inside it feels all the same

Undoubtedly, being home unearths a great deal of nostalgia and long forgotten memories. They say, "they" being some rumor or psychological study that I heard about long ago, that every seven years, a person undergoes a change, either of personality traits or some kind of extreme emotional change that makes some kind of pronounced difference, an evolution of self so to speak.

It's strange, when I look at pictures of my teenaged self, I feel so removed from the person in the photographs, like I'm looking at a stranger.
I see myself, the familiar features, but is there an inner core of me that resonates with the person I see in the pictures or was it just some sort of passing personage? Is there an everlasting personality, whoever "Laura" is, or am I merely a collection or reactions and reponses to various catalysts and adaptation to my surroundings?

I certainly feel different around my friends from my teenaged years. I can't put my finger on it...but something's...changed. Perhaps its the separation of paths that we've all embarked on, the natural course of life, but I can't seem to get back to that place of comfort and shared years of experiences that has previously bonded us.

Or maybe I'm back to where I've been all along, feeling like very few can understand my wavelength or relate to me on a deeper level. I miss Jon.

What do you expect?
As for other affairs, like I've said before, I've been flying by the seat of my pants, leaping before I look, and generally letting my impulsiveness take the wheel . I know you don't approve and I know I shouldn't do this and shouldn't do that, I need to slow down, control myself, etc....but I've lived my young breathless life too long under the thumb of an authoritative male. I just want to be free. However, your caring and recognition of my value intruiges me, and lord knows I prize vulnerability in others but rarely reveal it of myself.

What do you want from me?
You sly dog. I don't understand what it is you're after or maybe I know exactly what is is and I pretend to remain in denial for my own amusement. The truth is I like you. The truth is I wish I didn't. I think sometimes that I can see through you but maybe this is the front you put on with all the girls. Either way, chase me down or let me go. I won't dangle forever.

I leave now with this:

Everything is more complicated than
you think. You only see a tenth of
what is true. There are a million
little strings attached to every
choice you make; you can destroy
your life every time you choose.
But maybe you won't know for twenty
years. And you'll never ever trace
it to its source. And you only get
one chance to play it out. Just try
and figure out your own divorce.
And they say there is no fate, but
there is: it's what you create.
Even though the world goes on for
eons and eons, you are here for a
fraction of a fraction of a second.
Most of your time is spent being
dead or not yet born. But while
alive, you wait in vain, wasting
years, for a phone call or a letter
or a look from someone or something
to make it all right. And it never
comes or it seems to but doesn't
really. And so you spend your time
in vague regret or vaguer hope for
something good to come along.
Something to make you feel
connected, to make you feel whole,
to make you feel loved.

I can't wait to see what happens next.

...

The more and more I learn and grow and unfold, the more and more I realize the futility of human existence and the frailty of our confidence in our own self-importance. Strong words and a strong statement I'm sure but if you look at our actions, our impulses for creativity and our clinging to faith and spiritual belief, our society, every individual, we are just trying to matter.

I realize the older I get the more...cynical and stoic I become regarding both my relations to society and the world around me. I attach myself to a disaffected disposition because it's easier than being outraged and feeling powerless. The news I read, the cataclysmic events and traumatic dramas I hear about still affect me to an extent but faced with the fruitlessness of any long term effect I can accomplish...it's easier in my opinion to take the easier road.

Goodness. I'm a 60 year old trapped in the body of a 22 year old.

You might think that by reading the paragraphs above that I am a miserable human being when in fact, I'm more in love with life than ever. All the new experiences, the new people, the new ideas and books and events are constantly thrilling. I feel completely unencumbered. Completely free.

It's as if I have been trapped in Plato's cave-blind, deaf, and dumb up until lately.
I want to know everything there is to know about everything. I want to meet strangers and hear their life story. I want to taste the best food there is to eat. I want to take myself to the edge of the line and cross it. I want to feel real. I want to feel alive with every waking moment. I am currently in a state of complete surrender to my senses. I would also love to find someone who can understand this.

But so far, right now I only wish to understand myself.

Unstuck but floating in the great unknown

I've had these moments, ever since I was little
where it's almost like my mind dissociates from my body
I ask myself "Who am I?" "Why am I Laura Delahaye"
"What does that even mean?"
I feel so entirely separate from the identity I have created within my own society
that the thought of not fully embodying it...scares me to pieces.
These moments will happen frequently, suddenly
I remember vividly leaving my grandmother's house at eight or nine years old
musing to myself, who was this body, this person I had been born into?
Really, what does it mean...to be me?
It's interesting that this happens to me at a point where
above all things, I should know myself.
But the more often this happens
the more distance I develop between my actions and my waking mind
the more I realize that I am a mystery unto myself
Organized, devoted, and determined at work
In my personal life...who knows what forces it is that guides me
All I know is that I feel strange...
Yet strangely at home in my skin
I'm happy yet I am bewildered
Betwixt mind and body lies the truth of being.

Stuck in a state of impermanence

As tough as these days are, as hard as these working days and sleepless nights have been, I can't help but wonder about my future self. Am I going to look back on these days as the times where I was free, unencumbered by the needs of a relationship and children...a time that I rarely savored but should have?

As much as I should live in the present, exist in the moment, I am constantly torn betwixt my future and my past, worried about regrets, consumed with past mistakes and musings about the future. I guess because I'm so unhappy with my current state of affairs, I can't help but hope and long for the best of times.

All I know is I can't enjoy things the way I used to. I crave spontaneity, freedom, lazy days. But who knows, I could instead be plagued by cabin fever. Lord knows, I will never be satisfied. Just got to try and find those transcendental moments when I can, when I forget my troubles and just...bask in whatever joy I can find.

It's all happening for me. But I don't know if I'm ready...

Take a chance on me

He was older than me, that I knew. And my superior which heightened my predatory need to conquest. The setting for this seduction? Hollister, a retail chain which marketed the Southern California surfer lifestyle to teenagers in the form of tee-shirts with sexually suggestive slogans such as “Winner of Wet Tee-Shirt contest”. It was a proper first job for me at age 18, offering little responsibility other than greeting guests and folding jeans. My Hollister store, consistent with their image, hired a bevy of tanned nubile teenage boys and girls with whom I would bond over bitchy customers and share store gossip.

For those who haven’t ever held a position in the service industry, retail stores and restaurants provide the ideal setting for a hotbed of drama: young men and women forced to interact with one another in pursuit of a paycheck for hours at a time with little distraction. They form insular communities, mini high school societies with its own cliques and more partner-swapping than swingers saw in the 1970’s.

Enough of the briefing, let’s get back to my mission. Fresh from a school year that had two senior boys who were best friends fighting for my affections, I was drunk on the power of my own sexuality and was ready to take it for a true test drive. When Adam, the new manager, was introduced I was immediately entranced by his flirtatious looks and his own arrogance at being the ringleader of a throng of blonde jailbait. It started innocently enough, us loping back playful insults over camisoles. Years of being the “friend” of the pretty girl had coerced me into developing an acerbic, and sarcastic sense of humor which to my delight, guys responded to and flirtations often consisted of this back-and-forth banter that occasionally culminated in a make-out session in a garage. As previously stated, Adam was older, 26 to be precise, and when he responded in kind to my subtle jabs I was thrilled but shocked when he asked me to meet him for ice cream the next day. Time and the alcohol abuse of my college years has erased much of what was said and exchanged during the date but I do remember hours later hooking up (no sex) in my white Jetta outside Target. I was all id, all desire, all want with him. I didn’t care about propriety, being lady, playing hard-to-get, I just wanted. I dropped him off at his car around 10:00 PM, jamming Led Zeppelin, screaming the lyrics at the top of my lungs because the want wanted to stretch me and take me alive. The next day at work, we were boiling over with the secrecy of our tryst, locking eyes knowingly, burning with the knowledge of each other.

