Petals in the Dirt

Sondre Lerche, After the El Rey

2011-07-01T13:16:00.000-07:00

I remember when I first heard about him, or read about him rather in Blackbook Magazine. Then I saw an ad for his new album on Grooveshark. Then I heard his name on KCRW on my way to work in the morning. Kind of frightening how well targeted marketing works.

I downloaded the album and liked a few singles, Domino, Living Dangerously, When the River, and when I found out he was playing a small gig at the El Rey I thought, why the hell not?

Naively, I went into the show thinking it would be a small affair, but he has an incredibly passionate following. A gaggle of 18-year-old girls and soft, overly-sensitive guys all lined up to hear Sondre and sing along to tracks old and new. After two unique, enthusiastic, and at times painful opening acts Sondre came on stage. It didn't take long to realize his appeal. When you listen to his music you hear the harmony, the honest and haunting voice. But in person it's a totally different story. He has a way on stage, a self-assured sexiness that is both obnoxious and intoxicating. He smiled seductively into the dark theater after playing his opening number, Private Caller, and said, "That's what I'm talking about," or something equally brash. The way he shook his hair, as if he'd studied old reels of John and Paul, makes you think he's been trained. The smarmy back and forth between his band mates made him seem arrogant, but his keen sense of humor made it almost forgivable. I don't want you to think he's all swagger and no substance. He's a talented lyricist, and an even better musician. He has incredible timing, and composition that extends my previous Beatles comparison.

Walking away from the show I was equal parts of annoyed and excited. His music is brilliant, but his sex appeal is infuriating. I think that sums it up.

And from his new album:

I Love Old Books: Boris Pasternak

2010-12-17T14:17:00.001-08:00

I love old books, and was so delighted to learn about abebooks while visiting Professor Braunmuller at UCLA a couple years back.

Just recieved this $3 copy of Boris Pasternak's Selected Poems. It's in great condition and has a lovely message written on the inside.

Click to enlarge

Click to enlarge

The message reads:
30/5/60
Biddy,
With my fondest love and the happiest of memories.
Dick

These spectacular tights can be yours for just $210

2010-12-08T19:59:00.000-08:00

Now what did I do with my bedazzler?

Bebaroque Lourdes Black Tights

This purse bears my name

2010-12-06T18:30:00.000-08:00

These are the happinesses of my childhood

2010-12-06T17:33:00.000-08:00

Because jewelry makes you sparkle

2010-12-06T15:43:00.000-08:00

Ria Charisse Opal Ring because every libra needs an opal. It's not a birth stone it's a birth right.

Elizabeth Knight Wishbone Pendant so you can wear your hopes close to your heart.

Carlos Montanaro Travel Clock Necklace for the time traveler in all of us.

Finn Gatsby Ring, just because.

Two die dresses: Anna Sui and Roberto Cavalli

2010-11-30T15:38:00.000-08:00

Anna Sui's Silk-tulle sequin-embellished dress is the perfect flapper party dress.

And Roberto Cavalli's Leopard-print silk-georgette dress is the Joan Holloway dress of my dreams.

Prada Spring Summer 2011

2010-09-28T16:33:00.001-07:00

A beautiful show. The clothes might feel like a mix of hospital and Cuban cigar shop chic, but the set and the music are magical. I feel like I'm sitting at a cafe in Barcelona, watching Matisse's bathers walk up and down the boulevard in the heat of the late afternoon and into the night.

The shoes are pretty incredible too.

There were more, but finding photos of all the ones I love was very hard.

Jaime Mon Carre

2010-09-28T12:17:00.000-07:00

How would you describe a pear?

2010-09-27T18:03:00.000-07:00

An excerpt from Beatice and Virgil by Yann Martel. So good I had to read it twice.

(Virgil and Beatrice are sitting at the foot of the tree.They are looking out blankly.Silence.)

VIRGIL: What I'd give for a pear.

BEATRICE: A pear?

VIRGIL: Yes. A ripe and juicy one.

(Pause.)

BEATRICE: I've never had a pear.

VIRGIL: What?

BEATRICE: In fact, I don't think I've ever set eyes on one.

VIRGIL: How is that possible? It's a common fruit.

BEATRICE: My parents were always eating apples and carrots. I

guess they didn't like pears.

VIRGIL: But pears are so good! I bet you there's a pear tree right around here. (He looks about.)

BEATRICE: Describe a pear for me. What is a pear like?

VIRGIL: (settling back) I can try. Let's see . . . To start with, a pear has an unusual shape. It's round and fat on the bottom, but tapered on top.

BEATRICE: Like a gourd.

VIRGIL: A gourd ? You know gourds but you don't know pears? How odd the things we know and don't. At any rate, no, a pear is smaller than an average gourd, and its shape is more pleasing to the eye. A pear becomes tapered in a symmetrical way, its upper half sitting straight and centred atop its lower half. Can you see what I mean?

BEATRICE: I think so.

VIRGIL: Let's start with the bottom half. Can you imagine a fruit that is round and fat?

BEATRICE: Like an apple?

VIRGIL: Not quite. If you look at an apple with your mind's eye, you will notice that the girth of the apple is at its widest either in the middle of the fruit or in the top third, isn't that so?

BEATRICE: You're right. A pear is not like this?

VIRGIL: No. You must imagine an apple that is at its widest in the bottom third.

BEATRICE: I can see it.

VIRGIL: But we must not push the comparison too far. The bottom of a pear is not like an apple's.

BEATRICE: No?

VIRGIL: No. Most apples sit on their buttocks, so to speak, on a circular ridge or on four or five points that keep them from falling over. Past the buttocks, a little ways up, there's what would be the anus of the fruit if the fruit were a beast.

BEATRICE: I see precisely what you mean.

VIRGIL: Well, a pear is not like that. A pear has no buttocks. Its bottom is round.

BEATRICE: So how does it stay up?

VIRGIL: It doesn't. A pear either dangles from a tree or lies on its side.

BEATRICE: As clumsy as an egg.

VIRGIL: There's something else about the bottom of a pear: most pears do not have those vertical grooves that some apples have. Most pears have smooth, round, even bottoms.

BEATRICE: How enchanting.

VIRGIL: It certainly is. Now let us move north past our fruity equator.

BEATRICE: I'm following you.

VIRGIL: There comes this tapering I was telling you about.

BEATRICE: I can't quite see it. Does the fruit come to a point? Is it shaped like a cone?

VIRGIL: No. Imagine the tip of a banana.

BEATRICE: Which tip?

VIRGIL: The end tip, the one you hold in your hand when you're eating one.

BEATRICE: What kind of banana? There are hundreds of varieties.

VIRGIL: Are there?

BEATRICE: Yes. Some are as small as fat fingers, others are real clubs. And their shapes vary too, as do their taste.

VIRGIL: I mean the regular, yellow ones that taste really good.

BEATRICE: The common banana, M. sapientum. You probably have the Gros Michel variety in mind.

VIRGIL: I'm impressed.

BEATRICE: I know bananas.

VIRGIL: Better than a monkey. Take the end tip of a common banana, then, and place it on top of an apple, taking into account the differences between apples and pears that I've just described.

BEATRICE: An interesting graft.

VIRGIL: Now make the lines smoother, gentler. Let the banana flare out in a friendly way as it merges into the apple. Can you see it?

BEATRICE: I believe I can.

VIRGIL: One last detail. At the very top of this apple-banana composite, add a surprisingly tough stalk, a real tree trunk of a stalk. There, you have an approximation of a pear.

BEATRICE: A pear sounds like a beautiful fruit.

VIRGIL: It is. In colour, commonly, a pear is yellow with black spots.

BEATRICE: Like a banana again.

VIRGIL: No, not at all. A pear isn't yellow in so bright, lustreless and opaque a way. It's a paler, translucent yellow, moving towards beige, but not creamy, more watery, approaching the visual texture of a watercolour wash. And the spots are sometimes brown.

BEATRICE: How are the spots distributed?

VIRGIL: Not like the spots on a leopard. It's more a matter of areas of shadowing than of real spots, depending on the degree of maturity of the pear. By the way, a ripe pear bruises easily, so it must be handled with care.

BEATRICE: Of course.

VIRGIL: Now the skin. It's a peculiar skin, the pear's, hard to describe. We were speaking of apples and bananas.

BEATRICE: Yes.

VIRGIL: They have smooth, slippery skins.

BEATRICE: They do.

VIRGIL: A pear does not have so smooth or slippery a skin.

BEATRICE: Really?

VIRGIL: It is so. A pear has a rougher skin.

BEATRICE: Like an avocado's?

VIRGIL: No. But since you mention avocados, a pear is somewhat shaped like an avocado, although the bottom of a pear is usually plumper.

BEATRICE: Fascinating.

VIRGIL: And a pear becomes thinner in its top half in a more pronounced way than an avocado does. Nonetheless, the two fruits are more or less similar in form.

BEATRICE: I see the shape clearly.

VIRGIL: But you cannot compare their skins! An avocado's skin is as warty as a toad's. An avocado looks like a vegetable with leprosy. The pear is characterized by a thin roughness, delicate and interesting to the touch. If you could magnify it a hundred times, do you know what it would sound like, the sound of fingertips running over the skin of a dry pear?

BEATRICE: What?

VIRGIL: It would sound like the diamond of a record player entering a groove. That same dancing crackle, like the burning of the driest, lightest kindling.

BEATRICE: A pear is surely the finest fruit in the world!

VIRGIL: It is, it is! That's the skin of a pear for you.

BEATRICE: Can one eat it?

VIRGIL: Of course. We're not talking here of the waxy, thuggish skin of an orange. The skin of a pear is soft and yielding when ripe.

BEATRICE: And what does a pear taste like?

VIRGIL: Wait. You must smell it first. A ripe pear breathes a fragrance that is watery and subtle, its power lying in the lightness of its impression upon the olfactory sense. Can you imagine the smell of nutmeg or cinnamon?

BEATRICE: I can.

VIRGIL: The smell of a ripe pear has the same effect on the mind as these aromatic spices. The mind is arrested, spellbound, and a thousand and one memories and associations are thrown up as the mind burrows deep to understand the allure of this beguiling smell — which it never comes to understand, by the way.

BEATRICE: But how does it taste? I can't wait any longer.

VIRGIL: A ripe pear overflows with sweet juiciness.

BEATRICE: Oh, that sounds good.

VIRGIL: Slice a pear and you will find that its flesh is incandescent white. It glows with inner light. Those who carry a knife and a pear are never afraid of the dark.

BEATRICE: I must have one.

VIRGIL: The texture of a pear, its consistency, is yet another difficult matter to put into words. Some pears are a little crunchy.

BEATRICE: Like an apple?

VIRGIL: No, not at all like an apple! An apple resists being eaten. An apple is not eaten, it is conquered. The crunchiness of a pear is far more appealing. It is giving and fragile. To eat a pear is akin to . . . kissing.

BEATRICE: Oh, my. It sounds so good.

VIRGIL: The flesh of a pear can be slightly gritty. And yet it melts in the mouth.

BEATRICE: Is such a thing possible?

VIRGIL: With every pear. And that is only the look, the feel, the smell, the texture. I have not even told you of the taste.

BEATRICE: My God!

VIRGIL: The taste of a good pear is such that when you eat one, when your teeth sink into the bliss of one, it becomes a wholly engrossing activity. You want to do nothing else but eat your pear. You would rather sit than stand. You would rather be alone than in company. You would rather have silence than music. All your senses but taste fall inactive. You see nothing, you hear nothing, you feel nothing—or only as it helps you to appreciate the divine taste of your pear.

BEATRICE: But what does it actually taste like?

VIRGIL: A pear tastes like, it tastes like . . . (He struggles. He gives up with a shrug.) I don't know. I can't put it into words. A pear tastes like itself.

BEATRICE: (sadly) I wish you had a pear.

VIRGIL: And if I had one, I would give it to you.

(Silence.)

Buy the book here.

This Betsey Johnson dress is pretty incredible

2010-09-14T17:34:00.001-07:00

I Love You, Ewan McGregor...I mean Phillip Morris

2010-08-26T13:12:00.000-07:00

Grace Coddington Writing a Memoir

2010-08-25T16:33:00.001-07:00

I'm not a huge fan of memoirs, but this is one I will definitely read.

Vogue’s creative director and fashion industry icon Grace Coddington is writing a book about her life, reports WWD. Former Men’s Vogueeditor-in-chief Jay Fielding, who has collaborated with Coddington in the past, is her writing partner.
Coddington’s mainstream notoriety has skyrocketed since The September Issue, which means the project is sure to be a hit with fashion insiders and fashion admirers alike. The stylist says that the book will not only cover her life–including her years as a model and time spent at Calvin Klein and British Vogue–but also plenty of fashion history.
As Anna Wintour’s Vogue begins to look less and less like “Anna Wintour’s Vogue“–as we know it, at least–expect more senior staffers to reflect on their legendary careers, whether through books, articles, or museum retrospectives. As the brightest star, it’s no surprise Coddington is leading the pack.

via Fashionista.

