tail-end of it so I cannot explain to you, reader, what it is completely about. It seemed like there was a sexually knowledgeable man who "raped" (but did not actually rape) a young country girl who just came into the city. She described his handsomeness and ruggedness to him and then he fell in love with her. The film ended with them walking along the Thames River in the dark.

Yesterday was a day filled with strange feelings. When I wrote an extensive bit last night, it was deleted by Safari. Of course. I am trying to get back to where I was when I wrote it last night. I remember describing the way I like to dig my toes into my ivory-with-speckled-harvest-colours carpet. I remember describing my mood-- somewhat sad, but not melancholy. Excited, curious... a petri-dish of tentative emotion. I then continued to express my happiness of hanging out with Kevin! The cold wind that accompanied us on our walk contributed to the mood. We discussed Nietzsche, religion, relationships, philosophy, professors, and art. I learned from a mere conversation with him, and that's a great kind of friend. What I liked most was our conversation about Vincent Van Gogh. Apparently, Paul Gaughin stole his woman. He then went to Tahiti to paint bright, vivid canvases of Tahitian native women. In a letter to his brother, Theo, Vincent said, (I am paraphrasing Kevin) "I would go to Tahiti to see him, but I am afraid my paper-mache ear would melt." Hilarious. Most people choose not to see the human Van Gogh, they simply reduce him to madness. I am generalizing, but I feel as though it is a common tendency to do so. My former French teacher, Madame D'Amore, loved to take our class to the Metropolitan Museum of Art in order to see the Gaughins and the French Impressionist work. I have always loved the work of Manet.

In London I saw an incredible painting entitled "A Bar at the Folies-Bergere." It was riveting to look at. A woman occupies the foreground, behind her is an expansive mirror in which mens' faces are reflected. The drab men are not painted by Manet. The viewers of the painting are reflected in the mirror- we are illegible, we are dark, we are ordinary; there are masses of us.

On exhibit at the Courtauld Gallery is Walter Sickert's Camden Town Nudes. I first became familiar with Sickert's work when I was researching Francis Bacon. I only saw them online, unfortunately. They are strikingly real. The nudes transcend the painting, the world of art confronts reality.