Monday, October 29, 2001

"The way to love anything is to imagine it lost" is what I found written on a piece of paper.

Tonight has been one of those nights where my mind seems to be completely receptive to everything in my surroundings. I can't quite explain it. It's as if my eyes open up and I begin to realize the beauty and complexity in the seemingly mundane. I ran tonight and I found myself getting lost somewhere among the many headlights out on the streets. My eyes would draw into them and dilate in that I'm-looking-at-it-but-not-looking-at-it kinda way. I ran through an obscure neighborhood tonight and caught a man doing construction on his roof, country music blaring alongside his many outdoor lamps. I saw my mother filing her nails, my father drinking a glass of water in the kitchen: silent and unnoticed.
I caught myself crying while watching "Love Affair," an Annette Bening flick, at 5 in the morning. Not only because it was an overly sappy and touching love story, but because I haven't been paying attention to myself lately. I know that sounds strange, it sounds strange even while I'm typing it, but it's true. I've been a passenger to myself. I haven't been noticing. I haven't been paying attention to these incredibly insignificant and small, what should I call them?, events, occurrences, coincidences, moments, which are, after all, the only things capable of making me roll a tear down my cheek while feeling damn good about it...

"The way to love anything is to imagine it lost" is what I found written on a piece of paper that made me realize that I've let my life sink into a deep slumber---a place that fools me into believing it can't be lost or, and more importantly, not having the potential to lose...

Sunday, October 28, 2001

I have lost hope in all humanity...
It has been a hellish night. I waited around all day for Garrett to call me and around 8 I decided that I needed to stop waiting around, both literally and metaphorically. So, in an effort to cheer my mood, I went to see Mulholland Drive with Manali, her boyfriend, and David. During the movie, which was extremely horrible, Manali leans over and asks me whether I just called her. I say no because I had left my cell in the car. She shows me her phone and my number was on there as a miscall. Thinking it was a mistake, I call my phone and two fucknuts answer and I hear them say "Hey, did the phone just ring? Dude, hang up..." At that, we ran out of the movies and into the parking lot and all the while I'm thinking "great, two fucking retards are driving around in my car, using my phone to call long lost relatives in El Passo or Nigeria. We get to my car and my door is open, my stereo (which I had saved up to buy for over 2 months) is gone, my cell phone is gone, and ALL my cds, over 40 of them, GONE... I could have lived without my cell and stereo but all the cds that I've accumulated over the years, now that just tears my heart right out of my asshole...

All in all, it's been a night of great disappointment and great loss. Fuck Garrett. Fuck those assholes who stole my entire musically captured life (they're probably looking at my collection of Tori Amos cds and thinking "what the fuck?").
Maybe, in some entirely cliche way, I should just begin to rebuild my life, day by day, cd by cd, and relationship by relationship...

but GOD I want my cds back.

Saturday, October 27, 2001


Garrett is on his way back today from Vegas. We spoke last night and he said that he must see me today. He has "something to tell me." I am both anxious and fearful of what this something will be. I've been waiting for almost a year for this guy to reach some peyote induced epiphany in the desert, realizing that he can't live without me, and now that it's happening, I don't think I actually want it to happen anymore.

He's on some bus right now making his way back home and all I can think about is the possibility of it hitting a stray buffalo and overturning somewhere in Palm Springs.

Friday, October 26, 2001

Unearthed Old Poem


I wish my life were
as simple as a beat
from an 80's song
but still being as
unique as a hairpin
that's not really needed
but looks damn fashionable.

I want to be
an orange hairpin
your mother probably
wore on her long bus
trips to Venezuela,
knitting napkins and
tablecloths and all
those soft things women
knit when they're through
having children.

I'd like to be that
hairpin because I'd
like to be a part of
your history
the way some people
like to learn dead languages,
the way ants like to carry
their dead back to the
sand palace,
the way that foggy Monday
mornings like to make me
with waiting
and dreaming
up the lives of orange hairpins
and the people who drove
them down to Venezuela to
pick tobacco
to help feed
the mouth of a man
who would lead me on
the way he leads his
truck up through my street
with a thump, thump, thump
beat I knew I once heard
in a 80's song...

but I could be wrong.
It is 8:45 am
and I brush my teeth.