The lovely Grace Coddington. Creative Genius, Vogue Magazine

Sam Edelman has my shoes for fall

2010-08-25T09:46:00.000-07:00

Sam Edelman Women's Queenie Corset Pump

Sam Edelman Women's Sofia Softy Bootie

Want: Myia Bonner Rough Diamond Pendant

2010-08-17T16:18:00.000-07:00

via Myia Bonner.

This is what New York looks like

2010-08-16T17:07:00.000-07:00

Eminem - Love The Way You Lie ft. Rihanna

2010-08-06T15:11:00.001-07:00

Starring Megan Fox and Dominic Monaghan

The story that spawned the story, "American Widow Project Born From Grief"

2010-08-06T15:05:00.001-07:00

A while back I wrote a short story called, "They Washed Him Away." Thanks to my intern Rachel, I was reminded of the story that had inspired it. Read the story below, and read my short story here.

'American Widow Project' Born From Grief

November 11, 2008
Taryn Davis was just 21 years old when her husband was killed in Iraq. As a young widow, she felt bereft and very alone. She channeled her grief into the American Widow Project. It began as a documentary and transformed into a national support group for other widows.

On this Veterans Day we bring you a story about wives who've lost their husbands in war. Taryn Davis lost her husband in Iraq. She was bereft and, as an uncommonly young widow, felt very much alone. Gloria Hillard has this story on what she did to channel her grief.

GLORIA HILLARD: At Taryn Davis' home in Buda, Texas, there are a pair of combat boots near the front door, right where her husband, Corporal Michael Davis, always left them.

Ms. TARYN DAVIS (Founder and President, The American Widow Project): You know, when he'd come home, he'd leave his boots there. And so I leave them there. And actually, I have a pair in my bedroom, too. Because every day I wake up and I would think, you know, it was just a dream. He wasn't dead. But then you'd hear the people outside in your living room talking and bringing in flowers and...

HILLARD: But eventually the people and the flowers stopped coming. It was the spring of 2007. Taryn Davis was 21 years old and a military widow. She wondered where were the women her age, women whose husbands were killed in combat. One day she picked up a camera and went looking for them. The voices of six different widows, all young, became a poignant documentary called "The American Widow Project."

(Soundbite of documentary "The American Widow Project")

Unidentified Widow #1: I remember that I heard the dogs bark, and I looked out the window. And I saw a white van, and there were two soldiers in it. And I knew.

Unidentified Widow #2: I had never believed that the world could actually, like, spin before your eyes, and it did.

HILLARD: The film gave birth to the nonprofit organization of the same name. Today more than a hundred and fifty women post their stories and pictures on the group's Web page and chat with each other on a MySpace page offering support and inspiration.

Ms. NICOLE HART: And this is us on our last vacation with...

HILLARD: Twenty-three-year-old Nicole Hart of Burbank, California, lost her husband Sergeant David Hart earlier this year. She says without the women she's met from the American Widow Project, she doesn't know where she would be today.

Ms. HART: It's helped me in healing, knowing that I'm having a hard time waking up this morning, and I know without a doubt that another widow is too.

HILLARD: Hart met her husband when she was 12 years old. They were best friends even then, she says.

Ms. HART: And the next shadow box has his medals...

HILLARD: Framed pictures of the petite, dark-haired Nicole and her six-foot-three, red-headed husband share wall space with some of his cherished possessions. Everything he owned in Iraq was sent back in eight black boxes. That's what happens when your husband dies in war, Hart says. You receive his belongings in small black boxes: his favorite watch, the letter that he hadn't sent, his clothes.

Ms. HART: And what goes, if it's foremost in your head, are the clothes because you can't wait to smell him. You know that they're going to smell like him. And you open it, and it smells like Tide. Everything was washed. Everything sanitized. Everything was wiped down.

HILLARD: Besides the black boxes, you also get a large black binder. Taryn Davis remembers it was entitled "The Days Ahead."

Ms. DAVIS: Which has everything from the different caskets to choose from to the different urns to, you know, numbers to call.

HILLARD: But there's not much in there to deal with the emotions of the days, weeks, and months ahead. Davis hopes to change that.

Ms. DAVIS: Our overall goal is that one day that our DVD is in there. And when they're handed that binder, we know that they are going to have six widows in their house sharing their story.

HILLARD: Next month Taryn Davis and Nicole Hart will be packing up an RV and taking their message on the road. They plan on traveling to military bases and towns across the country to reach out to the hundreds of newly war widowed, listening to their stories and sharing their own. For NPR News, I'm Gloria Hillard.

Song of the Day: DeVotchKa, How it Ends

2010-08-06T09:28:00.000-07:00

I just died and went to dress heaven

2010-08-05T16:55:00.001-07:00

I know all I've been posting are dresses and jewelry and beautiful things that I want, but I don't have time to do anything else.

But seriously--look at these gorgeous dresses. I want them. I want them bad.

Paul and Joe Sister Zodiaque belted jersey dress

Tibi City wool-crepe dress

This one ain't half bad either.

ModCloth's Best Time Dress

Want: Kate Spade Book Clutch

2010-08-04T15:43:00.000-07:00

If you love me, you will buy me the Great Expectations one (although the Great Gatsby one is prettier).

If they make a Jane Eyre one it's over.

Want: Anna-Willi Paper Sculptures

2010-08-04T09:35:00.000-07:00

Anna-Willi Highfield Paper Sculptures

Want: Tibi Calla Lilly Mini, Frank Tell Copper Glow Athletic Sheath, Garnett Jewelry Glass Locket

2010-08-03T10:39:00.000-07:00

Tibi Calla Lilly Mini

Frank Tell Copper Glow Athletic Sheath

Garnett Jewelry Scalene Necklace, Glass Locket

I want to lock it all up in my pocket it's my bar of chocolate...

V Magazine: The Sexy Body Issue

2010-07-30T14:41:00.000-07:00

Picked this up in my monthly mag snag, and have never seen so much T&A in my life.

V66: SEXY BODY ISSUE from V Magazine on Vimeo.

It's fantastic.

Want: Ingenuity Pencil Skirt, Via Spiga 'Opal' Pump, Robert Clergerie 'Bejart' Wedge

2010-07-30T14:32:00.000-07:00

A never ending case of the wants.

Ingenuity Pencil Skirt

Via Spiga 'Opal' Pump

Robert Clergerie 'Bejart' Wedge

Want: Chelsea Clinton's hat

2010-07-28T15:48:00.000-07:00

It's so chic...

I Bought Books: Jane Austen, Stephen Chbosky

2010-07-28T15:24:00.000-07:00

Sense and Sensibility, because I wanted to read it after finishing Pride and Prejudice and realized whoever borrowed my copy (I really need to start keeping track of who I lend books to) never returned it.

Autographed copy of Perks of Being a Wallflower--because everyone tells me I need to read it and I figured if I'm going to buy it why not an autographed copy.

Something old, something new, something borrowed, something green?

2010-07-28T15:19:00.001-07:00

Would you wear green to your wedding? Oscar de la Renta included this piece in his Spring 2011 bridal collection. I love the skirt (the top not so much).

You know I would =)

Rich Peoples Organs are a Delicacy

2010-07-28T11:53:00.000-07:00

They'd be free range rich people.

Let's all eat a little meal called justice, friends.

via illdoctrine.

Cave Houses in Cappadocia, Turkey

2010-07-27T13:57:00.000-07:00

"The first period of settlement in Göreme goes back to the Roman period. The Yusuf Koç, Ortahane, Durmus Kadir and Bezirhane churches in Göreme, houses and churches carved into rocks in the Uzundere, Bağıldere and Zemi Valleys are all carriers of history that we can see today. The Göreme Open Air Museum is the most visited site of the monastic communities in Cappadocia (see Churches of Göreme, Turkey) and is one of the most famous sites in central Turkey. The complex contains more than 30 rock-carved churches and chapels, some of them have superb frescoes inside, dating from the 9th to the 11th centuries."
Cappadocia via Wikipedia

via @ebertchicago

I really want to visit these some day. But I want to see the Anasazi houses in New Mexico first.

Want: Halley 4150 LED Strip Lighting from Vibia Designs

2010-07-27T10:33:00.000-07:00

I need a yard to light up first, but I love the look of these lights.

Vibia Designs via NotCot.

Stuff I'm looking at today: Tab Candy, Sustainable Prefabs, Julian Koenig and Chrome Experiments

2010-07-26T15:03:00.001-07:00

Firefox Tab Candy
Mozilla's new "Tab Candy" seems like an awesome fix to the problem of crammed tab browsing (the Boyan always gets mad at me for having a million tabs open), but the question still remains, "Is is as fast or faster than chrome?"

http://www.azarask.in/blog/post/tabcandy/

Method Homes
Amazing pre-fab sustainable homes from Method Homes.

http://methodhomes.net/factory-built-green-homes/sustainability.html

This American Life: 383 Origin Story
If you've been watching Mad Men some of this story might sound familiar. Real life Mad Men fighting for recognition for some of America's most iconic advertising campaigns on This American Life.

"TAL producer Sarah Koenig tells the story of her father, Julian Koenig, the legendary advertising copywriter whose work includes the slogan “Timex takes a licking and keeps on ticking” and Volkswagen’s “Think Small” ads. For years Sarah has heard her dad accuse a former partner of stealing some of his best ideas, but until recently she never paid much attention.Then she started asking her dad for details of this fight for his legacy, and what she learned surprised her. "

http://www.thisamericanlife.org/radio-archives/episode/383/Origin-Story

Chrome Experiments: Harmony
Playing with HTML 5. This Chrome experiment is fun, creative, and highly addicting.

http://www.chromeexperiments.com/detail/harmony/

Picking up after my AT-AT is the dumps, but I love him

2010-07-23T17:08:00.001-07:00

Great video by Patrick Boivin. Via my friend at shape+colour.

Inspiration from Emerson

2010-07-23T16:03:00.000-07:00

‎"Every spirit builds itself a house; and beyond its house a world; and beyond its world, a heaven. Know then, that the world exists for you."

-- Nature by Ralph Waldo Emerson

Oh the Whimsy!

2010-07-22T17:30:00.000-07:00

These dresses from Marchesa's Fall 2010 line are beyond beautiful.

When we were fearless...

2010-06-10T11:21:00.000-07:00

This blogpost has been haunting me for the past few days, combine that with the Season Finale of Glee reminding me of the time when I played Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz in fifth grade.

I was so fearless then. What happened?

"We’re pretty healthy at…five. What happens to that over the years…well, there are books about it. Girls lose their gumption for myriad reasons. Teachers talk about that—there’s a moment, as they transition from elementary to middle school when you can actually see them “shrink.” Even in the toughest ones, something wavers. In the timid ones, something dies. And many never regain that early fearlessness. Cowed by societal standards of behavior and beauty."

Song of the Day: Masterswarm by Andrew Bird

2010-02-17T17:29:00.001-08:00

Statuesque by Neil Gaiman

2010-01-04T11:39:00.001-08:00

Statuesque
by trentisthenewpink

Rodrigo y Gabriela, 11:11

2010-01-04T11:23:00.000-08:00

I'm in a Chac Mool mood.

Oh, and Happy New Year.

Tempted by P.C. and Kristin Cast Out October 27th

2009-10-15T10:53:00.000-07:00

How did I not know that a new House of Night series book was coming out in just 12 days!

I'm really excited to find out what's going to happen in Tempted. Ever since I finished Hunted (was that all the way back in March? Insane) I've been waiting to hear what's going to happen since Zooey banished Neferet. Maybe we'll finally figure out which guy Zooey chooses as well. Maybe?

Although from the looks of the cover of the book...

It seems like there's going to be all kinds of live triangle drama. I can't wait.

You can read the first chapter or listen to the first two on their website here.

Song of the Day: Atticus by The Noisettes

2009-09-11T11:25:00.000-07:00

ModCloth, Racist?

2009-08-28T12:52:00.000-07:00

This necklace is called, "The Fob-ulous Necklace." Is that racist, or funny?

Grizzly Bear Video, Two Weeks

2009-08-27T16:18:00.000-07:00

Two Weeks - Grizzly Bear from Gabe Askew on Vimeo.

I love them.

Love and Hate and Love

2009-08-23T15:52:00.000-07:00

I'm supposed to be writing right now--but I'm so filled with joy that I can't focus on my story.

When you have those moments in your life when you realize that you are happy, and blessed, you have to seize them, and appreciate everything that life has given you before the moment passes.

I can say quite soberly that I am happy. I have a wonderful husband who loves me and who I love with all my heart. I have family that loves me and supports me and believes in my dreams and aspirations. I have a great job where I get to use my brain. I have my writing, which is progressing, little by little everyday and which is getting better with every attempt. I am rewarded for my hard work which makes me work harder.

There are those times in your life when you feel like there's no way out of the quagmire of difficulties and despair. But then there are moments like this, and these are the moments that bring that ray of hope in those hard times and make you believe, like Barack Obama--si se puede. Yes we can. Yes I can.

New Moon Photos: Edward and Bella Sitting in a Tree

2009-08-20T11:47:00.001-07:00

New New Moon photos.