Although I knew him, I didn’t really know him. Although our banter at work was witty and sharp, I slowly gathered from brief conversations that other than this strong need that yanked at my skin, Adam lacked the capacity to fascinate enough to foster true love and affection. At the time I was still entertaining the admirations of a number of other suitors so when our embraces faded off, I rarely thought of them until the grapevine informed me he had pursued another of my co-workers. Slightly bitter, I mocked him openly for his choice, who was known among retail circles for being promiscuous. I soon left for college and thought of him occasionally on a particular lonely night, longing for someone to inspire that same strength of desire. The want that consumed me.

Spring Break of my freshman year found me in my old stomping grounds. Fresh from a breakup that made me feel achingly vulnerable, I reunited with some Hollister colleagues and we decided to venture down to Santa Cruz, where Adam was now living, to surprise him. My guy friends began taking bets on how long it would take Adam to try and hit on me. As we walked into the Chili’s where he now worked, I saw him immediately, quaint and colloquial in his uniform but still pulsating with the same energy that stirred my long-starved want. Adam was pleasantly shocked, and we ended up back at his place taking shots to ease the tension of time passed. He lead me up to a little alcove in his expansive apartment and confessed his feelings for me which he suppressed because of my pending leave to college. I ate up his sweet, false words and we continued right where we had left off, the want expanding and growing inside of us. He took me to his bedroom, intent on finally having me. Our want became even more passionate as I fake-pleaded to go and return to my friends upstairs as his threw me against the wall and peeling my clothes off as easily as an orange. I never relented, never allowed him to obtain what I held. I eventually left him, drained and plagued with want for me, as I returned to my friends victorious and filled with the power that comes with a conquest. I haven’t seen him since.

I’ve tried for years to find someone that reawakens that feeling, that zing. Was it a product of my surging hormones? Or was it the result of the manifestation, the inundation of feelings of power and control? All I know is, sweet Adam, we’ll always have Hollister.

Nothing would astonish me after all these years, except to be understood.

I have nothing witty or poignant to write at the moment.
It's strange...sometimes the words will hit me at a sudden moment. While I'm eating a sandwich. Or spacing out at work. Or in the middle of a banal conversation with someone. I excuse myself politely, grab a pen, crayon, or even eyeliner and a piece of paper, a napkin, the other side of a bill, whatever I can get my hands on to write down the ongoing flow of sentences.

All I know is that right now I'm itching to do something...creative...expressive.
I'm currently entertaining:

-Buying a used or old camera and taking pictures. Photography, once something I dismissed, is beginning to grow on me.
-Writing a screenplay for a pilot or feature. Gotta do something with the ideas bouncing around in my head
-Improving my personal space. Whenever I see a gorgeously decorated room in a movie, TV show, or while visiting a friend, I always wish that my room could look like that. I need to stop wishing and start being proactive. And pick up my damn clothes for once.
-Learn a language. I am entranced by those who speak a romance language.

Well it's a start. I guess I am searching for some other mode of expression because I've been feeling so lost and adrift lately. I need some form of self-actualization since lately I am mired in doubt over who or what I actually am.
But then again maybe what I am is nothing except an accumulation of the perceptions, thoughts, and information garnered from others. A tabula rosa (rusa?) with no agency.
But let's not get into a nature vs. nurture argument here...

I will end with a quote that has been sticking with me:

"There are moments when times stands still. Moments when you're beyond life and yet still see. And then time begins flowing again, your heart beats, you stretch out your arms, you take a step forward. You still know, but you no longer see."

Guest Blogger- Michelle Weilert

Dearest internet friends,

Hello! How are you on this lovely day? Good, I hope. So guess what? I saw the movie Bruno. I thought perhaps I'd share some of my thoughts about it with you. All of you, out there in the world wide web.

Seeing Bruno was an experience. One point I will give to Sacha- he can get an audience to react. Even if he does so just by swinging his dick around (which by the way sounds way funnier in re-telling than it is in seeing.) So before it came out there was an article in the Dallas Morning News (hometown, what what!) about how Bruno came to DFW to tape a show about 'family values' then of course just offended everyone. He paraded a baby around saying he'd disown the child if he turned out to not be gay, blah blah, his general bullshit act that he does. The paper quoted something that didn't appear in the movie. And when I read it, something occured to me. How often in Sacha Baron Cohen's comedies are you laughing at him? And how often are you laughing at other people? I'm not sure he's really a comedian at all. I'd grant him that he's a sociologist, sure, but comedian....ehhhh. So this is the conversation:

Bruno (to Texas man): "There are some friends of mine you should meet."
Texas man: "The only friends of mine you're going to meet are Smith and Wesson."

That guy is a normal dude, who was misled into thinking he was seeing a taping of a show about family morals, and still he makes me laugh harder than SBC! His friends Smith & Wesson? Sure, I prefer a Colt 45 (family preference) but the man's comment is still brilliant, effing brilliant.

Then in a weird twist of events, I was reading a play called "The Shape of Things" by Neil LaBute (who is wonderful) and he explores this to the extreme. Is manipulating and misleading people art of any kind? Is it comedy? Or is it just effing mean? And now, I quote Neil:

"If I totally miss the point here and somehow puking up your own little shitty neuroses all over people's laps is actually art, then you oughta at least realize there's a price to it all...you know? somebody pays for your two minutes on cnn. someone always pays for people like you. and if you don't get that, if you can't see at least that much...then you're about two inches away from using babies to make lamp shades and calling it 'furniture.' look, i know they call it the 'art scene,' but that's not all it should make. a scene. it should be more than that. anybody can be provocative and shocking. stand up in class, or at the mall, wherever, and take a piss, paint yourself blue and run naked through a church screaming out the names of people you've slept with. is that art or did you just forget to take your ritalin? there's gotta be a line. for art to exist, there has to be a line out there somewhere. a line between really saying something and just....needing attention."

SBC, I will give you that in Borat you did expose some bias we as Americans feel towards foreigners. But what did you expose in Bruno? What did I see there that surprised me? And how much of it was you fucking up people's lives and enjoying it, profiting off it and not thinking twice? I don't know if you will make another movie, but if you do, I hope you'll think twice this time. Are you saying something or are you seeking attention?

Well, this time on Laura's blog has been great, friends. Hope you enjoyed. Hope it made you think.

With love,
Michelle Weilert

Fearless?

I used to think that when the time came, I would accept death.
Instead I found out I'm a hypochondriac among other things.

I'm embarrassed to be even writing this down. Occasionally between typing these words I am burying my face in my hands and squealing with dismay. Here it goes.
A couple of nights ago, events transpired and the side of my head got accidentally kneed. Needless (kneedless?) to say it hurt but nothing life-threatening. Or so I thought. Later, back at my apartment, as I began to settle down for bed, I felt a wave of dizziness, nausea, and the side of my head started throbbing. Immediately my mind recalled the case of Natasha Richardson. She hit her head while skiing and hours later she was dead. I saw my life flash before my eyes and instead of recognizing this as a rare occurance, I consulted Google and Web MD, which are the patron saints of hypochondriac.

I typed in "Natasha Richardson death" and found "epidural hematoma".
According to Wikipedia, which everyone agrees is the authority on everything, an epidural hematoma "is a type of traumatic brain injury (TBI) in which a buildup of blood occurs between the dura mater (the tough outer membrane of the central nervous system) and the skull...Epidural hematoma commonly results from a blow to the side of the head". Ding ding ding. Symptoms of an epidural hematoma: dizziness, headache, and nausea. We've got a winner.