Today is Monday.

The garbage man
will take away my plastics.

.....Cartwheels for Jesus!

(don't ask me about that heading)...but at any rate, at the ripe old age of 20, I learned how to drive stick shift tonight! Nothing to do cartwheels over, but it amused me for a while. Not to mention that my "instructors" were three drunks laughing hysterically each time I stalled...
[Side note: I always seem to have embarrassing situations when it comes to the law. For instance, this one time, while I was driving with all windows down---I have no A.C.---a bee decided to fly in and orbit around my head. So, rather than pulling over and killing it---oh no, that would be TOO sensible---I start screaming like a girl and waving my hands around while unconsciously speeding up, which then leads to Police Man pulling me over. Car stops, I run out frantic and disheveled, as if there were a rabid Hyena in the backseat of my civic. Police Man points gun. I say, Not ME, the BEE! And so, clinging to his back for dear life, he kills the bee and sends me on the way without a ticket---probably saving me the embarrasment of having to explain this one to a judge: Your Honor, what if it were an Africanized killer bee?).

With that in mind, while trying to shift into first after a red light, I stall one, two, three, four times---simultaneously laughing uncontrollably---before catching sight of a police car and two police men with what-the-fuck looks on their faces. AND! some obnoxious girl in pigtails, driving her mother's four-door Subaru, throws a look of disgust my way and then speeds off, giving me the bird. At that point of total emasculation, I geared into first (and I swear I heard a choir of big black mommas sing Hallelujah out of my ass), and skid away...

And now I'm home, alone, getting over my wine buzz, having nothing more interesting to write about other than my escapade with manually taming my friend's car.

Monday, October 22, 2001

Tell Me Why I Don't Like Mondays

I feel so damn uninspired today. My mind is just refusing to work...Instead of doing (a) my philosophy paper, (b) preparing for my physics exam, (c) preparing for my bio exam, I find myself just wanting to be still and quiet and think about absolutely nothing. For the majority of my day, I have been self loathing. All my pitiful accomplishments (i.e., me being a supplement instructor, my high gpa, my soon to be acceptance to the university of my choice), in the bigger scheme of things, are meaningless.

I held a study session today where I tried to teach the most DENSE group of individuals I have ever met about Baroque Art and the significance of the scientific method in the Age of Reason. I could have done cartwheels and balanced a overhead projector on my nose and they still wouldn't of had raised an eyebrow, let alone speak. I had this itching urge to throw the chalk down on the floor, stare them straight in the eye, and tell them what I REALLY thought of them (e.g., that they were horrendously and irreparably stupid---the products of being prenataly exposed to radiation, crack cocaine, and one too many Friends espisodes). Instead, in my usual kind and chirpy self, I dismissed them because I didn't want them to see my cry...
Though I'm exaggerating, while walking across campus, the clouds gray and just so woe-is-me, my arms wrapped around each other (the ultimate sign of weakness and low self-esteem), I wanted to find myself a little corner and snivel into my sleeves, the way I used to while sitting on an oversized tire in my preschool playground, wiping my snot on my jacket and wondering how my mother could leave me in such a cruel and indifferent place. I can't explain why I get into these moods where I think that the entire world is against me, that people are inherently cruel and evil, just waiting for the chance to whack me over the head with a bamboo stick after tripping...

Feeling outnumbered, I called Chris because he has a way of simplifying my complex and confusing emotions, making me realize that NOT everything has to be so intellectual and intense. He has a "dont worry, by happy" mentality which, in a way, i detest but envy at the same time (is that possible?).

I dunno, maybe I am the maker of my own drama ( I am definitely the maker of my own insecurities). Maybe one day I'll be able to stare at a red ballon in mid-air and talk about my giving into the unknown, where everything flows through me like rain, and that my heart sometimes wants to cave in 'cause there's just way too much beauty in the world..... yeah.