Image of the Day: Ireland

2009-08-20T10:39:00.000-07:00

I was looking for images for our Tour of Ireland content and stumbled upon this image. I wish I was there right now.

A Canteen? Really?

2009-08-13T10:08:00.000-07:00

I was checking out the BBC World News front page and saw this advertisement:

My initial thought was you've got to be kidding me. But then I thought about it, and I could totally see some Williamsburg hipster rocking this shit. Ugg.

Image of the Day: Blair and Chuck

2009-08-12T10:57:00.000-07:00

click for larger image.

Well hello there, Sufjan

2009-08-12T10:56:00.001-07:00

I've been a fan of Sufjan Stevens for quite some time, but I think I like him a little bit more now that I know what he looks like. =)

I don't need it, but I WANT IT! Supporting the Arts

2009-08-10T14:56:00.000-07:00

I bought two prints from Catherine Campbell on etsy.

This is the type of style I could imagine for the cover of Paper Doll...if it ever gets published (I should probably finish it first).

And I donated to KCRW and you should too! You can only listen to the pledge drive for so long before the guilt overwhelms you, but you know it's totally worth it. I listen to KCRW everyday and $10 bucks a month really isn't that much, considering I pay $60 a month for my gym membership and rarely ever go.

Support the arts!

Now I just have to try really really hard not to buy this dress. I'll try really hard Boyan. Promise.

Borders, Westwood: A bookstore in decay

2009-08-10T12:17:00.001-07:00

Many of you know one of my favorite places to be in all the world is a bookstore. I love being surrounded by books, names and titles of things I have read or look forward to exploring. I love it so much I used to work in one and enjoyed every painful second of it. So when Boyan asked me if I wanted to go to Borders with him it was more a matter of letting me know we were going rather than asking.

The parking lot of Borders in Westwood has always been a bit daunting. The ribs of the structure, covered by curdled asbestos, creek and shake as if by driving down into the lot you are entering the lungs of a cancer patient who has been smoking for eighty years. It's hot, muggy, uninviting. But you make the journey because at the end of it you are rewarded with the golden fleece, a plethora of books with a wide selection of publishers, topics, and languages.

We took the small barren elevator to the first floor and stepped out into our wonderland. But like Alice in the rabbit hole were transported into something strange and unfamiliar. The tables that held book suggestions, new releases were filled with young adult vampire books. I surpassed this area and went to the fiction section, only to notice that several stacks of books were missing, replaced with benches where people, I can only guess, were expected to sit and peruse. But peruse what? The book shelves themselves weren't fully stocked -- stacked cover forward rather than binding out -- most of them best sellers. In fact, row upon row was filled Michael Chabon, Jodi Picoult, and Meg Cabot as far as the eye could see.

I left the area and went to the Young Adult section, or should I say, the vampire section. An entire wall filled with nothing but black covers dripping with blood, flowers, moons and wide-eyed pale faces.

Upstairs the situation was worse. The music and movie section of the store had been reduced to a third of it's size. A black curtain separated the back of the store which once had a vast music selection.

The book store itself was pretty empty, uncharacteristically so for a Saturday night. Where were the young couples that came to impress their dates? Where were the mother's dragging along their children to look at picture books? Even the bum population was minimal, all took up camp in the lower north corner of the store, the only place on the first floor where there were chairs.

The staff that was there that night was tiny, maybe ten people where on a Saturday night they used to employ almost double that amount.

The most daunting thing was the quiet. A book store should be filled with light background music, punctuated by browsers questioning book sellers, squeals of children, a muffled laugh between lovers. Instead there was silence and silence breeds silence. Where in a library silence can be comforting, in a book store it's paralyzing.

I told Boyan we had to leave. It was too depressing to stay.

I predict that the borders on Westwood will fall to the same fate as did the one on third street by January 20th of 2010. And when it goes, I will remember the place I used to work, filled with young smiling people who loved books, music. Not the borders I saw this weekend. A desecrated carpus of something that used to be beautiful. A place that was alive.

Do not fear death so much, but rather the inadequate life.

Song of the Day: Wild Young Hearts by the Noisettes

2009-08-10T12:13:00.000-07:00

Photo Inspiration

2009-08-06T11:32:00.000-07:00

Sometimes the best way to inspire yourself to write is to keep a hoard of images that are unique and intriguing. One of my favorite places to go is Apartment Therapy. Check this stuff out.

I would love to have high ceilings like this. And I would fill them with books just like this person. I love the wallpaper underneath the shelves.

Large windows that let in lots of light. A green background and lots of wood. An ideal place to write or get lost in a book.

Catching Fire by Suzanne Collins, Out September 1st

2009-08-03T17:37:00.001-07:00

Oh how I wish I could get my hands on an advanced copy. I re-read it too early! Now I'm going to pull my hair out waiting until September.

You can read the first chapter of Catching Fire here (pdf), if you feel like torturing yourself.

Updates and Song of the Day: All We Ask, Grizzly Bear

2009-08-03T11:19:00.000-07:00

It's been quite a while, and a lot of things have happened.

Nataliya, my sister-in-law, has been living with us since mid-June. We're a happy trio living in our small West L.A. apartment.

We visited my parents in Newport.

We visited my parents in Covina.

We went to the Getty.

We celebrated the Fourth of July.

We went to Vegas.

Lots more fun experiences to come.

It's been hard, cramped up in our small apartment to get anything productive done. But I have managed to read Outlander and Nation, and re-read Jane Eyre, the Thirteenth Tale, Catcher in the Rye and the Hunger Games. I even got 17 pages of writing done last night. It's been a great summer so far, I'm hoping to make it to San Diego, San Francisco and Yosemite before Nataliya leaves.

Until my next update I will leave you with a nice little live version one of my favorite songs of the moment. All We Ask by Grizzly Bear.

Books or People?

2009-07-21T11:56:00.001-07:00

"Picture a conveyor belt, a huge conveyor belt, and at the end of it a massive furnace. And on the conveyor belt are books. Every copy in the world of every book you've ever loved. All lined up. Jane Eyre, Villette, The Woman in White...And imagine a lever with two labels, On and Off. At the moment the lever is off. And next to it is a human being, with his hand on the level. About to turn it on. And you can stop it. You have a gun in your hand. All you have to do is pull the trigger. What do you do?"

"Of course I loved books more than people. Of course I valued Jane Eyre over the anonymous stranger with his hand on the lever. Of course all of Shakespeare was worth more than a human life. Of course."

--Diane Setterfield, The Thirteenth Tale

With our writing, we will live forever

2009-07-09T15:00:00.000-07:00

An excerpt from The Thirteenth Tale:

People disappear when they die. Their voice, their laughter, the warmth of their breath. Their flesh. Eventually their bones. All living memory of them ceases. This both dreadful and natural. Yet for some there is an exception to this annihilation. For in the books they write they continue to exist. We can rediscover them. Their humor, their tone of voice, their moods. Through the written word they can anger you or make you happy. They can comfort you. They can perplex you. They can alter you. All this, even though they are dead. Like flies in amber, like corpses frozen in ice, that which according to the laws of nature should pass away is, by the miracle of ink on paper, preserved. It is a kind of magic.

As one tends the graves of the dead, so I tend the books. I clean them, do minor repairs, keep them in good order. And every day I open a volume or two, read a few lines or pages, allow the voices of the forgotten dead to resonate inside my head. Do they sense it, these dead writers, when their books ar read? Does a pinprick of light appear in their darkness? Is their soul stirred by the feather touch of another mind reading theirs? I do hope so. For it must be very lonely being dead.

Diane Setterfield is an amazing writer, and if you haven't already read The Thirteenth Tale then you really should. I think what she says here makes so much sense. As writers we share the same desires, same fears, as everyone else. With our writing, we will live forever.

Hayao Miyazaki's Ponyo

2009-06-24T11:50:00.000-07:00

I love Hayao Miyazaki. I think I saw Princess Mononoke in the theaters three times when it came out, and Ponyo looks amazing. Make sure to watch the video in HD.

Song of the Day: Naked As We Came

2009-06-19T12:17:00.001-07:00

New video from Beirut: Concubine

2009-06-19T10:21:00.000-07:00

Image of the Day: Fallen Princesses

2009-06-16T16:45:00.001-07:00

Kristen Stewart, Stoner Brat with substance?

2009-06-12T17:51:00.000-07:00

If she keeps doing interviews like this, I might have to re-evaluate my opinion of her.

What is it like to be back on set doing another Twilight film?

It's a little bit surreal to be back doing a second one, just because it's something that I thought about for an entire year and now it's happening. But it's sort of like I couldn't wait any longer.

It's hard. Usually you finish a movie and there's a very long grieving process. You have to lose the character. You have to drop it from your mind or else it just continues to bug you. In this case, I couldn't drop her completely and I worked in between, which is a strange sensation. It's weird how easy it was to slip right back into it. I don't know if it's because I have such a reference, like the book, or because I knew that I just had to do it. I don't know, but it feels good. It feels like I can finally release the pressure.

Isn't that pressure kind of self-inflicted?

"Yeah, I have that feeling on every movie that I do. It’s just that this one, I had to wait a year. Unless there's something about the story or that character I'm playing that literally needs to be fulfilled -- like, consummated -- unless it's actually lived through and physically manifested, it's just a story and it's not done. So until you actually bring it to life, you basically have the capability of murdering the character on the page. If you don't do it justice, then nobody else is ever going to see those things and you're never going to learn from those experiences because you didn't do it right.

So yeah, the thought of having to live through something that I find so worthwhile, and then subsequently have people learn from that through your own experience, I would do anything. I would jump off a cliff for it. Oh! There's cliff-jumping in our movie. Perfect! (Laughs)"

You were virtually unknown when you shot Twilight. How has your life changed since its phenomenal success?

"My life hasn't changed. Most circumstances I find myself in are different than they were a year ago, but I myself haven't changed...however a normal 18-year-old girl would change in a year. But it makes things so much easier. I would do it for free every day [even] if nobody saw it. I cannot describe how good it feels to actually have something that is truly into your heart and soul actually affecting people. And that's amazing. So that's the biggest change."

What was it like coming back to a different director?

"As an actor, you don't work with the same director on every film. And this, it's a continuation. It's the same story but it is a different movie. I love Catherine (Hardwicke). She's a dear friend of mine, but Chris (Weitz) – it just works out.

Besides all the technical, logistical reasons, Chris is so devoted and because he's a man, there's a common question. How is it having a man director? Is it a huge difference? You can't make generalizations about people like that. He's one of the most compassionate human beings I've ever met. Unfalteringly compassionate. He cares way too much for the story, and you need that. So he's perfect."

You're still quite young. Do you want to continue making movies or perhaps go to college?

"I absolutely have no foresight. I used to think I had a lot when I was younger. I worked really hard in school to give myself options, and I've literally taken those options and thrown them down the toilet. Purposely – not to make that sound totally negative. It's what I want. I want to keep doing what I'm doing.

It's funny, people ask me all the time: "What do you do for fun? What do you do when you're not acting?"

It's a strange thing, acting. It's a business, it's a job, everything like that. All it is, is self-reflection. You just never stop caring about people and I've never stopped doing that, so I'm sure it'll seep into other areas of my life. I want to write. I'm not going to school because I can't take the structure of it, but I'm not going to stop learning."

Read the whole interview here.

So You Think You Can Dance, Week 1

2009-06-12T15:45:00.000-07:00

My favorite dances from week one of SYTYCD, because they're fun to watch.

And because I love Evan and I want him to win.

New Glee Promo

2009-06-12T14:58:00.000-07:00

I love this show. SO MUCH.

A response to The Invisible Path

2009-06-09T11:58:00.000-07:00

I found The Invisible Path by Charles Eisenstein while perusing a friend's facebook page and was so touched by it that I had to write a response.

I'm going to pick out the pieces of his essay that speak to me and respond to them, but I want to encourage you to go and read it in its entirety here.

Here is the introduction to start:

As the age turns, millions of people are pioneering a transition from the old world to the new. It is a journey fraught with peril and hardship and breathtaking discovery, a journey irreducibly unique for each of us. Because we are stepping out into the new, it is also profoundly uncertain and at times lonely. I cannot map out the details of anyone's individual path, but I can fortify you as you walk it and illuminate some of its universal features. My purpose is to give voice to what you have always known (without knowing it) and always believed (without believing it), so that you may breathe a sigh of relief and say, "Ah, I was right all along."

In a sense I am not describing a path at all, since there isn't one in the new territory of the pioneer. Indeed, what I am describing is a departure from a path, the ready-made paths laid out before us, and the creation of a new one. You know the ready-made path I'm talking about. Typified by that odious board game "Life," it begins with school, traverses the territory of marriage, kids, and career, and, if all goes well, ends in a long and comfortable retirement. This program has been crumbling for decades now, as high rates of divorce and radical career change demonstrate. I, for one, am not planning for retirement; the very concept feels alien to me, as does the notion that my Golden Years are to be any time other than right now.