Seized with fear, I headed to the emergency room with my roommate. Faced with my impending death, I reflected on my regrets and the brevity of my life. "I don't want to die", I moaned to my ever so patient roommate. Long story short, the medical staff of Marina Del Ray found no head trauma. In fact, I was healthy as a horse, albeit a foolish, silly horse. Turns out, I'm no more courageous or stalwart as the next person. In fact, had I lived during the Spanish Inquisition, I probably would have sang like a canary in hopes of clinging to life.

I guess the deaths of Michael Jackson, Billy Mays, and Farrah Fawcett affected me more than I'd like to admit. Moral of the story? Life is short, folks, so enjoy it. You never know when your number will be called.

Happy moment of 7/4: The night's festivities provided too much excitement to sleep so I saw my first sunrise.

In breaking news, Michael Jackson is dead and other random thoughts

Ugh I have been way too busy to blog. Working most everyday either at David's or Red Varden Studios. Most nights I come home, space out in front of a movie on On Demand, before crashing and waking up the next day at 7:30 to start it all again. Surprisingly though, I feel totally exhilarated. I look forward to working at the Red Varden office because I'm actually getting to do what I want to do for THE REST OF MY LIFE. Perhaps this is a rash statement. It seems like the universe, fate, God, or Gods deems this correct in that a job in finance that I was up for, one that would have earned me a decent salary, one that my parents demanded that if I received a job offer I would take, one where I knew...

Holy SHIT. I'm watching Syriana and George Clooney just got one of his nails ripped off!

...Anyways this job would have made me a slave to the wage-going through the motions but having no joy in work. The morning of the decision, for the first time in my life, I prayed to fail. "I don't want this job, I'm not qualified," I repeated over and over aloud.

I didn't get an offer.

Then Michael Jackson died. And the world stopped.

Is it wrong to feel no sadness or sense of loss for another persons death? Sure, he wrote and produced an amazing song repertoire, but does an artist's magnificent body of work absolve them of all sins? I can't help thinking of the scores of little boy's lives he potentially has ruined, if the allegations are true. And come on, we all know they are. It disgusts me that he is put on such a pedestal, such an icon of our worshipful idolatry of those who can sing and dance well, that no public figure or even individual can call him out for what he truly was- a seriously disturbed pedophile.

Now don't be rash, I didn't wish him dead. Looking at pictures from his childhood to adulthood, watching the metamorphosis from a normal black teenager into a pale, pinched caricature of a cross between Snow White and Peter Pan-his psychological issues scream out as the pictures progress. Yet the crowds of yes men said nothing and continued to allow him to sit on his twisted throne in Neverland, the warped wonderland he built as a shrine to his issues and his inner child. The two times I went there, as my friends and fellow singers waxed poetic about the beauty and fun of the place, all I saw was a cry, nay a scream, for a psychiatrist.

So that's my take on that...

I'm bringing back the happy or positive moments of the day.

Happy Moment of 6/27: I cooked myself a delicious meal tonight. Huevos Rancheros. Cooking is not only meditative and absorbing, but it also makes me feel self-sufficient and capable. I may not have any idea what to do in my personal life, but I know what to do with eggs, beans, tortillas, cheese, and spices.

In my overinflated sense of self-awareness, I do realize that this blog has dissipating into the ongoing saga of my love life. What can I say? Love makes the world go round I guess.

As saccharine as I thought Eat, Pray, Love was, there was this little anecdote squeezed in between the moments of self-realization and stories about unusually kind foreign strangers that I really liked. One of the author’s friends, a psychologist, worked with some population, I forget exact details, who had undergone a brutal genocide or had been incarcerated in a concentration camp, basically had undergone brutal and inhumane treatment by another domineering people. The psychologist was incredibly intimidated prior to the sessions. How could she, a privileged white woman, possibly relate, empathize, or understand the magnitude of what these people endured? Turns out, most of them in their sessions rather than recounting their harrowing experiences, they instead relayed the love dynamics and web of the camp. I really liked this guy but I though he liked this other girl in the other camp…etc. A coping mechanism or a revealing slice of the human psyche? I have yet to determine.

He broke up with her. He tells me he still is in love with me. Misses me, thinks about me all the time. He wants to spend the rest of his life with me.

Meanwhile, the other is a charming, kind, open-the-car-door, pay-for-dinner, respectful kind of guy. He wants to explore with me-go to art museums, try new cuisine, take me to documentaries.

I don’t think I want either right now. I don’t want to go back but I also am not ready to go forward.

I just want to stay standing still, shift in neutral, focusing instead on who I want to be rather than who I want to be with.

I just began an internship that is EXACTLY WHAT I WANT TO DO FOR THE REST OF MY LIFE. I actually get to brainstorm show concepts, research, scout locations…the process and the industry and the people…I just…UGH I wish I didn’t have to be in Los Angeles. But things are happening….finally.

My Dating Profile

I love chaos, destruction, and broken people.
I consider myself an emotional doctor- absorbing other people's problems like a sponge then remedying it with good advice and words of affection.
I am going to climb a mountain one of these days; then ski down it.
I am capable of deep, loyal, and intense love but also of breaking your heart.
I've been through hard times but I don't presume that my struggles can ever equate with others who've been dealt a difficult hand in life.
I believe that truth is a malleable, manipulative, unfixed bitch who I will forever chase and try to understand.
I am passionate about film and television-through these numerous stories provide escapism, entertainment, as well as transmit ideas, dogmas, and perspectives.
I will never believe in organized religion, never will convert to an organized religion, and will never let my kids (if I even have them) be raised with organized religion.
I would rather be called "smart" then "beautiful".
I love cooking, food, and watching people on TV cook food.
I don't want a committed, monogamous relationship for at least another year; unless I meet someone who provides compelling evidence to the contrary.
I would rather date someone charismatic and intelligent then a dreamboat.
Ultimately I think I want someone who challenges me, who teaches me, who can be goofy and silly as well as serious and intense, who has goals and ambitions, who will travel and be spontaneous, who has the desire to know, to understand...

Are you interested?

You make me smile.
I don't know what that means yet
but I'm enjoying the ride.


Just kiss me again.

Doing it well

Let's suppose I am an alien visitor to the body of land known as the United States. Among the many peculiarities of the human race, I distinctly notice the preoccupations with mating rituals and the reproductive act itself. While males seemed to possess a singular focus on obtaining innumerable attractive partners, the female discernment of appropriate partners seems particularly murky. The media of American culture seems to operate in a distorted circular pattern; the media influences culture and human action while simultaneously acting as a reflection of those same human actions etc.

In terms of attracting a male it seems that history has presented women with one of two gender roles or options; the pure, chaste Madonnna or the devious, promiscuous whore. However, in recent decades, film and television has been intent on blurring the lines between these two polar roles, therefore complicating the appropriate line between normal sexual behavior and deviancy and signifying certain messages about sex.


Sex and the City-the textbook epitome of female sexual liberation. These women sleep around, shop excessively, and hold successful jobs. Frequent sex outside of a monogamous relationship=power.

Any number of horror films- most horror films, especially the growing torture porn subgenre, seem to be an exercise in misogynistic evisceration, both physical and metaphorical, of women's sexual power. Standard progression of scenes: girl loses her virginity to her piggish jock boyfriend, next she loses her life to chainsaw/knife/machine-wielding madman. Sex=death

Or take a film I recently watched


The Girlfriend Experience-Chelsea is an escort who provides for an exorbitant fee, GFE or a "girlfriend experience". She will kiss them, cuddle them, listen to them bemoan the shrinking economy (film is set prior to the November 2008 election) all while she cooly sits there, raking up their hard-earned dollars. Yet they continue to call her back for her services. Sex= business transaction.

