December 31, 2009
The honored tradition of articulating an entire year passed is one that seems important, and urgent for a lot of us. Maybe the reason is because we’re most often in some kind of auto-pilot mode, sleep walking through the routine of our lives. It’s only on certain occasions throughout a year that we’re forced to really jump into a hot/cold pool of reflection and self-awareness. While writing this sentence, I’m forced to think of the occasions that make us reflect and open ourselves to every feeling that has weathered our hands and eyelids: When falling in love starts falling out of love, when guilt manifests itself as bowling balls in our stomachs, when expectations are laid on you like blankets, when coincidental incidents fuck with our heads in moments of desperation, when we’re hundreds and thousands of miles away… and holidays like the one today– New Years Eve.
December 24, 2009
Having photobooth on your computer results in accidental records showing blurbs of periods of time in your life. It’s one of those things that forces you to remember, which I’d also argue is the sheer power of a lot of photographs. When I look at a photo, I’m forced to create an emotional bridge to understand what’s inside the image. Often, we can create emotional connections with photographs that we see taken from someone we don’t know, containing people or things that we don’t know. But there’s something really overwhelming, and delicate about trying to build that emotional bridge with pictures that have you and your friends in them. Especially when you’re shocked to find that photo of you makes you feel like you are looking at a strange– especially when the people in the photographs are people so incredibly far away from you now. I can’t tell whether it hurts or whether it feels good and sacred.
Today, I went through them, as a way to understand myself better, and to honor the people that have had a big impact in my life.
** These photos are very personal. If you want any of them taken down, I will be glad to do so. No disrespect intended.
We’ll look for something new when the air gets stale, pack our bags, and wake up in a room stained turquoise, glass bottles and smoke introduce themselves.
Talk to strangers, talk to strangers, talk to strangers, get numbers, get numbers, get numbers. Sleep over, sleep over, sleep over. Drink, drink, drink, smoke, smoke, smoke.
August 26, 2009
Remembering is far more absurd than forgetting. A memory of a certain person, their smell, their nervous twitches and the way they stared as you pretended not to notice; it serves as a bookmark. The bookmark in one of the many large & small books that will surely have chapter breaks, tension builders and dissappointing conclusions. Our books have those pages that we wish we could tear out, pages that make us question whether to keep reading. But just like a book, you can read a page, or a chapter over and over again, but the words will never change. The words, the letters are printed, immortalized on yellowish pieces of paper, and we’ll continue to stare even though the page won’t move, relocate, or alter it’s form.
I have books that I haven’t yet to read, but want to. I have too many of those. I buy them, and they sit on my shelf, anxiously waiting to be read, but I’ll put them off because they’re not the book that I’m in love with. They’re not the book that feels different each time I read it although it is exactly the same. They’re not the book that sits in my bag, damaged and weathered as it is, coffee stains and dog-ears staining the run throughs, marking those moments when I absolutely needed those pages to find a certain quote. Those quotes, I use here, and there, and hold in my pocket for random reflection and conversation.
I smoke cigarettes again. As good as it felt to be rid of them, it’s hard to deny that I feel even better when they poke my lungs like extra heartbeats. I felt good when I didn’t smoke, but I missed them so much. I missed how they felt in the middle of the night when I couldn’t sleep, and the way they’d vanquish the petty worries that polluted my days. I missed having that crutch, that go-to thing that could add a little romance to mundane situations, add a little relaxation to my nerves on a rough day. I shouldn’t need to smoke, and it’s bad for me, but the long term, possibly fatal consequences, are minor in comparison to the joy they give me. The feeling of a cigarette on my lips, or knowing that I can escape the mundanities of work with that small break with my camels, was a reassurance that many would feel as fake, silly, or sophmoric. Everyone knows it’s bad for you, and that they aren’t a sign of any intelligent status, but we do them, because there is nothing else to do, and when we’re feeling unsure, the little breaths of joy are something we cannot let go.
When I listen to this song, I like to think how much it would mean to me, and to the people with me, if I had written it. Would it change the context? The meaning of the lyrics, or the beauty of the words? Well that’s nothing to worry about, because I can’t sing at all.
July 26, 2009
We made some tikka masala a little while ago, my sister had brought some spices back from London. We bought the necessary ingredients, went to the local Indian grocery store, and it turned out pretty well.
May 5, 2009
We’re spinning fast; months seem like short, blurry streaks of color . Chains of conversations connected by six dollar cigarettes; I can’t help but think that all the idealistic romance of tobacco is ridiculous. The novel quality has dissipated, turning my lungs into overworked, underpaid workers in a factory. However, we don’t always learn and change from our mistakes and experiences, sometimes we just observe, absorb, and relish in the vivid memories that we hold close to our chests through the middle of the night, with our windows open, air unmoving. I think of my old friends sometimes, and why they are old. I think of my ex-girlfriends sometimes, and am reminded exactly why I’m passed that letter of the alphabet. We shouldn’t go backwards, we can never go backwards.
The girl I sleep with at night keeps me warm with her nails against my back and the sweet smell of her hair, yet I still sit on my porch staring off to space. The hours I put in front of a screen, in my head, print out onto card stock. The smell is incredible. It’s important to keep our pencils sharp and are pens full of ink. In a matter of time, you’ll see the environment is not what’s trapping you. That’s impossible! The mountains move to slow to catch you. You’ve forgotten how to tie your shoes and blame it on the store you bought them from. You’ve forgotten how to read and blame it on the book. You’ve forgotten the words to your favorite song and blame it on your speakers.
Rappers are good with words because they use them as weapons. Let’s make bombs out of words and fragments, and build cities with commas.
March 18, 2009
Went to the LA Zoo recently.
March 18, 2009
She is beautiful.