I will describe seven stages of the discovery and walking of this invisible path from the old world to the new. I present them in a linear narrative, but usually their progression is not strictly linear. It is, rather, fractal: each stage interpenetrates the rest, and we may skip around a lot, revisit old territory, jump ahead to new, pass through some stages in minutes and others in years. Nonetheless, I think you will recognize some of the major landmarks in your own journey.

Stage 1: Something is Wrong / Idealism
Idealism is a belief that a more beautiful world is possible; that the world as we know it is deficient, unworthy of our full participation. When idealism is not expressed as action, it turns into cynicism...

The idealism of youth is a seed of what is to come. The teenager looks out upon some aspect of the world and is outraged. "No force in the universe will make me accept a world in which this happens! I will not be complicit in it! I will not sell out!" Usually this attitude is unconscious, manifesting either as cynicism or as rage, an uncontrollable anger directed at whatever surrogate target is available. Those teenagers with the strongest idealism are often the angriest; we think there is something wrong with them and their anger problem, but really there is something right. Their protest is misdirected, but fundamentally valid...

...In a carrot-and-stick strategy, on the one hand we entice youth into complicity with the adult world, while on the other abashing it with patronizing dismissals and intimidating it with severe punishments for lashing out. And so, bought and cowed, we earn the badge of "maturity" and enter the adult world.

Bought and cowed, yes, but never broken. That knowledge of a more beautiful world lies latent within us, waiting for an event to reactivate it.

Eisenstein is right to connect this first stage with adolescence, which for many people is the time when we realize that there is a man behind the curtain, and he's more malicious than we could think or dream him to be. But for me I think I went through this stage much later in life. As a teen and even going into college (I was only 17 when I started my freshman year at UCLA) I was too focused on superflous things like boys, track, drinking and my new-found liberty to be concerned with anything greater than myself. I think there are kids who, frustrated with the state of the world, feel this way in high school. But I think a lot of those kids wore black lipstick or listened to Rage Against the Machine.

But I also think that this is something people never grow out of. I think the world is filled with beauty but the people who populate and control it are full of shit. Moving on.

Stage 2: Refusal or Withdrawal
On some level, Stage 2 is always concurrent with Stage 1, but I will describe it separately because so many people are very nearly successful in suppressing the feeling of wrongness, suppressing the intuition of a more beautiful world that is possible, and relegating it to an inconsequential realm: their weekends, their choice of music, or most insidiously, their opinions. People have very strong opinions about what is wrong with the world and what "we" should do about it, and how life "should" be lived, but don't meaningfully act upon those opinions. They like to read about what is wrong with the world and voice their concurrence. It is as if their opinions provided a vent for the indignant anger that would otherwise power real transformation...

Isn't this so true? I feel like the internet has been built on this principle. The powers that be produce content in hopes that it will draw users and produce this type of reaction. They want individuals to be outraged, compelled to comment and voice their opinion--however meaningful or redundant--to the rest of the community. But who reads and takes stock in these comments? Is anyone ever affected by other people's opinions or are they selfishly vomiting up their own thoughts without considering the ideas and possibilities that someone else's unique perspective might bring to the table?

The suppression of the desire to transcend the old world is never entirely successful. The unexpressed energy comes out in the form of anxiety, which is none other than the feeling, "Something is wrong around here and I don't know what it is." It can also fuel addiction or escapism, substitutes for the longed-for more beautiful world. Eventually, if all goes well, these props to life-as-usual fail, initiating a withdrawal from the lives we have known.

I most definitely fuels "addiction, escapism, substitutes for the longed-for more beautiful world." I read this and think. This is why I smoke. This is why I drink. This is why I read crappy young-adult vampire romance novels. To get away from the hell of everyday struggle. Withdrawal from the lives we have known you say? See here. And here. And here. And here.

This withdrawal can take many forms. In my previous essay I discussed depression and chronic fatigue, which are unconscious or semi-conscious refusals to participate in the world. In my own life, for many years the refusal took the form of a half-hearted participation, in which I would go along with some, but not all, of the conventions of compliance. Whether in school or in work, I did just enough to get by, unwilling to fully devote myself to a world I unconsciously knew was wrong, yet not aware enough or brave enough to repudiate it fully either. If you perceive in yourself or another such "flaws" as laziness or procrastination, you may actually be seeing the signs of a valid, noble, yet unconscious refusal.

I like the idea that I was a poor student because I was unwilling to fully devote myself to a world I unconsciously knew was wrong. And that my laziness are the signs of a valid, noble, yet unconscious refusal. But I really think it was because I was lazy.

A final and very telling symptom of this stage is the experience of struggle. Because you are still trying to participate and to withdraw at the same time, life becomes exhausting. You have to expend tremendous efforts to accomplish anything. You wonder why your career is stalled, why your luck is bad, why your car keeps breaking down, why nothing seems to click, when other people's careers proceed smoothly. The reason is that unconsciously, you are expelling yourself from the world you've inhabited so you can search for another one.

Stage 3: The Search
In this stage, you are searching for something, but you don't know what it is. You begin to explore new worlds, read books you would never have been interested in before. You dabble in spirituality, in self-help books and seminars; you try different religions and different politics. You are attracted to this cause and that cause, but although they are exciting, you probably don't commit very deeply to any of them (though for a time you may convert very loudly)...You know there is another world, another life, bigger and more beautiful than the one you were acculturated to. You just don't know what it is, and you have never experienced it. It is therefore a theoretical knowledge.

The search is in vain. Sometimes you give up for a while and attempt to recommit fully to the life you have withdrawn from. You join back in, but not for long. The self-evident wrongness of that world becomes more acute, and the relapse into depression, fatigue, self-sabotage, or addiction is quick and intense. You have no choice but to continue searching.

Stage 4: Doubt and Despair
At this point, your idealism, your refusal, your search might seem like an enormous, self-indulgent error. Yet at the same time your perception of the wrongness of the world intensifies...Your situation is like that of a fetus at the onset of labor. The cervix has not yet opened: there is no light, no exit, no direction to escape the titanic forces bearing down upon you. Every promise of escape, every door you explored in your search phase, is proven to be a lie, a dead end.

At its most extreme, this is an unbearable condition that must nonetheless be borne. Subjectively it feels eternal. It is from such a state that we derive our descriptions of Hell: unbearable and eternal.

I honestly don't think I'll ever be out of this stage in my life. It feels like there is a part of the world that will always be corrupt and filled disparaging pain. It's only when you're doing what you're meant to do (what Eisenstein calls walking the Invisible Path) that you escape the doubt and despair. But for me its more like walking a tightrope over a volcano. Perilously balancing over the inevitable.

Stage 5: A Glimpse
...You have caught a glimpse of your destination, the thing you'd been searching for. You might observe that the effort of your search fell a million times short of the power that has finally brought you here. Your quest was impossible -- yet here you are! Perhaps it comes in the form of an intense experience of your true power and gifts, of joy and healing, of unity and simplicity, of the omnipresent providence of the universe, of the presence of the divine...You will be left in a state of profound gratitude and awe.

...Because it is a real knowing, sooner or later (and usually sooner) it manifests as action in the world, creative action. You begin the next stage: a walk toward the destination you have been shown.

Stage 6: The Invisible Path
You have glimpsed your destination and felt its promise, but how do you get there? Now begins a real adventure, a journey without a path. Well-marked paths exist to becoming a lawyer, a professor, a doctor, or any other position in the old world, but there is no path toward the next unfolding of your true self. To be sure, you may still embark on a training program or something as part of a radical career change, but you realize that these structures are merely something you recruit into your own pathmaking, and not a path to your destination.

In this stage, real changes happen in your life. You may experience the end of a relationship, bankruptcy, career change, moving to a different part of the country, changes in your body, an entirely different social life and different kind of intimate relationship. You may continue to undergo various crises, but they don't have the apocalyptic, desperate feeling of the earlier stages, but are rather like birth contractions, and indeed your situation is much like that of a fetus in the birth canal, being propelled toward the light. As this phase progresses, you might even have the feeling of having been reborn in the same body (or different body). While some vestiges of your old life will remain, there is no doubt that you are in new territory. You often experience a sense of newness, freshness, vulnerability, and discovery.

The walk toward the state you now know exists is fraught with pitfalls, dead ends, thickets and swamps. You have no markers, no external indicators of the right way. I said there is no path in this new territory, but that is not strictly true. There is a path, but it is an invisible path, a path you work out yourself. Your guides are your own intuition and self-trust. You learn to ignore the voices that say a given choice is foolish, irresponsible, or selfish. Your self-trust is your only guide, because the voices of your old world do not know this territory. They have never been there. It is new for you. You find your own way, groping along, taking wrong turns sometimes and doubling back, only to realize that the wrong turn was not wrong after all, but the only way you could have learned the right path.

I wanted to write more of a response to this essay, but after having started this last Thursday and the crazy weekend I had I don't have the energy. Please read the whole thing and leave your thoughts in the comments below.

Song of the Day: Help I'm Alive, Metric

2009-06-06T20:36:00.000-07:00

Marco Brambilla: Civilization

2009-06-05T10:38:00.000-07:00

This video is amazing, I had to share.

Get more info on the video and the artist here.

Rolling with the content team

2009-06-05T10:20:00.000-07:00

The content team over here at Demand Media went bowling on Friday to commemorate Big Bear Kuras' last day working for the studio.

Enjoy these pics, courtesy of the lovely Liana. My mouth is pretty much wide open in all of them.

That's Soren.

"Chai is so gentle with that ball Johan. So gentle."

Johan and my boss Jodi--and me making some stupid face in the background.

Open mouth shot #1

Open mouth shot #2. Notice I am holding myself up on the backs of those chairs. I was THAT excited.

Fuckin' Quintana... that creep can roll, man.

Kristen Stewart in two words

2009-06-05T08:27:00.000-07:00

Stoner and Brat. Stoner brat.

They Washed Him Away

2009-06-05T05:33:00.000-07:00

The short story that didn't get me into Bennington College.

Today was meant to be a busy day.

I was planning on sending a big package to Chris, and it was going to take a day's worth of driving around the desert to get him a sampling of his favorite things. My first stop was a visit to my soon-to-be mother-in-law Merry's house. Chris had pretty much told me not to bother sending him anything unless there was some of his mom's cinnamon bread in it for him, and even though I'd tried to convince him it wouldn't be worth eating by the time he received it, he swore up and down he'd have it no matter the state.

Unfortunately, Merry was the kind of woman friends didn't visit when they had places to be. It wasn't entirely her fault of course, hers was a trap that most were too willing to fall prey. A quick stop to say "hello" inevitably turned into a cup of coffee, and by the time you'd finished a cup or two it was noon and Merry had made you a sandwich.

By then the sun would be a little lower in the sky, and it would be the perfect time to walk off the meal with a trip down to the mailboxes and back. After the walk she'd pour you another cup of coffee and offer to play a game of Scrabble. Before you knew it you've had dinner, dessert, a bed time story, and it's Merry kicking you out of the house so she can go to bed.

I had made it a habit to visit Merry once a week since Charlie, my would-be father-in-law passed two months back. It wasn't uncommon for our visits to last late into the evening, but today was different. I was giving myself one hour.

It was an optimistic goal to be sure, but I figured that if I could leave Merry's house by 11, I would avoid sitting down for lunch and have enough time to get everything together before the post office closed at five. So the plan was to have one cup of coffee maybe two, and get out in one hour, cinnamon bread in hand.

I pulled my truck into Merry's long driveway and passed the "For Sale" sign advertising the price, make and model of Charlie's tractor for anyone who travelled along the lonely street to see. "O.B.O." had recently been added to the bottom of the sign.

The house sat on an acre of land sloping up to the foot of what we call the Mariana Mountains. Charlie and Chris had taken great pains to make something of the area around the house by means of a yard. They had laid white stones to mark the drive, and planted small poplar trees around the edge of the property. It looked strange surrounded by a backdrop of Joshua trees and mountain ranges, but everything looks a bit forced in the desert. She was standing in the doorway when I pulled up.

"Hello, Honey!" she said reaching out to me. I reminded myself of my time limit, and rushed over to hug her. Merry was a big woman, made large by her own butter-heavy cooking, but her frame just made her more pleasant to hug. I'd gained a few pounds myself since Chris left, but the extra weight wasn't as flattering on me. I reached around and gave her a big squeeze.

One hour.

"I was just fixing some toast with jam if you'd like some."

"No thanks, I got a lot to do today. I got to run all over town to get stuff for Chris's package."

"Oh that's right! I got his cinnamon bread all done up. Let me fetch it for you."

I followed her into the small living room that led into the house. I rarely sat in here. The kitchen is where Merry conducted her business, and the cold of this room made it as dead as the kitchen was alive with warmth.

I hurried in after Merry.

The fridge was decorated with pictures of Chris and me. There we were, a new couple, posing in front of the house just a few months ago. Another one of us sitting at the kitchen table when we were nine, spaghetti sauce all over our faces. A pre-teen version of ourselves waiting at the bus stop, heavy backpacks at our feet. I am surrounded by memories here and I never want to leave.

I sat myself down at the table and brushed away the crumbs from a previous batch of toast. Coffee rings decorated the table cloth as if marking time. An old cigarette butt still lay in the ashtray.