I'm not an alien. I'm a 22 year old woman. What's a girl to do? Notice how I didn't cite examples that sex=pleasure. That's an obvious statement. But what sex can lead to, =herpes, =attachment, =pain, almost makes it seem not worth the risk outside of a relationship. And it's been scientifically suggested that a chemical, oxytocin, is released in the brain of females during sex which fosters feelings of attachment. So how does one negotiate casual sex in this whirlpool of conflicting emotions and expectations?

I suppose overanalyzing it to death in a blog is not quite the way to go. But I can't deny that I long for the human touch, kissing and bonuses, and the warmth of another body close by. Yet despite these yearnings, I have to admit to myself...

I'm just not that kind of girl.

Look at my awesome taste in music!

Let's make one thing clear. I would NEVER want to be a celebrity. But besides the obvious benefits of free clothing, complementary restaurant meals, and public adoration, the perk I would most enjoy is the Itunes celebrity playlist.

I really think that Itunes should develop some feature on their site where you can share your personal playlist either through Itunes or through some social networking site. I'm sure an extension of this idea is already out there in cyberspace but considering that people are willing to broadcast their every move through Facebook status' and twitters or tweets or twats or whatever the hell you call it, I'm sure this idea would catch on.

Anyways here's my playlist complete with personal comments, should I ever become famous enough that Apple would desire me to share my taste with others.

Keep in mind I tailored this list from 36 to 2 so some notable omissions had to be made.

1. Yasmin the Light- Explosions In The Sky- I don't believe that the Shins can change your life, but Explosions In The Sky can. Sometimes you don't need words to express the emotion or meaning of a song.
2. Hardcore Days & Softcore Nights-Aqueduct- Good driving song. That's about it. Sometimes that's all you need from a song.
3. Lay Lady Lay- Bob Dylan-Anyone who can make cowbells sound sexy belongs on my playlist. There are much more meaningful, symbolic, mobilizing songs by Dylan but I'm a sucker for the regurgitation of the same old themes of love and sex done in a simple but seductive way.
4. Am I Wrong- Brand New- Jesse Lacey is one of the best lyricists of our generation though he remains in the shadow of emo pioneers such as Bright Eyes. He didn't actually write this song because it's a cover of Love Spit Love, but he would have.
5. One for the Road- Cee-Lo-Sample lyrics:
I have millenniums of material and rivers of rhythm
An entire ocean of emotion that's enlightening to swim in
Also a forest of feeling, beaten paths of peace
Trapped inside my silhouette I have to speak to release
Demanding more from the pen than I horde from the pen
The line between playing to win and sin is thin
But I walk it with grace and I talk it with taste
I am that raw, simply put, and I rest my case
6. Bassment Party-The Cool Kids- Cause this song makes me dance like a hoooooo
7. Happiness is a Warm Gun- The Beatles- To have a playlist without the Beatles is a travesty to the history and influence of music.
8. Queen Bitch- David Bowie- Have to have Bowie on there. He always makes me want to groove and get down.
9. A Movie Script Ending- Death Cab for Cutie- I grew up through the most transitional periods of my life listening to Death Cab. I don't care if they are considered "emo" or "depressing". Their lyrics and melodies defined and described the emotional rollercoaster of my teenage years.
10. This Town- Frank Sinatra- Frank is the original bad ass. If I ever were to pursue music seriously, I would hope that I could somehow possess the transcendence of Frank.
11. Don't Let Me Be Lonely Tonight- Jenna Mammina- I sing this in my car constantly. Jenna turned a weepy James Taylor penned tune into a bluesy, jazzy, sassy cover. If I ever recorded again, this would be one of them.
12. Night Drive- Jimmy Eat World- Both JEW and Death Cab captured adolescence for me. Although I primarily listen to JEW's first albums, this particular selection reminds me of the constant spontaneous drives my friends and I would take to Grizzly Peak, San Francisco, just driving anywhere to be constantly in motion.
13. U.R.A. Fever- The Kills- Moody, dark, and sexy.
14. Dazed and Confused- Led Zeppelin- It is my firm belief that most people have a brief, intense affair with Led Zeppelin where they discover the band, listen to nothing but their music for a week, convinced that they are the best band to ever come into existence. I wrestled and struggled between a number of songs but I have such a soft spot for this one.
15. Walk on the Wildside- Lou Reed- His voice is like melted butter.
16. I'm Feeling Good- Nina Simone- Jazz and blues is the most fun to sing. Screw Mariah Carey-esque melismas and vibrato. All you need is feeling and presence.
17. The Nurse Who Loved Me- A Perfect Circle- I read somewhere that if a person can draw "a perfect circle" that means they are legally insane. Well this song is about an institutionalized person in love with the nurse who provides the medication that numbs him so I guess it's an appropriate band moniker. I just think it's trippy and amazing.
18. Can't You Hear Me Knocking- The Rolling Stones- I found it before the Blow soundtrack.
19. Echoes- Digitalism- I feel like my generation, probably due to the prevalence of the ecstasy and rave culture, is turning more and more to electronically produced music. I plead guilty to this as well.
20. Bittersweet Symphony- Vitamin String Quartet- One of my favorite songs reduced and redone simply but beautifully.
21. Say It Ain't So- Weezer- What can you say about Weezer that hasn't already been said? This song makes me want to speed in the 405.

Vulnerability has always been my forte.
The tumbling, grappling hunt for emotional connection was always a thrill
The pot of gold at the end of the rainbow
I loved those moments
When all the bluff, bravado, smoke and mirrors fell away like chipped paint
and I could just see
The deeply buried truth of who you are

And then it just hit me at Grizzly Peak today
As I sat perched on a log looking
benevolently down at the massive urban sprawl masked by fog
Like a Greek god gazing down from the clouds
I need distance
Like a Monet or a pointillism painting
Some things are infinitely more beautiful from far away
I used to thrive on intimacy
Closeness was my comfort food
But I need to space myself
Separate
At least for now
It's probably a lie but
it goes down much sweeter now than pain

He gave me a hard, piercing look, his eyes not leaving mine even as he took a long pull from his Stella Artois. I stared right back at him, daring him to say the wrong thing.
"Well for starters, you're 26."
Wrong, you're so wrong.
"And...you seem really put-together, prim, proper, a real sweetheart."
Still incorrect.
"But you seem to have this....evil side to you..."
"Evil? What do you mean by that?"
"You seem like you have been really repressed...not evil in the conventional sense...but some part of you has been suppressed and its dying to come out."
Ain't it the truth.

Later his friend, an older, grayer version of himself, imparted a bit of wisdom gleaned from his life of fifty-five years:
1. Hard Work- if you want it, don't think that you can take shortcuts.
2. Have a mentor- figure out what you want to do, then find someone older who can support you and guide you.
3. Marry someone who is your best friend and intellectual match-beauty can only go so far.

So there you go folks.

I believe in the therapeutic effect of popping bubble wrap.
I believe in a glass of white wine at the end of a hard day.
I believe that I'm my own worst enemy.
I believe in moderate hedonism.
I believe in long, hazy days of doing nothing but drinking tea, surfing the internet, and reading a good book.
I try to believe in the good in people, despite multiple accounts of evidence to the contrary.
I believe in always being kind, courteous, and friendly.
I believe that I am not young enough to know everything.
I believe in long drives alone to places unknown.
I believe in massages and head scratches, my favorite.
I believe in the merits of cheese, bread, fresh produce, and Reese's peanut butter cups.
I believe in the balance of responsibility and spontaneity, the rational and the idealistic, reality and fantasy.
What do you believe in?