Sunday, October 21, 2001

FUCK Friends

I am SO incredibly pissed, I don't even know where to begin...
Background info: So, throughout highschool, I had sort of a "My Girl" friendship with this girl named Adrianna. Jokes aside, I really did think that we would be in each others lives forever (i.e., I would be her maid of honor and she'd probably end up carrying me and my boyfriend's child). But I've learned that expectations are evil, evil things. Adrianna slept with my then F-buddy Garrett (who later turned into boyfriend, and now, my ex) even though she knew that I had feelings, however foolish, for him...
My anger towards her was twofold: How could she betray me like that after three years and what right did she have to convert my life into a Jenny Jones "I slept with your man" special??? Does ANYONE know how embarrassing it is to have to explain to someone that you're no longer with someone because they slept with your bestfriend and vice versa? It's way up there with the Vons checkout lady asking for a price check for your Hemmoroidal creme over the intercom. Now, you may ask, "why did you forgive him and not her?". Well, initially I forgave them both. The "it was the drugs" mantra eventually wore me down and, generally, I'd like to think of myself of a very understanding guy. But then I said to myself: FUCK THAT (my epiphanies aren't usually that vulgar). I didn't expect much from Garrett who was just a heteroconfused guy I liked to mess around with BUT I DID and SHOULD expect more from her....And so, in my very melodramatic way, I spent an hour on a bench by the Santa Monica pier putting our friendship to death. And so, with a letter and poem in hand, I said good bye.

Fastforward 6 months later, Adrianna at my front door, me behind it saying, "don't open, don't open" to my mother. She opened the door. Who can you trust if you can't trust your mother for God's sake? Anyways, not in the mood to be mean or cruel, I kindly locked myself in the room and told my mother to deal with it. Ten minutes later there's a knock on my door and a sobbing Adrianna on the other side. What was I supposed to do? I opened my door and, even though it was unintentional, I knew I had very cold and indifferent what-do-you-want? look on my face.

Adrianna: Why won't you speak to me?
Me: About what?
Adrianna: (a few sobs and facial motions in attempt to speak) Nevermind.

And with that, she turned away and left, slamming my door. I stood leaning against my door for a while thinking about all the events that had led up to this. Asking myself why these things have to happen...and the only answer that I've been able to come up with is: they just do...

Being betrayed by someone this close REALLY is life altering. A movie about a wife cheating on her husband with Ricardo the gardener is no longer JUST a move about a wife cheating on her husband with Ricardo but a movie about my life; about me, adrianna, and garrett. I should have been prepared for this: most love stories are plagued with betrayal and hurt and all that good stuff that goes along with making yourself emotionally vulnerable but, like the crack addict on the cover of my mother's Christian propaganda magazine claims, I never thought it would happen to me...

Thursday, October 18, 2001

New Beginnings

New beginnings are always a proverbial pain in the ass.
Lately it seems that I've come up with a list of new beginnings: (1) Begin to realize that there IS life after breaking up with boyfriend. (2) Realize that breaking up with boyfriend is the best thing to ever happen to you. (3) Begin to acknowledge that in your incredibly stupid attempt to find happiness through a joke of a relationship with a adhd diagnosed ex-gaypornstar, you, like a Pauley Shore movie, lost track of the really important things in life---namely, saving whales and prefecting stem cell research. (4) Begin to (and this is where it starts to sound like a Lifetime:Television for Women public service announcment) to know yourself. (5) Begin a weblog.

I feel as if my whole creative well has dried up like a prune. My old bohemian self (i.e., years ago when I spent many sleepless nights writing really bad Anne Sexton-esque poems) had decided to pick up and go wherever it is that used up hasbeen identities go---Wyoming? My worst nightmare is unfolding before my very eyes: I am becoming a carbon copy of every GAP and Banana Republic credit-card carrying fag to whom "cool" is an outdated adjective; things are "fierce". What happened to substance? To my hope that I would one day find the man of my dreams and we'd go off and save forests or improve working conditions in Singapore?
Him, a man of idealism, a blood-in-the-veins type photo journalist wanting to show the world the TRUTH, and me, the sandal wearing artist drawing nothing but chalk portraits of him leaning on a victorian veranda---drawing nothing but NUDE chalk portraits of him leaning on a victorian veranda?

Already, this is getting to self-cathartic even for my own good.