"Oh garsh-darnit this place is a mess, I'm sorry sweetie. Did you want a cuppa coffee?"

"Yes, please," I sighed. It would have been physically impossible to refuse.

"There's a fresh pot in the thermos, help yourself."

Merry liked doing things for people, but she always made the kids do things for themselves.

I dug into the cupboard to find my cup. She keeps the sugar in one of those glass jars you see at country diners, and I watched as the stream of sugar disappeared into the black coffee. In the fridge the cream, real whipping cream, was sitting on the third shelf as always. I poured a dollop into my cup without thinking about the calories.

Merry lifted the lid to the big pot on the stove. Steam billowed up and sat in her blonde hair making it curl. The smell hit me from across the room, and my belly responded with a "glurp!" I checked my watch.

45 minutes to go.

"Are you hungry, honey? Can you stay for lunch? I made beef stroganoff."

My nose tortured my stomach and my mouth was practically spilling with saliva. I swallowed. "Actually, I have a bit of stomach ache."

"Do you need some Pepto?" She asked, starting towards the cabinet that held the medicine.

"Oh no, I'll be fine." I smiled, trying to show her I was okay.

Merry shrugged and replaced the lid on the pot. She grabbed her cup of coffee and made her way to the table. Her rear-end was halfway towards the chair when, "Whoops!" she exclaimed, hands and feet hanging in the air. She swung all four limbs down and stood herself up again.

"The cinnamon bread, I can't forget," she said, pointing and snapping in its direction. She took the Tupperware from the counter next to the sink and turned to me. She stopped and held it at her waist, looking at the blue lid.

"He loves this bread you know," she tapped her finger on the lid. "When he was little I would put the real soft parts on my finger and put it in his mouth. He's been eating this bread since before he had teeth!" The memory made her smile, "I used to have to hide it from him. We'd be having company and I'd go for the bread and it'd be gone! It was no use, he'd sniff it out like a blood hound." She placed the bowl on the table with a laugh and asked me about my mother.

Merry and my mom are real close. They had worked together at the elementary school for twenty years, my mom as the school's secretary and Merry handling the tickets in the lunch line. My mother retired last year but Merry was still there. Now they only got to see each other on the weekend, which wasn't enough for either of them, so I was obligated to tell Merry about the new hampers my mother had bought at Target the night before.

"They're wicker."

"The gray ones, or the white ones?"

"The white ones."

"I saw in the coupons that the white ones were on sale for $9.99, and the gray ones for $14.99. I just don't understand that." She shook her head, "I think something like that should be illegal, charging two different prices for the same thing. I told your Mom to buy the white ones, who cares if they look dirtier quicker. It's the principle of the thing. You can always wash 'em."

35 minutes.

It was getting hot in the kitchen so Merry turned the ceiling fan on to "push the air around a bit," as she likes to say.

"Have you heard from Chris?" I asked.

"Not since last week."

I know it's not a competition, but it had been two weeks since he called me.

"How's he doin'? Did he say how he's liking it over there?" He doesn't like to talk about it with me.

"He says it's just another desert. Says he's making friends with some of the locals."

"Well that's good I guess," I replied.

"He's never had trouble finding friends." Merry's eyes looked past me to the photo-covered fridge. "Who wouldn't like Chris? He was so popular in school, remember? Such a sweetie, wouldn't hurt a fly unless he had to."

"Well, he might have to over there," I said.

Merry shook her head. "I just worry about him, you know? He can get so hot-headed. You know if one of his friends were in trouble he'd be out there trying to help. Just the way he is, stubborn and loyal just like his father."

The idea of Charlie and Chris hung in the air. We tried not to reconcile their fates in our minds.
I broke the silence first. "Well I'm hoping this package will remind him that he's got people waiting for him at home, so he won't go off and do something stupid," I responded.

I looked at the battle-worn Tupperware. I'd seen that particular bowl in various stages of clean, dirty and food-filled for as long as I could remember. If anything would remind Chris of home it would be that bowl.

"What else are you picking up?" she asked.

"I promised him a school paper. He wants to know how the Twisters are doing without him, so I'm going over to see Coach Carl this afternoon. The players all signed something for him."

Chris was a natural born leader if there ever was one, the kind of guy that inspired confidence in his peers just by being there. I remember the war games we used to play when we were little. We'd take our BB guns into our fort and 'defend our position' against the Indians.

"I think I see one behind that hill over there," he whispered.

"I don't see anything," I said, hand over my eyes to block out the sun.

"Right there, something moved. Look!" He said, pointing.

"I see him," I answered, "It's just a scout."

"Whaddya say we give him a message to take back to the Chief?"

He lifted his rifle, taking steady aim at the Indian hiding behind the hill. A small pop went off, and a can fell from atop the mound. A "ting!" floated away into the desert.

"Nice shot! Right in the butt!"

We giggled.

"That'll teach him," he said, smiling.

25 minutes.

Merry was stirring something in a large metal bowl on the counter. Her body rose and fell with each swoop of the spoon.

"How have you been holding up?" I asked. A warm wind whipped against the house. Sand sprayed against the window as if someone were hosing it down.

"Oh, I'm alright honey. Thanks for asking." She poured the contents of the bowl into small round blobs on a baking sheet. "Been keeping myself busy you know. Denise comes by often, always complaining about things at home. Now I know it's not any of my business," she clarified, "but she's been having a hard time with her momma."

All the kids in the neighborhood stopped by Merry's house now and again. You wouldn't think kids would like to spend time with adults—that they'd be outside wanting to play, or giggling with their girlfriends about the cutest boy in school—but Merry's house was a high desert oasis. Everyone stopped by when they needed a break from the heat and heavy winds.

The first time I met Chris I had just turned five. My family had moved into the community from "down the hill," and were unpacking things from our car to bring into the house. I was sitting on the bed of my father's truck when I noticed that the overgrown creosote bush on the side of the house was shaking.

I got down from the truck bed, and made as if I were going into the house. When I got inside I ran through the back door and around the side of the house behind the bushes. His feet were dangling out the back. I grabbed them and pulled.

"Hey! What are you doing?" He asked, kicking to free himself.

"What are you doing spying on us? Who are you?" I let go and his feet hit the dirt hard. He scrambled backwards, away from me.

"I coulda killed you, you know. Sneaking up on me like an Indian. I coulda killed you."

"Oh shut up! You couldn't kill nothin'." A layer of dirt lay atop his head painting his blond hair a dull brown. "What's your name?" I asked.

"Chris, what’s yours?"

"I'm Sam."

He looked at me for a second and stood up patting the dirt out of his jeans.

"My mom made brownies, you want to come over and have one?"

I didn't quite trust him yet, but the promise of brownies put those worries on hold. "Okay. But I can't stay too long." He smiled a gap-toothed smile.

We walked up the hill, cutting through people's back yards. Small fox tails dug their way into my socks, and thorns from the tumble weeds attacked my legs.

"Don't get too close to the cholla," He warned, pointing at a spiny-looking cactus with his walking stick. "They jump at you."

Merry's house was very much the same then as it is now. Only then it was Merry and Charlie's house.

"Hey Mom, this is Sam, she just moved into the yellow house on Ocotillo."

"Well hello there, Sam." Merry said with a welcoming smile.

"I told her she could have some brownies."

Charlie was sitting in the chair against the wall. From his seat he could see the window, the door, and Merry. It was a position of defense. Smoke curled up from the cigarette resting in Charlie's thick hands.

"Now hold on a second," he said. Merry stopped what she was doing over the stove to look at Charlie while he spoke, "Does Sam's parents know she's here?"

Merry joined in, "Sam, did you tell your parents you were coming over?"

Promises of brownies disappeared into the desert air.

"No," I responded."But I'm sure they wouldn't mind if I had one brownie, we have brownies all the time at my house, and even…"

"Chris." Charlie interrupted. "What sense do you got bringing her over here without asking her parents for permission? They're probably real worried right now. And Sam," he said, focusing his attention on me, "didn't your parents teach you better than to go off without telling them where you're off to?"

It was the first time someone besides my parents had reprimanded me. I started to cry. Merry was there with a tissue.

"Now it's okay. Just relax. It'll be alright." Her warm hand rubbed my back and I buried my head in her soft chest. "We'll just take you home and explain to your parents what happened. Chris!" She yelled after her son, "You're coming with us. I can't believe you would go encouraging bad behavior like this, you know better."

Merry loaded Chris and me into the back seat of her old Toyota, and made her way down the dirt road that led to my new house. She very kindly explained to my parents what had happened, and gave me a box of brownies on her way out.

"Now you come over whenever you'd like. Just make sure you tell your parents first. Okay Honey?"
Merry was standing over the stove again. She had a rooster-shaped kitchen timer in her hands. She twisted it and it clicked several times before she set it down.

"Just twenty more minutes and lunch will be done. You sure you can't stay?"

I checked my watch. Twenty minutes was just about all the time I had left. It was perfect, I'd be able to sneak out while she was pulling everything out of the oven.

"No Merry, really…" I started to say when there was a quick tapping at the door.

"Helloooo!" Called a voice.

"Who's there?" she yelled, poking her head out towards the door, "Oh hello, Gene!"

Gene was the mailman. He usually stopped by on his route for a quick cup of coffee before hitting the rest of the houses on the street. There weren't many.

"Hey Merry, what's cooking? Smells good in here."

"Oh just some beef stroganoff, you staying for lunch?"

Gene leaned over the stove and rubbed his belly.

"I can't Merry, I wish I could. Boss has been gittin on my case lately. Says it takes me too long to deliver to the houses up here. If he knew that I'd been sneaking into your house I'd be in real hot water."

"Come on now Gene, you can at least have a cup of coffee."

"Not today Merry," he said, raising his hand, "got to prove that I'm not some kind of deadbeat. I'll get back to my regular routine next week, just wanted to bring you in the mail, save you the walk, but I gotta run. Take care, Merry. Goodbye, Sammy."

"Bye Gene," We answered. Gene was a nice man, but it was hard to shake the impression that he liked to take advantage of Merry's hospitality.

"You know, that's the first time that man hasn't stop to have coffee in over two years. Not since Rita left him, you know."

I nodded. Merry stopped wiping down the counter and put her hand on her hip. The wet rag dripped down onto her apron.

"I don't understand why everybody is always leaving all the time. Sure people stop by and keep me company, but lately it feels like everyone always has to be going. People to see, things to do…" She continued wiping down the counter, "What are they in such a rush for? I have things to do, but I make time, see? I make time for other people."

"I'm sorry Merry," I tried to resist the urge to feel guilty. "You know I'd stay if I weren't in such a hurry."

"Oh, not you honey. You and your mom are friends. But why is everyone else in such a rush to leave? All those kids down at the high school, they graduate and the first thing they do is head down the hill. It's like they can't wait to get out of here. What's so wrong with the desert?"

The heat, the wind, the lack of opportunity, I thought to myself.

She went on, "I still don't understand why Chris had to go." She was bent over the counter, hands holding her up.

I didn't understand either.

I loved Merry, almost like a second mother, but it was hard for me to comfort her about Chris. We both felt the same pain, and I didn't want to compare. Or compete.

Chris and I had been friends our whole lives, but it wasn't until four months before he shipped off that we realized we were in love. Or maybe it just took me that long.

It was right around prom our senior year. I had waited and waited for a guy to ask me, figuring that someone would get around to it eventually. It wasn't until prom was a week away that I realized I wasn't going to be asked, and I didn't know what to think about it. I mean, I wasn't the prettiest girl in school but I was nice enough. Surely there was someone would want to take me right?

Chris hadn't asked anyone, not for lack of choices, he just didn't seem to care. I didn't really have any girlfriends to talk to about it, I was closer to Chris than any of them ever could be, and they hated me for it. The girl-friends I did have only dreamed of getting asked to school dances.

I tried to hold my head high when people asked who I was going with, and I was doing fine until the Friday before the dance. The halls were buzzing with the voices of girls talking about their dresses, and boys discussing what types of sordid things they hoped to accomplish with their dates. The energy of the students was reaching a fever pitch, and the overwhelming fact that I had been so excluded from this event made me feel invisible.

I left school after the first break, running all the way home, and sat on the deck of the fort until nightfall. I had cried for a good couple hours, more out of confusion than despair, and was numb. I was just starting to feel the cold on my skin when Chris came up behind me and slung his feet off the edge of the deck.

"You okay, Sammy? I didn't see you at lunch. I was worried something happened to you."

A well of heat made its way up to my face as the day's frustrations came back to me. "Oh, I don't KNOW!" I gasped. "It's just that, no one asked me to the stupid prom. And I was fine! I was fine until today when I heard about how Megan Tinsley's dress was the exact shade of the stupid flowers in Anthony Jameson's yard! I was fine until I heard Amanda Shaffey tell Tiffany Harper that she was going to kiss Michael Fortenhaus. I didn't think it was such a big deal, and obviously it is, and I don’t know. I figured someone would ask me." I wiped my nose with the back of my hand and looked at Chris. He was concentrating very hard on my face. I went on, "I didn't know I would care so much."