Who the fuck is Cary Grant?

What a topsy-turvy week. Being constantly on the move suits me. Barely sleeping, drinking too much, riding and singing in the car day and night and eating nothing but fried food made me feel more alive than I've felt in months being stuck in Los Angeles. I find nothing poetic about the crowded concrete jungle, congesting, suffocating crowds, and interminable traffic. Give me trees, mountains, sights I've never seen before and the endless road.

The wedding was a riot. I can't believe that I have finally gotten to that place where I WANT to be with my parents, to hang out with them and talk with them but despite familial drama, they have become my closest confidants. Kansas City was a town that I judged too harshly, a blind date who through careful persuasion, won me over. Fountains adorned with graceful, elegant statues marked every street corner which gave me a slight pang because it reminded me of Rome. The reception was a blur of martinis, tears, drunken adults, and little boys doing the worm on the dance floor. There was a "nice boy"...rather two "nice boys" who were competing for my attention which was flattering but nonetheless somewhat frustrating in that I just wanted to dance for the sake of dancing, not to attract hungry males.
I walked around Kansas City alone for awhile, absorbing and exploring the city. I underestimated the Midwest. This town is conspicuously charming.

This spontaneity and impulsiveness will have to end sooner or later. I have an interview tomorrow with Smith Barney for a position as a liaison for municipal bonds. As much as I know this position holds financial freedom, and the promise of exercising my strengths, I can't help feeling like I'm staring down the barrel of a gun.

This is the first day
of the rest of my life.

Things that would hit the spot right now:

-A turkey, brie, and avocado sandwich from Panini's
-To find that song that I listened to on the Zap2it channel at the gym an hour ago
-A one-way ticket to a foreign country in South America or Asia
-A response from Showtime Networks regarding my application for an internship
-A beautiful hike through Muir woods and/or a trip to Stinson Beach
-One of those amazing books that changes your life or your perceptions on society and the world
-A love (or lust) interest with whom I can make out for hours in his car overlooking a scenic background with some old Jimmy Eat World playing in the background

Just Because

The Archipelago Of Kisses

We live in a modern society. Husbands and wives don't
grow on trees, like in the old days. So where
does one find love? When you're sixteen it's easy,
like being unleashed with a credit card
in a department store of kisses. There's the first kiss.
The sloppy kiss. The peck.
The sympathy kiss. The backseat smooch. The we
shouldn't be doing this kiss. The but your lips
taste so good kiss. The bury me in an avalanche of tingles kiss.
The I wish you'd quit smoking kiss.
The I accept your apology, but you make me really mad
sometimes kiss. The I know
your tongue like the back of my hand kiss. As you get
older, kisses become scarce. You'll be driving
home and see a damaged kiss on the side of the road,
with its purple thumb out. If you
were younger, you'd pull over, slide open the mouth's
red door just to see how it fits. Oh where
does one find love? If you rub two glances, you get a smile.
Rub two smiles, you get a warm feeling.
Rub two warm feelings and presto-you have a kiss.
Now what? Don't invite the kiss over
and answer the door in your underwear. It'll get suspicious
and stare at your toes. Don't water the kiss with whiskey.
It'll turn bright pink and explode into a thousand luscious splinters,
but in the morning it'll be ashamed and sneak out of
your body without saying good-bye,
and you'll remember that kiss forever by all the little cuts it left
on the inside of your mouth. You must
nurture the kiss. Turn out the lights. Notice how it
illuminates the room. Hold it to your chest
and wonder if the sand inside hourglasses comes from a
special beach. Place it on the tongue's pillow,
then look up the first recorded kiss in an encyclopedia: beneath
a Babylonian olive tree in 1200 B.C.
But one kiss levitates above all the others. The
intersection of function and desire. The I do kiss.
The I'll love you through a brick wall kiss.
Even when I'm dead, I'll swim through the Earth,
like a mermaid of the soil, just to be next to your bones.

Jeffrey McDaniel

This is the same tired question that has perplexed thinkers for centuries yet it has been bouncing around in my head all day. I hear it all the time, especially from women
"If it's meant to be, it will be"
This statement I've heard applied to anything from relationships to a pair of shoes. The logic goes: If the universe is going to conspire to allow me to have the resources to buy that exact pair of shoes in that exact size then it is going to happen and no obstacle can obstruct it.

I constantly struggle with this preordained destiny versus self-determination argument constantly. On one hand, it is kind of comforting to know that things are meant to happen as they should, similar to being a passenger on a cruise to a particular destination. Fate ensures the believer faith in the process; the forces that be are assuring that you end up in the time and place that you are supposed to be. Now, I don't mean to evoke a worn out metaphor here but I would rather be the captain, consciously in charge of what direction I am going, steering the boat, if you will. Fate seems too passive.

Real Life Example:

One boring day at work, I am in the back eating an apple when I overhear the conversation between my co-worker and her customer. I hear rumblings about a television show with Nathan Fillion, who I know from Firefly because I have the entire IMDB website memorized. Sad but true. I poke out there and try to insert myself into the conversation. Minutes later, I discover that the woman, Liz, is a writer for a number of television shows most recently Castle, who starts the aforementioned Fillion, who by the way is dashingly handsome ala Harrison Ford. I tell her about my aspirations to join the industry and low and behold, I am having coffee with her this Sunday and she has already forwarded my resume to her agent for interest in an assistant position.

Now was destiny or my own strong will and lack of fear of butting into conversation at play here? Most would say a mix of both. Now not to be too acquiescent here but I'm just going to let the "universe", "forces", "God", or "fate" point me in the right direction for the next couple of weeks now. Since South Korea is looking pretty dim and I don't want to have to burden my parents with continuing to constantly support me, I think I need to become more self-sufficient now. But I am still holding onto wanting to travel and serve in other countries.

Seth used to do this a lot and I really like it. Here are some things I want to say to people but I will not post their names:

1. It's not that I don't think you are smart, driven, and have many qualities I would usually go for, but I'm not feeling it, not feeling that ZING you get when you know it's right.
2. Becoming closer with you this year has totally saved me in more ways than one. You are one of the kindest, most caring, and intelligent people I have met and you have been there for me through the darkest of times. I appreciate you.
3. I am proud of you for taking action instead of talking about it. You know you have been chipping away at me for years because of your own insecurities and now that you are FINALLY talking about it openly is giving me hope.
4. I like that I have this balance with you. Sometimes we can be really serious and get into some deep issues but we also have this goofy, ridiculous, silly chemistry with each other that lightens the load of some of the things we reveal to each other. You are a great friend.


That's it. Peace out!

I own myself

Being alone has its small pleasures.

Finishing books, stories, songs I've began but never had time to complete.
Reconnecting with old friends, establishing and gaining new ones.
Going to the grocery store and cooking myself a delicious dinner of steak, potatoes, and white wine, just for me.
Having afternoons free to go on hikes, bike rides, visit art museums, just EXPLORE, or just be a couch potato and play around on the internet.


I missed this part of myself. All these years since high school there's always been a ME and a HIM. I don't think I've ever been that girl who sacrifices her passions, friends, or semblance of a social life for the boy in her life, but I cannot negate that there have been sacrifices I have made. Now that there are no obstacles or personal commitments obligating me anywhere, I am free to finally go about accomplishing the grand ideas and dreams that have been floating around in my mind since I was little. All it takes is figuring out which dreams I want to pursue.

I know that I want to sing again. Needless to say, my last performance which was at Jon's funeral sapped me of both energy and passion. I don't know how to go about this anymore. I don't even know if I'm that talented compared to the multitudes of aspiring singers who are fumbling all over Los Angeles to achieve that same dream. I don't even know how badly I want it. All I know is that performing in some smoky jazz club once in awhile is my idea of nirvana.

I know my inner fat kid is taking over judging by my obsession with food and cooking. I always said that my dream job would be to travel the world and sample other culture's delicacies although after watching Bizarre Eats with that chubby bald guy, I'm not so sure I have the stomach for it. All I can say is that my preoccupation with this earthly pleasure of eating takes some of the focus off my constant thinking/analyzing of the world and interactions around me. Sometimes the bliss of biting into a great sandwich, the living in the moment of taste and texture, can surpass all.

I know I want to help others, while supporting myself comfortably. My desire for this is not motivated by some lofty need for altruism, but rather as a true enjoyment of making other people's day better. How do I reconcile these two aspirations? Sometimes I wish I could just fast forward through this awkward transitional phases and just get to where I am supposed to be. But struggle builds character I guess.

In any case, its a relief that I don't "belong" to someone else, or I am "theirs". I don't want to be a possession, a property or prize to be won. I want to be my own, myself.

Stumbled upon this story that my friend Ryan wrote in high school. Sometimes simplicity is the most effective in conveying a message....

The Little Boy on the Little Island

Once upon a time, there was a little boy who lived on a little island in the middle of a giant ocean. The island was very small. It was covered in sand, and had one single palm tree in the middle. There were no other people or animals, just a little boy on a little island, in the middle of a giant ocean.

The little boy sat alone under the palm tree. He stared aimlessly into the ocean. He never saw any boats or fish or birds. All he ever saw was the ocean, the sun, and the sky. As he started into the ocean, no thoughts went through his head. He had neither dreams nor ambitions. He did not know who he was, or why he was on an island. However, this did not bother him. His existence was completely innocent. He knew nothing of friends or family. He knew nothing of good, he knew nothing of bad. He was never hungry. He was never thirsty. He was never happy. He was never sad. He was never angry. He was never tired. He never aged. He was just a little boy on a little island, in the middle of a giant ocean.

One night, as the little boy sat by the tree, a huge storm hit the island. There were humongous waves, tons of rain, and strong winds. The little boy did not understand what was happening. He did not know how to feel scared or worried. So he sat there, surrounded by a huge storm. He did not sweat, he did not cry. He did not yell or pray for help. He was just a little boy on a little island, in the middle of a giant ocean.

The next morning, a raft arrived on the island. It was a little girl who was crying. For the first time, the little boy stood up from his spot under the tree. He walked to the raft. The little boy and little girl stared into each others eyes. They did not speak, just dazed into each others eyes for hours. The little girl stopped crying. The little boy sat down in his spot by the tree. The little girl sat down next to him. They sat together, holding hands, looking into the ocean. They never spoke, just sat and stared. They were just a little boy and a little girl on a little island, in the middle of a giant ocean.

This simple relationship lasted for many years, until once again, a storm struck the island. Once again, the little boy sat there calmly. However, the girl began to cry and scream. She ran to her forgotten raft, and pushed it out to sea. The raft broke, and wood and some rope lay on the island. The little girl cried and cried, and the little boy did nothing. Eventually, he went to hold her hand, but out of nowhere a giant wave hit the island. It swept the little girl out to the ocean. The little boy sat back down, just a little boy on a little island, in the middle of a giant ocean.

The little boy felt different that he had ever felt before. He couldn’t sit there aimlessly. His mind wandered. He missed the little girl. He couldn’t stay still. He paced around the island. He cried, he shouted out. He cursed the giant ocean. He cursed the little girl for being swept away. This went on for many years, until one night the little boy could no longer handle it. His heart had been filled with emotion and he no longer understood his existence. He grabbed the rope from the broken raft, and tied it around his neck. He hung himself from that palm tree. With his last gasp of breath, he realized he could never be a little boy on a little island, in the middle of a giant ocean again.

My lips like sugar/ this candy got you sprung

Flo Rida represents the apocalypse of music. There are no new melodies that can be created. No new innovation or creation of an entirely new genre. Through his two singles that are currently tearing up the charts, he has essentially become the eternal symbol for all that is wrong with the music industry.

It's safe to say Tramar Dillard, later to be known as the aforementioned Flo Rida, had little idea of the legacy he was going to leave. Born December 16, 1979 in Miami Gardens, Florida (Get it?), he began his fledgling career working with the local rap group, 2 Live Crew, who are largely famous for their evocative song,"Me So Horny", a sexually explicit song with soundbites from Apocalypse Now which would provide foreshadowing to Tramar's later career. He later formed an amateur rap group with some friends and somehow was able to conceive of a moniker that was neither intimidating nor provocative-"the Groundhoggz". After dropping out of college to focus on his "music", he made his mainstream debut with his geographically accurate single, "Bitch, I'm From Dade County". Worldwide acclaim and chart-topping success followed with the release of "Low" which featured T-Pain and boosted sales sky-high for both Apple-bottom jeans and the "Reeboks with the straaaappp".

Now when I'm tipsy up in the club and dancing, if you can call it that, I give little care to what the exact lyrics are of the song. I am a big subscriber to the maxim that Chris Rock once surmised, "If the beat's all right, I'll dance all night". "Low", despite the inanity of the lyrics and the archetypal themes of a guy at the club with an eye for brand-name fashion preying on a pretty young thing, if it plays at a club, I won't hesitate to stand up and groove. Yet his most recently released singles, "Right Round" and "Sugar"...I have a bone to pick with you Flo Rida.

Not only does Flo Rida reprocess the perpetual themes of sex, money, and name brands in his music, even his beats are recycled. "Right Round" samples from Dead or Alive's "You Spin Me Round", although Flo Rida's use of the term refers to the sensation he feels (Boner? Sexual ecstasy?) when watching a stripper slide her way down a pole. Inexplicably, he also samples the grating chorus of Eiffel 65's "Blue", a nonsensical melody I have been trying to forget since 1999, in his song "Sugar". "Sugar" is in reference to the taste of his sexual object's lip gloss, which if I recall correctly from middle school is most likely from the Bonnie Bell brand. Although logistically it's ingenious for Flo Rida to repackage these familiar tunes with a rap twist, it also marks the dearth of those great hits that tease and lure in the ear. Yet what is most insulting is that he tries to maintain the pretense of being an artist. His latest album, R.O.O.T.S., stands for "Route of Overcoming the Struggle". By contributing to the asininity of pop music today, you are continuing the struggle Flo Rida.

Moreover, lets just analyze Flo Rida himself. Talk about lack of imagination or creativity in fashioning his name. He was so lazy he just decided to call himself the state in which he was born-then make it "gangsta" by splicing it up and connoting it with a supposed different meaning. His flows come so easily that he just rides through them? Please. He has no decisive style, voice tenor, he is utterly indistinguishable from the other rappers who churn out sexualized pop crap like "Right Round". Unlike definitive rappers like Jay-Z, Tupac Shakur, and Notorious B.I.G. who developed their own linguistic style and covered material from "ho's" and money to the deeper ingrained issues of the Black Masculine Experience of America. Flo Rida? Well, money, hos, and alcohol remains the constant themes

Let's look at an example:

Shawty must know I’m not playin
My money love her like a numba one fan
Don’t look at my mouth, let her talk to my fans
My Benjamin Frank-a-lins
A couple of grands, I got rubber bands
My paper planes makin a dance
Get dirty all night, that’s part of my thing
Keep building castles that’s made out of sand
She’s amazing, the fire blazing
Hotter than Cajun
Girl won’t you move a lil closer?
Time to get paid, it’s maximum wage
That body belong on a poster
I’m in a daze, that bottom is wavin’ at me
Like da** it, I know you
You wanna show like a gun out of holster
Tell me whatever and I’ll be your roper

I can only imagine how that songwriting session went about. Flo Rida represents everything that is wrong with this country: the lack of reason, rationalization, innovation, or clarity. I dare you to challenge me.