Chris's hand slipped behind my neck and pulled my face close to his. He placed his lips very softly on mine, then he pulled back to look at me. The immediate shock jumped from my head into my stomach making it turn hard with a deep lash of pain. My head collapsed into his hand, and he pulled me to him again, hard. His warm lips parted mine and we kissed as if I had been perfectly fashioned to fit him.

He pulled away and collapsed into himself. He was crying. I put my hand over my mouth, my lips were sore and I was having trouble catching my breath.

"Chris," I asked, my voice coarse, "are you okay?"

His chest rose and fell heavily. "I didn't think you would ever look at me that way. I thought you were too good, too smart, too pretty to ever, ever, look at me that way." He met my eyes. "I didn't ask you because I thought you would laugh at me; but I wanted to. Every day I wanted to. The guys kept giving me a hard time, saying I was a wuss. I tried to feel it out, see if you would want to go with me, but you never seemed interested." He took my hand and moved closer. "I'm such a coward. I should've just gotten up the guts to ask you. I'm sorry I didn't. I'm sorry you were so upset today." He looked up at me and kissed me on the nose, "But Sammy, I'm happy that things turned out this way." He looked at me expectantly, and I didn't know what to say.

Was I happy about it? I didn't know what to think, and the more I tried the more my head burned with heat. Kissing Chris had been like coming home, and my entire body had felt it. Where had these feelings come from? Was it because I felt lonely and rejected? Or was it because I actually had feelings for Chris?

I looked at him. Every part of my body reacted to the space between us and ached. A light had come on from his porch and was shining into the now darkened fort. His face, lit sideways though the cracks in the walls, showed a pair of wet blue eyes and an orange smile. I smiled and kissed him hard, both of us falling backwards onto the splintered wood.

I learned later that random guys had approached Chris, asking him if I'd want to go to the prom with them. He'd told them I didn't want to go. He lowered his head in embarrassment when he'd explained what he'd done. It just made me love him more.

The news of our new relationship spread through the school like wildfire, only to disappear quickly, replaced with easy acceptance. Apparently they had all known what I didn't. Chris had been in love with me since we were little. At first I was embarrassed by all the attention, but eventually I didn't care when people talked about us. I was just happy to be in on the secret.

When Chris and I told the rest of our family we were dating, they looked at us like we were telling them something they'd already known.

"You think we're stupid?" my mom asked.

"Honey, we already think of you as our daughter," Charlie said to me, before turning towards Chris. "And you! You little shit," he yelled while trying to spear him with his cane from across the table, "You just keep it in your pants while you're in this god damn house." Chris laughed and made an evasive sweep sideways to avoid the attack.

We spent the rest of the time in school and that summer after graduation learning things about each other that'd we'd never known before. It was like each of us was completely new, and at the same time, like we'd known each other forever.

When he asked me to marry him, it was as if he'd asked me if to pick up milk at the store. The answer was so obvious it didn't need to be said.

5 Minutes.

The heat of Merry's kitchen made my skin stick to my clothes. My face was especially hot, tears made their way down my protesting face.

"Oh honey," Merry said rushing over. She put her arms around me and squeezed tight, her head of curls resting heavily on top of my own, "You okay?" she asked with real concern.

"Oh," I replied, shaking my head, "I'm fine Merry. I just," I took a deep breath; "I just miss him."

"I do too, honey. I do too. But we gotta have faith that he's going to be okay. If we sit here and worry he's just gonna be over there worrying about us." She shook me a bit, kissed me on top of the head and returned to the oven.

My heart began to settle down when there was another knock.

"Hello?" she called. There was no response. Merry wiped her hands on her apron and hurriedly made her way to the front door.

I took a sip of my coffee, now a bit cold and sour, and looked out the window. There was a van with an insignia parked on the street in front of the house. Merry was always having things delivered from various home shopping networks, but this van looked different.

"Hello, Ma'am. Are you Merry Matteson?" The pitch of his voice was deep. The tone flat.

She responded yes.

"We are sorry to inform you that your son Private Christopher Matteson…" His voice blanketed the room. The deep tenor echoed in the farthest corners of the house. A chair screeched against the tile.

When I got to the next room a black man in a neatly presented uniform had Merry by the elbow and was helping her from the floor onto a chair. She was hugging something against her chest, eyes on the wall in front of her.

The man looked at me, "I'm very sorry for your loss. We have his things here." As if on cue, two men in uniform made their way into the house, stacking file boxes in front of the couch. The man bent over as if to bow, and nodded at us. His eyes were dark, I couldn't make out where his irises ended and his pupils began.

The house seemed to slow when he left, the vibrations petering out before dying completely.

Merry sat in the chair staring at the patterns of the cinderblocks that made up the walls. I stood looking at the boxes. It was cold.

The timer in the kitchen went off, fluttered against the counter before falling onto the kitchen floor. There was a thud, the deep thrum of the alarm against the tile melted away into the silence.

It was 11. Time was up.

"They brought his stuff." I said, staring at the boxes.

Merry doesn't respond. Her eyes stay fixed on the wall.

I get up and go into the kitchen. I flip the dials on the stove and oven off. I go back to the cold room and look at the boxes. They look fake to me. I want to break them down and carry them out to the dumpster.

There is no smell. All the warmth in the small house is gone. There is a blanket next to me on the couch. Nothing about it looks comforting.

The quiet in the room is stagnant. I try to think of anything but my mind is locked. The post office would be closed by now. I haven't eaten anything all day. I try to think of food, and feel sick.

It was close to dinner time when Merry reached over and pulled a box towards her. Dirt from the bottom of cardboard screams as it is dragged across the floor.

What was she doing? I brought my hand up to my mouth trying to hold it back.

"No!"

Merry pressed her hand gently on the top of the box. With one sharp motion she flipped the lid off.

"Stop!" Every savage party of my body screamed in protest, "Please, stop!"

It was as if she didn't hear me. Mindlessly she started lifting things, one by one out from the box and onto the table.

Inside, stacked neatly were magazines, letters, and a ragged notebook.

His name and rank were scratched out in layers of black ink in his handwriting. They were his notes, his diary. I wanted to hold it to my chest and run. I wanted to squeeze them in my hands until they cut me and I bled.

"Stop! Stop touching them!"
Merry looked up at me.

"This is my baby. My baby." Her voice shook, her finger pointed sideways. She pushed the first box to the side and opened the lid of the second. On top, was Chris's football sweater. The sweater he wore nearly every day for the past three years.

We both stared at it, and before I could realize what she was doing Merry's hands had ripped the sweater from the box.

She brought it up to her face.

She begun to cry.

Her pain paralyzed me. Merry's thick fingers and long nails dug into the green cotton collar.

"He's gone Sam." She said, her eyes moving from the sweater to my face. "You can't even smell him, they washed him away."

She handed it to me. I brought it up to my face and I took a deep breath in. The smell of bleach and chlorine filled my nose and my stomach lurched. I was going to be sick. I ran out of the house, through the yard and into our fort. I collapsed onto my knees, head hanging over the edge of the deck. Sharp wooden splinters dug into my knees, the pain sent ripples of comfort through my body.

The light shone directly onto the fort and the wood was warm. I closed my eyes and brought my face up to the sun. The valley was heating up, and soon the dirt would smell as sweet as a freshly baked pumpkin pie. Hot tears traveled down my face and evaporated quickly on my skin, leaving it sticky. A soft breeze swept through the fort and whirled around me on its way towards the rest of the desert. I took a deep breath, the cool air reaching deep into my stomach.

I sat back on my heels and dug my face into the sweater. The dark cotton had already absorbed quite a bit of heat and it was hot on my face. I inhaled deeply and the scent of bleach burned my nostrils again. I took another sniff, it was hotter, a sharp pain stabbed between my eyes. I filled my lungs with the cool desert breeze and brought the sweater to my nose one last time; then I got him. I breathed him in, each whiff intoxicating.

I could smell him, feel him in that other desert.

I hugged the sweater to my face and lay down on the deck.

When I woke my body was racked with pain; my joints stiff underneath my sunburnt skin. The moon painted the horizon for miles, filling up the voids between the handfuls of houses and stables on our block. I remembered sitting here less than a year ago. I remembered Chris's smile, the way he tasted and how soft and warm his hand was against my neck.

There was a shuffle behind me, and for the first time I noticed Merry sitting on the floor of the deck, back propped up against the wall. She must have been sleeping there next to me, she was sun-kissed and swollen.

I reached up and touched my own face. I had rubbed the skin raw and it throbbed. The sweater was still in my hands, the joints of my fingers bone white from gripping it. I brought it up to my nose, my skin screamed as I attempted to bring him back one last time. The sweater was cold now. He was gone.

I rose to my feet, ignoring the pieces of wood and sand imbedded in my skin, and made my way over to Merry. Her eyes opened slowly and looked up at me. Bending down, I handed her the sweater. She took it, and we both pressed it to her chest.

We do not write because we want to; we write because we have to

2009-06-04T13:11:00.001-07:00

--Somerset Maugham

I just spent $520 on a novel writing class for the summer.

Now, Boyan can attest that I have always said that "Education is priceless," and I truly believe it--but 500 dollars is a lot of money and I'm poor!

The way I look at it, I'm going to need some time away from the apartment to work on my writing now that we'll be adding another housemate to the mix.

And I have more than half of a book written that I need help with.
And I wrote SO MUCH in the last class I took so I know it will help me.
And Les Plesko is supposed to be an amazing teacher.

I know the class is worth the money, but wouldn't it be nice if some rich benefactor to the arts could support me in my literary endeavors? Wouldn't it?

If you know anyone who wants to support a struggling writer then send them my way.

I'm so excited for this class and all the things I will learn coming out of it, I don't mind being poor for a little while.

"The question isn't who is going to let me; it's who is going to stop me" -- Ayn Rand

Twilight is a sickness

2009-06-04T12:42:00.000-07:00

I went to happy hour with some colleagues last night, and one of them who wasn't quite familiar with Twilight starting asking me some questions about the books/films/actors and I immediately felt the bile rise up in my throat.

I realized while I was explaining things to her that I like twilight just as much as I hate it. I'll peruse Twilight blogs, search perez and pinkisthenewblog hoping to see an update on the cast members and immediately feel dirty afterward. And when I found out there was a twitter account that detailed exactly where Robert Pattinson was in the world--I felt equal measures of disgust and fascination.

It was then that I figured it out.

What I have wasn't a guilty pleasure, or an obsession. It is a sickness.

I binge and purge Twilight.

Its like a disease that I can't control. Impulsive, corrosive, damaging and pleasureful all at the same time.

They say that the first step towards recovery is admitting you have a problem, so that's what I'm doing. I don't know what the treatment is however -- I can't just not read the stuff about Twilight online, and of COURSE I'm going to see New Moon.

Any suggestions on how I can curse myself of this disease will be much appreciated.

If you'd like to indulge your own Twilight Obsession with some twilight blogs, here are a few I find fun to peruse:

1. What the Forks?!?
2. Confessions of a TwiCrack Addict
3. Lion and Lamb Love
4. OH NO THEY DIDN'T

Together we can conquer this addiction. One day at a time.

To err is human, to spend is divine

2009-06-03T12:41:00.000-07:00

So remember when I said I wasn't going to spend money in May? Well--that didn't really work out as well as I thought it would.

I mean, I thought I was doing really well! I had not allowed myself to go out onto the promenade--thought I had been avoiding temptation and staying true to my promise.

But then life happened.

Janea and Jon came to visit. We had a party. I got my motorcycle permit (costs $30 bucks people!).

Things were going good and then I lost my wallet. Which actually helped prevent me from spending, but then I had to get a new wallet. And my sunglasses broke so I had to replace them.

THEN I needed (seriously folks, NEEDED) a new *easily visible* backpack to wear on the scooter.

It's bomb right? $70 bucks but still pretty great.
And we had our team-building bike ride and I needed to pick up a pair of socks, a sports bra and a sweater from the GAP because I'd forgotten to bring them from home.

And on that bike ride I got a really gnarly wife-beater tan. So I had to go to the drug store and by some tanning stuff to fix it.

See what happens?

The loss of my wallet was pretty devastating, considering Boyan bought if for me and I was absolutely in love with it. I'm still feeling the after shocks of separation anxiety. So to quell those aftershocks (and because I have a wedding to go to this weekend) I went out and bought a dress.

I would like to say about the dress that:

A. I've been drooling over it since I saw it in the spring catalog
B. It was on sale from $170 to $90
C. It's a truly well-made dress
D. I went to H&M and Forever 21 first damnit!

I also spent $100 at Sephora on make-up. But remember what I said in the post about things I want vs. things I need? I REALLY needed makeup. I was using eyeliner and shadow from before college and it was making my eyes water.

The colors of the cheek stain, eyeliner and star powder are different then what is shown.

With the summer coming up I know it's going to be hard to not spend money, especially with Nataliya coming, and a Vegas trip, etc.

It's expensive being a girl!

I'm going to try to be better. Like for instance, I'm not going to go buy these sandals. I won't.