Dear Future Self,

The date is May 1, 2009 at 1:25 PM. As usual you are multitasking, watching The Golden Compass , reading The Rules of Attraction and Mrs. Dalloway, and drinking your third bottle of water of the day. You are graduating in a week and a couple of days. I'm writing this to you so when you are grown up and reflect on this silly little blog, you will remember where you were at this pivotal point in your life.
Current plan after graduation at this point: Travel to South Korea to teach English for 6 months-1 year, explore every inch of that corner of the world, and come back and work my way up to the VP of development or marketing communications of HBO or Showtime. Sounds like a good plan right? I wonder if you stuck to it.
Over the past few weeks you have been suffering an interminable internal debate. Essentially it boils down to make money or make good? Of course you want to help people, serve others, because you happen to be raised in the ideal position where you have never struggled to survive. Yet because of my upbringing I want to maintain that lifestyle and sacrifice my altruistic needs for number one. I wonder what decision you made. I hope you are happy with it.
Ahhh love. That aspect of your life has never been easy, clear cut, which is part of the beauty of it, don't you think? Your college sweetheart and you are over, which unearthed a great deal of clarity and a newfound sense of freedom and elation. I hope you remained friends with him, you have shared too much to write this person completely out. Although you may not be sure exactly what you need, just remember what you don't want. Please don't doubt yourself and remember all you have to offer.
Be honest. Be kind.
Lastly remember you only get one shot at this. Don't blow it.

Sincerely,
You

I hate these days. Waking up with little to no recollection of last night's hours. I'm not going to do that again. Ever.

I just want to run away. Hide. South Korea isn't for a couple of months, so the next best thing is to vanish into Border's or Barnes and Noble for a couple of hour and disappear into a book. Take me away from reality for a bit. I wish I was home so I could drive up to Grizzly Peak, listen to Death Cab for Cutie, and try to disseminate my actions. As bitter and jaded as I wish I could be, just to not give a FUCK, I can't deny that I do. At least overanalyzation does provide some clarity.

Loneliness is creeping up on me. I know I'm going to get back to that positive place again, I just want to be there now.

Once a Vicky, Always Cristina

"Cristina, on the other hand, expected something very different out of love. She had reluctantly accepted suffering as an inevitable component of deep passion, and was resigned to putting her feelings at risk. If you asked her what it was she was gambling her emotions on to win, she would not have been able to say. She knew what she didn't want, however, and that was exactly what Vicky valued above all else."

The Bridge

I'm in a bedroom. It's very familiar, but I feel a weird disconnect from it as well. The last time I was in this bedroom was four years ago. I was a scared, relatively spineless hopeless romantic, spooning with a girl who wasn't going to be my girlfriend for the last time before she left for college. That moment is still vivid in my mind, as is most of the brief time I spent with her, for reasons that are only clear to me now. At the time, the fact that she was leaving was the end of my world.

It has been a long, long time since then, both in years and otherwise. This room takes me back to that last day, as I haven't seen it since, but the sensation isn't as odd or nostalgic as I might have guessed. It's as if I've stepped back in time, to that last day, but as my current self, rather than the 19-year old from years past, and I can't tell if I've time-traveled as an observer or a participant. I'm in a museum, of sorts, looking at a moment from my past through one of those glass windows built into the wall. I can't help but compare my current mindset to that which I possessed the last time I was here. The differences are immense and immeasurable.

I'm about to get into that bed, four years wiser, with a whole lot of perspective, a stomach full of Cosmo, and a new friend. I'm very curious what emotions, if any, will result from this.

-Seth

My brother and I concluded over dinner tonight that we can't stand artifice, facade, or people's constancy in feeling like they need to fit some image or ideal of what they want to see themselves as, i.e. listening to a particular kind of music, identifying with a certain cultural group, or adopting the style of some archetype.

The true liberation is simply people being who they are. Not forcing themselves into trying on the image like trying on a jacket. As he put it, "I don't understand when people say they want to BE something. You are something because you HAVE to be it."


At least we have something in common.

Retail Therapy

I don't know if it's the comfortable nostalgia of the 70's era couch, but I am seriously considering charging a small fee for the emotional vomit women unload on me every day at work.

Prefaced by the standard, "I don't know why I'm telling you this but," I constantly have total strangers confessing loneliness, despair, last night's sexual trust, and the desperation of finding oneself trapped in a loveless marriage with three rugrats.I probably look unthreatening in jeans, tee-shirt, and sandals, just another salesgirl offering solace in the form of stilettos. I am nameless, faceless, no way the information bequeathed could reach the ears of involved parties.

A prime example:
She walks in looking harried and suntanned. As per the tried and true David's shoes sales method, I compliment her purse as a way of opening up conversation(God I can't believe half the shit that comes out of my mouth. I sound like a badly written fashion editorial for a women's magazine. "Your purse is so bohemian, broken down, very vintage. And that color would go with EVERYTHING"). She breaks into a long story about how she got on sale at Saks Fifth Avenue when some rich lady pitied her and took it off hold, blah blah whatever. This is going to be a good one. Three shoes in, she starts to mention her daughter, her mouth pulled into a tight pout. Saying, "Oh, I'll probably never see you again", she falls into a rant about her alcoholic 24 year-old daughter who got wasted at some birthday party in Long Beach and was picked up for a DUI in a bad part of town. The back story is that her daughter was "very popular in high school" but remained "straight-edge-didn't drink at all" and now as she heads into a quarter life crisis she is getting repeatedly "shit-faced" and has gotten alcohol poisoning at multiple occasions as well as seizures. Oh and I guess she's getting fat? "She gets really shit-faced, then goes and eats crap food late at night. And she claims her weight gain is because of the long commute to work".

Kate told me last night after her friend went to the bathroom that I have a gift for getting people to open up. It's slowly starting to become a curse. Like a sponge, I tend to get emotionally invested and empathetic when people tell me their stories and I have to get away once in awhile to recharge.


So happy to be home.

you are somewhere else. i am still right here

you've been on my mind today.
on Saturday at a party I met a boy
who happened to be from Lafayette
first thing he said to me when we were introduced was
"So did you know Jon Sisto?"
A knife in my stomach.
Need I go over the chronicles of our friendship?
A couple of tidbits for myself so I'll never forget:
-Latin Club was a major bonding activity for us. He called me "Dolus". Means "trick" in Latin. Thanks butthead.
-I would always steal his blue baseball cap and grey sweatshirt. He had the most amazing natural smell-girls would constantly steal his clothing.
-He had the hairiest legs of any guy I've ever met. Seriously needed a weedwacker.
-He was always suffering from a broken leg, arm, etc.
-He and I chose my AOL screen name which I never use anymore. "Pixie", because well I'm a munchkin and "Picara" a spanish word for bohemian.
-We kissed once.
-We had a falling out before his death. We were in the process of making up the day he died. I was recording my demo and we were going to listen to it later.
-I still have your "Songs to Die To" mix. Every time I hear any of the songs out of context, I have to leave the room.

I wish that seeing you in the hospital attaching to a breathing machine wasn't the last image I have preserved in my mind. I still remember looking at your hairy-ass fucking legs, still warm. I promised you I would take care of Halie. I have kept that promise and will continue to. You are constantly in my thoughts. I miss you everyday.



I'm telling my parents on Friday about my plans. Looking more and more like Thailand is a viable option although Peru would be a first time trip.

Reminiscing....

a declaration of independence

This artist whose name I forget did this series of sculptures throughout the years of his relationship with his girlfriend or muse. The furthest left sculpture was created in the first year and so on and so forth. See how delicately he shaped her face in the first couple of years-loving attention to capturing the beauty of his visage. As the relationship sours or perhaps as his perceptions of her change, the sculptures becomes more mangled, twisted, less true to reality and more surreal. I always wonder if the later sculptures are meant to be grotesque, a vilification of his once idealized image, or if they are meant to be more complex, as relationships come to be over the years.

I am truly, blissfully, inexplicably happy. The world is wide, open, free, and ready to be conquered and disseminated. I want to savor every moment of life.
I want to fly.

state of mind currently is very Natalie Portman in Closer. particularly this scene.

















Dan: She was... disarming.
Alice: That's not a euphemism.
Dan: Yes, it is.




Happy Moment of 4/18: I've decided I am going to volunteer abroad for a couple of weeks in the summer. I've narrowed it down to Thailand or Peru-either volunteering at an Orphanage or teaching English. This suspended feeling I have been having for awhile has dissipated-this is the right path for me now. I'm so happy I could scream.
Shhhh don't tell my parents.

the growing sense of liberation

Well here I am
Painted as the bad girl of your lifestory
The Lilith from whose claws you wrenched yourself from and set yourself free
The femme fatale who remains alluring but reeks of danger and manipulation
You can construct this false image, put it together with my limbs, blue eyes, and a mane of blond hair
But it remains your perceptions, nothing more nothing less
My flaws are built within, inherent, that constantly need retuning
I remain constantly vigilant of them
Yet my mistakes cannot tarnish my self-worth

I never came equipped in matters of love with this strength of yours
I graduated from the school of accommodation and diplomacy
Surely no problem we faced couldn't be soothed by the balm of time and makeup sex
Yet you remain stalwart in your convictions
sure and contented in your decision
which contradictingly is one of the things I love most about you.

Not to belabor this manifesto of sorts any longer, but I want to say
I am feeling better. Slowly but surely. Everyday gets easier.




The glass is now filled to the brim.

cadbury eggs and peeps

ahhh easter. or as the delahaye household regards it-the springtime christmas. every morning when my brother and i were little, as soon as the sun hit our driveway, we were up and ready to begin our candy quest, our "easter egg hunt". after waking up an exhausted mom and dad, we would climb and search every nook and cranny for the little milk chocolate eggs that my parents would hide. because of either my precociousness or propelled by the drive for sugar, i always found a majority of the candy while my brother was still perusing one room. tears were shed and tantrums were thrown until i gave up my hard-earned candy stock so that both my brother and i would have equal portions. i look back and see the foreshadowing-my life so easy, a memorized, perfected composition while he is still struggling on the beginning notes. fate or hindrances of the past have caught up to both of us now. we each have equal amounts in our basket.

i spoke to my parents today. they can sense my growing despondence and my mother offers a temporary balm in the form of a new pair of shoes. it's not going to fix it.
nothing can change what i am anymore.

happy moment of 4/11: exercise is cathartic. ran and walked six miles today.

Democratic societies are unfit for the publication of such thunderous revelations as I am in the habit of making.

as i slowly withdraw myself from the constant mental state of a relationship, the consuming love that overtakes the other, i feel my creative side awaking. i need to sing, i need to see and make art, i need to write, i need to be inspired.

these works never fail:



Hieronymus Bosch painted this in 1503, before the whisperings and formation of surrealism began. It reminds me of a dream, riddled with religious iconography, clusters of bodies, shapes, and actions. The brightness and beauty of the first two panels juxtaposed with the haunting darkness of the right panel. I wish I had the talent to transcribe the images I see in my head onto a visual landscape.








cynthia ona innis is a californian artist who i found when exploring art galleries in venice. her art reminds me of marine life, the ocean, rebirth, planetary systems, the stars, the possibilities are endless. she's one of the people who i would invite to my ideal dinner party.


i think i've figured out something about myself. so often i am so focused, so in tune and intense about the complexity of life, give myself so much emotionally to the needs of others, that i have to shut myself off. friends complain about my inability to remain in constant contact. its exhausting always having to be present, there, always able to be in touch with whoever needs me. i need to be alone sometimes, to sit, recharge, whatever it is.


optimistic event of 4/10: http://www.thisisplymouth.co.uk/news/Police-save-ducklings-caught-flap/article-848457-detail/article.html- this little story warmed my heart. i am always up for the protection and preservation of defenseless creatures yet tonight i made myself a steak. such a hypocrite. oh well time for reese's peanut butter cups and watching the da vinci code. paul bettany needs to rethink the lame accent.

o the drudgery of life

they say to fake it until you make it but i can't anymore.
the tipping point happened sophomore year of college.
i was living with three fast, crazy, wild girls and the nights remained blurry and the mornings hazy and hungover.
body parts were exposed, pot was smoked, and furniture ruined beyond repair.
the dark side of this life slowly unleashed itself.
there was the constant morning ritual of one girl
who would agonize over her actions over the night before
berate herself
lament how "guys never took her seriously"
yet that very night, back to her old, comfortable worn-in habits
and the cycle continued.
it was then i decided, no, this isn't for me
wrapped myself in the love and security of my relationship
and searched for and found the friends that wouldn't hesitate to choose my friendship over a bottle of alcohol
who enjoyed good conversation, books, and the occasional bottle of wine

now i wonder, did i make the right choice?
i feel so excluded, so outside this inner realm that these people have created through alcohol, drugs, and the mutual ambition of forgetting the night's events
did i dodge a bullet or am i the person who's locked outside the party in the cold?


because of my current depressive state, the title of this blog is altogether inapplicable
so i will end every post with something good that happened today


happy moment of 4/8: through the somewhat stressful circumstances, i discovered that despite my self-destructive tendencies, my father loves me deeply and will cover the ends of the earth to help me solve my problems

In the dead of night, I awoke and heard the scratching, the turning of the lock. I willed my body to move, tried to wiggle a toe, anything.
It stayed frozen. I was powerless, motionless, and vulnerable.
Turns out it was all in my head. But the awake mind and sleeping body was one of the scariest experiences of my life.

I'm doing better now. I sincerely swear.
I can slowly feel my friends opening up to me, enclosing me in their embrace, their camaraderie.
Protecting me, nurturing me
I've always been one of those affectionate people. I believe Elizabeth Gilbert compared herself to an attention-starved dog.
Well I won't drool on you or ruin your nicest shoes, but I do appreciate a hug once in awhile.

I'm starting to wonder if it's possible for me to have a platonic guy friend.
Excluding a few noteworthy exceptions, something gets lost in translation in the development of a friendship.
Either I feel like they have a hidden agenda or they think I like them.
I just want someone I can be close to, share my thoughts, feelings, whatever, without any sexual pretense. It irritates me that guys presume that the intimacy I desire is entangled with feelings of lust or yearning. But maybe men and women can never be friends. Harry and Sally did get married after all.

Well. Here I am. Here it is.

I am the complete opposite of a cliched heartbreak state.
I can sleep just fine. Food has never been a problem.
The past couple of days I've been able to keep it together, staying busy, staying involved, gotta keep moving, can't stop, won't stop.
When I tell people about the breakup, they look at my curiously and with hesitancy, as if I am going to fall apart in the transmission of information. But I just give them a melancholy look, force a smile and say, "I'm okay."
"What happened?"
I can't answer that question fully yet. How the hell does one decipher the unfolding of a relationship?
I wish I had a simpler explanation.
"He/I cheated on me/him". "He/I fell out of love with me/him".
But I am so very, desperately still in love with him. I think he feels the same way.
So why the separation? Well, it's complicated.