I won't buy a new dress for my Vegas trip, and I'll try to bring my lunch to work as much as possible.

Promise, promise.

Good Writing: Natasha Vargas-Cooper

2009-06-02T13:35:00.000-07:00

Natasha Vargas-Cooper
From Jesse James Hollywood on Trial, The AWL

Though these outbursts are theatrical—and, to my layperson’s eye, unprofessional—they are welcome. The sobs, finger-pointing, frantic gesticulating; watching Hollywood’s face curve with a smile or going slack when testimony seems unfavorable; all this affords some small level of pathos, or at least drama. It’s satisfying to watch the illusions of impartiality and civility break, and to see a witness’s tribal urge to humiliate the person they believe to be a bad person.

New Mad Men promo

2009-06-02T10:36:00.000-07:00

We have to wait until August for the new season of Mad Men? Are you serious?

New Regina Spektor music video

2009-06-02T10:00:00.000-07:00

Laughing With

I like the message, but this doesn't sound like the quirky melodic Regina I've come to know and love.

True Blood Season 2 New Trailer

2009-06-02T00:12:00.000-07:00

June 14th!!!

I want to read this, The Image

2009-06-01T18:27:00.001-07:00

Daniel J. Boorstin, The Image: A Guide to Pseudo-Events in America

Has anyone out there read this? I want to read this.

Today's reads, 6.1.2009

2009-06-01T18:15:00.000-07:00

He Shall be Levi by John Jeremiah Sullivan
"Levi gave me no dirt on the Palins. He is dirt on the Palins. He is what they are pretending to be."

Jesse James Hollywood on Trial by Natasha Vargas-Cooper
"The numb savagery involved in the murder is the kind of stuff that any amateur sociologist could base a thesis on: the suburbs breed their own brand of wanton boys with too much money and too much time, etc."

What I Learned In Creative Writing Class by Anna Holmes
"McGurl's [Mark McGurl] most interesting point — and one he made when I saw him speak last year — is that creative writing programs allow writers whose race or class puts them outside the mainstream to gain positions of cultural authority. Rather than making their writing less authentic (the idea that the "authentic" experience of people of color is a fundamentally uneducated one is, as McGurl points out, insulting and reductive), creative writing programs can make former cultural "outsiders" into authority figures, their work into instructional texts."

Good Writing: John Jeremiah Sullivan

2009-06-01T17:32:00.000-07:00

John Jeremiah Sullivan
From He Shall be Levi, GQ Magazine

When Rex showed up, he was preceded by someone, a person called Tank. To get to Rex, you must get past Tank. That is unlikely until such time as Tank decides to let you by—which he will do, in that event, with good humor, having assumed his gentle-giant mien. He does 300 push-ups in one set every night before going to bed, and he often goes to bed at three in the morning. He has had some kind of military training. Later, when we knew each other, when we "had history," as he put it, I asked him to let me try on his soft sky blue Sean John baseball cap. It dropped straight to my eyes, loose as a candle snuffer, and my head is so large that a waitress at a country restaurant once told me I looked like "a 40-year-old fetus." Tank's head was slowly swallowing its ears.

----------

It takes some mental effort to recover the feeling of how much he seemed to mean at one time, and practically yesterday. Obama has made him seem kitschy already, has stolen his power to signify. Not presuming anything about one's politics—referring instead to the sheer dynamism of events since the election. We are a couple of beads farther along the necklace of cultural time from Levi. We are post-Levi. It's decadent to think of him now. But the chemical traces remain of a plausibility structure inside which his very face seemed full of information and even warning. Something was happening to the country, it was splitting in two. Levi looked like a place where the ripping might start. We were laughing at him then, too, of course—that was largely it. If McCain's choosing Palin had been cynical (as borne out by their recoiling from each other in defeat), not until his embrace of Levi did things become farcical. September 3, on the tarmac, that was when you knew we had reached some point, some level. The McCains came out to welcome the Palins onto the ticket. It was an introduction and some kind of cryptic archconservative coronation. Wind blowing, Bristol dressed in a crisp khaki dress coat. Suddenly into the group shot hove this Levi, chaw-chomping Levi, young, dumb, and full of comeliness, a self-proclaimed redneck hockey enthusiast, no-kids-wanting-but-no-protection-using Levi Johnston, tricked out like a duck hunter now, granted, not like a serious hunter, but no less ready to kick your ass if you messed with him or manifested homosexual tendencies around him. He was at once a bodying forth of the Bush octad and its whole queasy bargain with American masculinity, and at the same time a captivating time bomb of white Alaskan authenticity, with a tattoo on his ring finger. We knew he was there only because it had been deemed worse for him not to be there. That gave him a curious magnetism. And John McCain, fine, he was trying to win a campaign, he's an opportunist. He's also a United States senator and a war hero, and there was something in how he greeted Levi—how for a second it mattered whether he greeted this boy, and in what manner—like an acknowledgment. Not of one man to another, exactly, but of one force to another. It was either the beginning or the end of something. Briefly recall when you didn't know which.

Young adults not on twitter? You don't say...

2009-06-01T12:45:00.001-07:00

I knew I wasn't the only one.

From cnet:

While 99 percent of 18- to 24-year-olds have profiles on social networks, only 22 percent use Twitter, according to a new survey from Pace University and the Participatory Media Network.

This is consistent with what some observers have said about Twitter's recent push from early-adopter territory into the mainstream: that it's catching on with a slightly older demographic than the teenagers and college students who formed Facebook's initial core.

I hate to say I told you so.

The 2009 Twilight Movie Awards

2009-06-01T10:58:00.001-07:00

I feel it necessary to comment on a history-making event that occurred last night, because in a world where GM is filing for bankruptcy, and Air France flights are going missing across the Atlantic, it's important to take time to consider important matters, like how Twilightastic were the MTV Movie Awards last night?

I feel compelled to comment on the movie-awards for some reason, so here we go.

There were a few things that really stuck in my mind from last night:

1. The MTV Movie Awards are now the place to tease your summer blockbuster.
Here are a list of the movies I remember which premiered "exclusive" clips of their upcoming releases:

G.I. Joe
Transformers Revenge of the Fallen
Twilight: New Moon
Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince

2. The Twilight Movie Awards
These movie awards were serious Twilight overload. Twilight cast members swept every category they were nominated for, including Kristen Stewart's win for Best Actress over oscar winners Kate Winslet. Overall Twilight Mentions include:

1. Twilight scene in the intro credits.

2. Robert Pattinson was the first celebrity shown in the crowd as Andy Samberg walked on stage before his opening number, and was by far the most paned to celebrity in the audience.

3. Andy Samberg saying "If you played Edward Cullen throw your hands in the air" in the beginning number.

4. Andy Samberg just saying the word "Twilight" before introducing a presenter as a "bet."

5. Jim Carrey referencing "the good-looking twilight guy" during his award acceptance

6. If you visit the MTV Awards website, 8 out of 24 pieces of content are Twilight content. That's 30 percent of the page for those of you keeping count at home.

7. Andy Samberg's home-made New Moon trailer

8. Everytime RPatz was on stage they panned to KStew and vice versa.

3. I called almost every winner
Honestly, how rigged are these things? Who even saw "Yes Man" with Jim Carrey? How in gods green earth did I know Miley Cyrus was going to win for best musical performance or whatever the f*ck award she was given? And Ashely Tisdale for best breakthrough? I thought breakthrough awards were given to NEW actors. She was given this award for High School Musical 3 for gods sake.

4. MTV is getting smarter
Andy Samberg said it in the beginning of the show, "Welcome to the MTV Movie Awards, the only awards show that is on tonight!" And what did they do in order to get people to watch? They aired the show right after the season finale of The Hills--which is totally how I got hooked into watching it.

With that being said, here are a few one-offs I'd like to state.

1. I can't believe Twilight won as many awards as they did.

2. I thought Kristen Stewart and Robert Pattinson's Best Kiss act was really well done.

click to watch

3. I think Rachel McAdams and Ryan Gosling did it better.

4. I thought Kristen Stewart sounded less stoner-brat when she accepted her award for Best Actress.

5. And even more stoner brat when she presented the trailer for New Moon.

Could she act any less excited or any more stoned?

6. Eminem looked genuinely upset when this whole charade happened.

But considering that they both have something to promote, I have a feeling it was staged.
Update: Kudos to Eminem for being a good sport.

7. I thought the "Generation Award" given to Ben Stiller was hilarious--I was a little put off by how long Kiefer Sutherland kept up his act. I was also a bit surprised that Ben Stiller took it so well, they pretty much repeated what a terrible actor he was over and over and over again.

That's it. Like I said it was twilight overload, which means I was put in that awkward position of loving and hating it all at the same time.

I would like to mention though, before I sign off, that three out of my top 4 search keywords in the last week were:

Which means my evil plan worked! I know its not a ton of traffic, but it's still pretty funny right?

New Moon Finished, Eclipse Filming Begins

2009-06-01T10:05:00.000-07:00

Can you believe they've already finished filming New Moon? They're pumping these movies out like crazy. According to what I've read--they'll continue to film until they've finished Eclipse. Crazy!

I hate this movie poster btw.

Official New Moon Trailer

2009-05-31T20:29:00.001-07:00

THE TWILIGHT SAGA: NEW MOON trailer in HD

Premiered at the Twilight Movie Awards

Bad Writing

2009-05-28T10:50:00.000-07:00

This movie looks intriguing, but I'm not quite sure whether or not watching it will give me a complex.

I already know a lot of what I write is crap, and I agree with the comments made around 1:26 of this video about bad writing being about falseness--the inability of the writer to articulate in words their view of the world (although I resent the fact that he chose "her" as his pronoun of choice. I know he had to as it's proper but plenty of "him"s produce crap as well). I think a lot of bad writing happens when people try to write about things they don't know well enough to describe. To me, writing requires the author to show the reader the world they already know from a new perspective, and do with authenticity. My problem I think, is that I have trouble pulling together words and descriptions so that they sound real and not completely fabricated. Or, that's the problem I'm having with my current story.

Back to the movie--I'll probably see it, but I might have to crawl into a hole for a couple of months afterwards.

Let me know what you think.

How was your Memorial Day weekend?

2009-05-27T18:01:00.001-07:00

I love three day weekends. They give you the chance to really enjoy your surroundings, try new things, go new places--and that's exactly what I did.

Los Angeles National Cemetery by Boyan

On Friday I went to the Magic Castle with Ivelina, Nancy and Boyan. I don't have any photos except this one before we left as they don't allow photos inside the establishment.

We had a great time, and I got to participate in our first show (although the magician was kind of a perv. he also called me a "suburban brat" which isn't a way to win hearts and minds). I got well drunk and saw some fun magic. I can't wait to go back for dinner! Thanks Nancy for bringing us with you.

On Saturday Boyan, Heidi and I went down to Newport to visit the Moms and George, and on Sunday we saw Janea and Jon off before their flight back to the Big Apple.

On Sunday night Boyan and I watched the BEST MOVIE EVER MADE. I don't say this lightly, but honestly, Starter for 10 has to be the best movie I've seen in a long time. It was brilliant and cheesy and brilliantly cheesy. The British equivalent of a coming of age college movie. Amazing. I happened to catch it because I have "James McAvoy" as a keyword on my TiVo (I know you aren't surprised). And Catherine Tate is in it! Come on!

On Monday Boyan and I lazed about. I started re-reading Jane Eyre despite myself, and I got about 20 pages of editing done. I figure I'll do 10 pages a day, and it should only take me about eight days to finish editing the entire piece before I start writing again. Thank.God.

That's it. My update for now. I had to post something quickly after that last post about RPatz's abs. It was too embarrassing to pull up my blog and be confronted with a half-naked picture of Edward Cullen.

Until next time, here is some Regina Spektor and Beirut for you, because right now I'm not listening to anything else.

Robert Pattinson's Six Pack Abs

2009-05-27T16:27:00.000-07:00

Okay, so I totally titled this post with SEO in mind (naughty laugh). Say what you will but I get traffic from twilight searches so there you go.

Anyways, I was perusing some twilight blogs and stumbled across this photo of RPatz filming in Italy.

My friend Liana thinks his abs are painted on, but I'm not sure.

I don't know why, but I've developed a bit of a love/hate relationship with all things Twilight. Maybe it's because the writing isn't that great, or maybe it's because KStew is a total stoner brat--but either way a little piece of me dies every time I see something in the blogs about Twilight. I think it's because I was so invested in the books for such a long time--the absolute fantastical world of it all. Whatever it may be, It's fun to watch the images of the movie coming out during filming, and I can't wait to see what an amazingly cheestastic catastrophe New Moon is going to be when it's finished.

By the way, I would go CRAZY if I had people yelling at me like this:

Poor Rpatz. If I were him I would wear ear plugs, or blast music or something. Jeebus.

I am too much with the world

2009-05-21T11:24:00.000-07:00

Every wednesday some people from my office try to get away from the big city and explore the mountains that surround Los Angeles. Yesterday we went to Santa Ynez Canyon in the Topanga Canyon State Park.

The trail was extremely overgrown and looked as if it had been pretty much abandoned in recent years. The only markings of other humans on the trail was the occasional footprint and unfortunately some graffiti.

Overall it was gorgeous--like something out of a movie. The canyons were lush and green, it was like we were in a remote jungle. The silence was beautiful. Here are a few pictures.

The mountain held the town as in a shadow.
I saw so much before I slept there once:
I noticed that I missed stars in the west,
Where its black body cut into the sky.
Near me it seemed: I felt it like a wall
Behind which I was sheltered from a wind.
And yet between the town and it I found,
When I walked forth at dawn to see new things,
Were fields, a river, and beyond, more fields.
The river at the time was fallen away,
And made a widespread brawl on cobble-stones;
But the signs showed what it had done in spring;
Good grass-land gullied out, and in the grass
Ridges of sand, and driftwood stripped of bark.
I crossed the river and swung round the mountain.

--The Mountain, Robert Frost

Image of the Day: Holi

2009-05-19T13:45:00.001-07:00

Remember when I posted this photo from shape+colour? Well he did a follow up with some more beautiful, colorful photos of the Hindu Festival Holi, the Festival of Colours.

I want to go to there.

Anyone have any tips?

2009-05-19T12:02:00.000-07:00

On how to get oneself out of a creative rut?

I haven't written since the move and have absolutely no inspiration--desire--or motivation to do anything but sit on the couch and veg.

I blame T.V. but I know I'm just as much to blame.

Help! My brain is turning to mush.

We have returned to claim our share of the civilized world

2009-05-19T11:44:00.000-07:00

We had our housewarming party on Saturday and it was a blast. Here are a few photos from the event.

Joanish, Me and Britts

Joan and her men: Tommy, Juergen and Boyan

The girls camped out on the couch: Britta, Alissa, Carol and Tash

Ailissa giving good face

Jon crashed early. Me and Janea

Boyan doing a Bulgarian jig.

Lovely ladies: Joan, Janea and Ivelina

Duca, me and Tommy on the Balcony

This is how I found Joan the next morning, as Boyan says, "Inverted Joan, always trying to find another perspective."

It Hurts So Good. Yes it Does

2009-05-13T11:42:00.000-07:00

Season two of True Blood is on it's way in June and I'm super excited! This promo from HBO is a little camp, but I love it.

Song of the Day: Kissing the Lipless, The Shins

2009-05-12T11:59:00.003-07:00

Image of the Day: Royce Hall at Sunset

2009-05-11T12:49:00.000-07:00

Click to see large.

The last few weeks in photos

2009-05-11T12:28:00.000-07:00

Song of the Day: Heretics by Andrew Bird

2009-05-11T12:17:00.000-07:00

In the spirit of the last post.

Bored holes through our tongues, so sing a song about it
Held our breath for too long till we're half sick about it
Tell us what we did wrong and you can blame us for it
Turn a clamp on our thumbs, we'll sew a doll about it
And tell us all about it
We'll sew a doll about it

How about some credit now
Where credit is due
For the damage that we've done
We have brought upon ourselves and others
With a slow and vicious gun
And although pratfalls can be fun
Encores can be fatal

And then I hear you say
Thank God it's fatal
Thank God it's fatal
Not shy
Not shy of fatal
Not shy of fatal
Thank God
Thank God it's fatal
Thank God it's fatal
Not shy
Not shy of fatal
Not shy of fatal

Wait just a second now
It's not all that bad
Are we not having fun
You make your mountains of handkerchiefs
Where the mascara always runs
So be careful when you're done
You're bound to get post-natal
What did I just hear you say?

Thank God it's fatal
No, we don't want to hear the sound of a door
No, we don't want to hear the sound of a door
And we don't want to read the signs that you bore
You know the kind of sign you hang on a door
Saying, "We'll be back. What a crack."
Now don't you think we might have heard that before?
Now don't you think we might have heard that before?

Bored holes through our tongues, so sing a song about it
Held our breath for too long till we're half sick about it
Tell us what we did wrong and you can blame us for it
Turn a clamp on our thumbs, we'll sew a doll about it

The thick black paste of it

2009-05-11T11:46:00.000-07:00

There was a period of about a month (I think) in college when I didn't get out of bed.

I had this thick polyester navy blue blanket that I used to create a type of tent. I tucked the edges into the top of my bunk, blocking out all light, and closed the blinds in my already dark room. I slept in a blank void, waking to use the restroom, not ever really knowing what time it was. When I woke up, I would watch episodes of the Sopranos. I'm not really sure how long this lasted--I do remember watching 5 1/2 seasons of the Sopranos (all that was available at the time. The second half of season 6 hadn't started on HBO yet) in one sitting, so you do the math.

It happened when I was living in the sorority. I would lock the door and disappear for hours. When I emerged to use the restroom I would shock my friends who hadn't known that I'd been in my room. When they finally caught on that I had holed myself up underneath the covers I would hear faint knocks on the door and people trying the door knob. I would sit quietly and watch the shadow under the door disappear and I'd go back to sleep.

My friends had asked me If I were depressed, and I told them I wasn't. I don't even remember feeling depressed--depression a reality that my mind didn't comprehend--I was just very very tired.

Looking back I realize I MUST have been depressed. What else can explain the crippling feeling of not being able to handle going to class, or even leaving the bed. All I could focus on was sleeping, watching the Sopranos and using the bathroom. And sleep felt so good, like falling into a warm and gentle hug. Each time I would wake up I would feel sleep begging me to come back, wishing to embrace me again.

Depression is a funny thing--I have friends I know that have suffered from it, but I honestly can't say that I understand it. I understand suicide even less.

I read this article from Daphne Merkin, writer who suffers severe depression, and she explains the depths of depression in a way that I can understand. I think anyone who has experienced some type of depression can relate on a surface level--I don't want to ever know or feel exactly what she's describing, it would be too frightening.

It's a long article--about eight pages online--but I picked out the parts that spoke to me.

DEPRESSION — THE THICK BLACK paste of it, the muck of bleakness — was nothing new to me. I had done battle with it in some way or other since childhood. It is an affliction that often starts young and goes unheeded — younger than would seem possible, as if in exiting the womb I was enveloped in a gray and itchy wool blanket instead of a soft, pastel-colored bunting.

Surely this is the worst part of being at the mercy of your own mind, especially when that mind lists toward the despondent at the first sign of gray: the fact that there is no way out of the reality of being you, a person who is forever noticing the grime on the bricks, the flaws in the friends — the sadness that runs under the skin of things, like blood, beginning as a trickle and ending up as a hemorrhage, staining everything.

In the end there is no one to intervene on your behalf when you disappear again into what feels like a psychological dungeon — a place that has a familiar musky smell, a familiar lack of light and excess of enclosure — except the people you’ve paid large sums of money to talk to over the years.

It sits in the space behind your eyes, making its presence felt even in those moments when other, lighter matters are at the forefront of your mind.

When I was awake (the few hours that I was), I felt a kind of lethal fatigue, as if I were swimming through tar.

THE ONE THING PSYCHIATRIC hospitals are supposed to be good for is to keep you safe. But I was conflicted even about so primary an issue as survival. I wasn’t sure I wanted to ambush my own downward spiral, where the light at the end of the tunnel, as the mood-disordered Robert Lowell once said, was just the light of the oncoming train.

Self-inflicted death had always held out a stark allure for me: I was fascinated by people who had the temerity to bring down the curtain on their own suffering — who didn’t hang around, moping, in hopes of a brighter day. I knew all the arguments about the cowardice and selfishness (not to mention anger) involved in committing suicide, but nothing could persuade me that the act didn’t require a perverse sort of courage, some steely embrace of self-extinction.

If you are depressed enough, it seems to me, you begin to conceive of death as a cradle, rocking you gently back to a fresh life, glistening with newness, unsullied by you.

At the same time, I recognized that, for a person who was really set on ending it all, speaking your intention aloud was an act of self-betrayal. After all, in the process of articulating your death wish you were alerting other people, ensuring that they would try to stop you.

Suicide could wait, my sister said. Why didn’t I give the hospital a chance?

Happy May Day

2009-05-01T11:27:00.000-07:00

Some observations:

The hardwood floors in my new apartment look like a slick wood-colored pool and light glows throughout the living room all day. The patio is often too windy and cold to sit on from the ocean breeze, but oh that ocean breeze. When you do sit on the patio, the smells of Indian and Persian spices are inescapable. It's lonely at night while I'm waiting for Boyan to come home, and my mind is too numb to write. I spent three weeks moving and still have things to do at the old apartment.

I am physically and emotionally exhausted.

Last Saturday in the frenzy of packing and loading up my car to drive to West L.A. I found out that I was rejected from Bennington. The craziness of the day made it impossible for me to digest the reality of it at the time, which I think helped me get through the disappointment. But I'm sure that once my life has settled down, the blows of rejection will hit me and I will break down. I haven't really been able to tell anyone about it yet, besides friends and family, because admitting my failure to others feels like I am openly admitting that I am a failure.

I'm too sensitive to open myself up to criticism from my enemies or compassion from my friends. Both would be like scratching an open wound, drawing blood and prolonging the healing process.

I have to remind myself over and over again not to listen to the voice inside my head that tells me that I'm not good enough or smart enough. If I write everyday no matter if it's good or if its crap it's strengthening my writing muscle. Every time I do it, I get stronger.

"Inspiration may be a form of superconsciousness, or perhaps of subconsciousness - I wouldn't know. But I am sure it is the antithesis of self- consciousness."
-- Aaron Copeland

We're living in boxes right now, too much stuff and too little storage.

I have to give some of my books away because I have no room for them.

Heidi's nails click clack against the wood floor like a woman in stilettos and she hates it; but if we let her, she'd sit on the patio all day and night.

We have directv now, and I love and hate it in equal measure. I haven't read anything new since finishing Ines of My Soul on audio book. I miss the drive only because I miss the time I spent listening to books on tape.

I take the bus now, and in the week I've been a patron of public transportation I've witnessed:

I've been trying to smile at everyone that makes eye contact with me in the street, to honor the connectedness we have with other people. Thank you Jay Smooth for reminding me that we have more in common with other people than we have that separates us.

Today I was told that I have a nice smile and to have a nice day.

Jay Smooth, by the way, is my new hero. He speaks the true, unfiltered, and beautiful truth. I want to be him when I grow up.

He also has a twitter which you can follow here.

Speaking of which, I was thinking the other day about the promises I made to myself when I was younger. When I was about 13 or 14, one of my biggest fears was becoming old and out of touch with what was going on in the world around me, and I remembering telling myself that no matter how old I got I would continue to watch MTV. Because once I stopped watching MTV it would be over. I would become officially irrelevant as a human being.

Well, I don't watch MTV anymore (except for the hills and the city, my guilty pleasures) and in a world dominated by social media, I find myself recoiling from the hyper-connected disingenuous worlds of facebook and twitter. I HATE twitter. Hate hate hate. The idea of "following" someone sounds terrible and a little bit creepy. But the truth is everyone is doing it. People are building marketing strategies around it, and not having it on your resume makes you a less desirable candidate. But seriously, how cool can twitter be if even Sarah Palin has an account? I thought the whole point of being young and fresh was that what YOU do is above the understanding of the older generations. But thats not the case. Grandparents have facebook accounts and major CEO's, actors, and public figures are on twitter.

The craziness that is social media has turned me off so much that I've even considered removing my facebook, but A. I kind of need it for my job and B. I feel like I would totally lose touch from everyone I know if I did.

Closing my facebook account would be the equivalent of walking into the desert, finding a cave and becoming a hermit.

This past year I removed my birthday from my profile two weeks before the actual day, and I wasn't surprised that no one wished me a happy birthday when the day finally came. It was only after my husband wrote something on my wall that other people noticed. The way I look at it is, my true friends and people that love me called me or sent me a card, and I'd rather have that then have some site remind people that it would be polite to congratulate me on another year of living.

Does my distaste for this new form of media make me...old? I feel like I can't rebel against twitter and facebook without resigning from public life and damaging my career.

What's a girl to do?

All I want to do is rip out my TV, turn off my computer and surround myself with books and paper and pens and nature. I want to go to a cafe and have a coffee with a friend and ask them how they are doing, rather than read about it in their status updates. It's like we've replaced REAL face-to-face interaction with virtual interaction and people don't realize that it isn't a one-to-one trade. We are all losing out and closing ourselves off to the world around us and it's scary!

I'm going to think long and hard about this whole facebook thing.

Until then, I'll leave you with Ten Other Things Martin Luther King Said as read by Jay Smooth.

PREACH!

Song of the Day: Cover of Viva la Vita

2009-04-27T17:13:00.001-07:00

This video makes me thankful that they didn't have YouTube back when I was in choir, but kinda makes me wish I did too. There is a video of me as Dorothy in the 5th grade Wizard of Oz floating around that I really want to see, but I am sure is very very embarrassing.

Anyways, this makes me feel better after a really stressful couple of weeks, so enjoy. Updates to come.

Another new Harry Potter trailer, more goosebumps!

2009-04-20T15:44:00.000-07:00

Looks amazing. Can't wait.