Give and Take

Whether networking, dating, being friendly or otherwise, life seems to be about what you can gain from either a person or situation. Know the right people, be in the right place at the right time, and leave your mind open so as to capitalize on the right opportunity. Scratch my back, I'll scratch yours.

All three aforementioned social circumstances, however, involve giving something of yourself in order to keep gaining whatever it is that you want. Whether its more contacts, more sex, or the impression that more people like you, it's this idea of validation that keeps things rolling. If people know who you are, you will likely get whatever it is that you want.

Some people give more than they take, others take more than they give. When you really think about it, both stances are completely self-serving. Interestingly, both stances stand to lose a lot more than they expect. Whether or not it is realized is the question.

Along with family and a general morale, I have always believed in balance. Without balance comes chaos. If one cog in the machine is loose, you have to replace it.

I have had a general luck with other people as far as balance and chaos is concerned. I tend to befriend people who are as balanced as I am. Sure, we've all got our neuroses and worries about how we come across to the other. We're cranky and get irked with each other but in the end we fit pretty damned well. Relationships are a lot more interesting. Strong intellectual connections serve as foreplay to a form of sexual expression that, well, needs expressing, and often. Professionally I am able to do the job, but sometimes am too eager, optimistic. Very much "I'm the Guy" without being a kiss-ass. That said, if given the chance, I manage to impress. In all cases I'd like to think I give my fair share in an attempt to show that I am worth taking a chance on. In short, I am not a user - and so I give.

So imagine how the idea of being considered disposable makes my stomach turn. Dependent on circumstance, in the instance when things end, are redefined by omission, or are no longer mutual, I tend to wonder if I gave all that I could, if there was something I could have done differently. Only now am I realizing that I give just enough - that it's up to others to give as much or merely take. That it's not worth feeling horrible because in my experience, you can never successfully hold a mirror in front of a habitual user's face.

If only there were a scientific balance for flesh-and-blood relations. I'd like to think that my conundrum and pseudo-self-analyzation will contribute to someone else's million dollar idea.

Revival

I have decided to breathe some life into this thing because as of late, life in itself has been far too interesting. Yes, I realize that "interesting" is a relative term, that's why they call this personal blogging. In addition to being interesting, I have also found it to be absolutely hilarious - both in good and bad connotations - so much so that to not resurrect this thing would be a completely inappropriate move.

Since I last updated here, my relationship status has been set to single for the first time in three and a half years. I didn't realize how huge a part of my life being a couple was until recently trying my hand at dating/casual "interactions". Naturally, after a paltry three months of testing the waters (and diving in - thanks, Jack Daniels), I'm feeling kind of spent. First of all, the germophobe in me has never taken kindly to waiting any length of a three-month window period. Secondly, we all can't be Samantha Jones, or hell, even Miranda Hobbes (who, face it, got a lot of action in seasons 2 and 3 of Sex & the City). Were that there were really a balance... in attempting to broaden my social circle, I intend to find that out.

Since last updating here, I have also severed ties with the corporate world - or rather, they have with me. After five years of living in the shadow of multiple mergers I'm growing accustomed a somewhat flexible schedule consisting in part of meeting deadlines for the websites I contribute to (BeatCrave.com and WorkingAuthor.com), among other things. That said, I am either super busy or not at all, with the lack of corporate consistency proving to be a godsend as well as weighing heavily on the nerves.

I am also trying out some personal projects, one of which has garnered attention within the Los Angeles bicycling community (and surrounding counties); others involving a novel and two screenplays - the latter two ventures I will need to seek out a mentor for, I'm sure. I really have no idea what I'm doing. At this stage, I am merely trying, with not yet too bad an outcome. We'll see what takes place in the next six months.

One of the aforementioned projects - being a transportation/bicycling blog - is my pride and joy, as it mostly revolves around my adventures without a car in Los Angeles. Needless to say, it provides a lot of material and has been given backbone support by the interwebs. That said, with all the writing I've been doing (for at least the last twelve years) I hope to get into personal writing again... as well as quip on life, love, pop culture and politics in general, or whatever else may arise.

I remember once saying that my mind is a minefield of snippets. I guess it never hurts to watch your step.

Re-vamp

So. I'm wondering what to do with this blog. Either leave it here and move to another one, or re-vamp this one in the new year to discuss what I really want to talk about. The question, however, is this: what do I want to talk about?

I, myself, right now, am all of the following:

a writer
a friend
a daughter
a girlfriend
a runner
a cyclist
a car-less Angeleno (but more so a Valley girl)
a dance freak
a reader
a gym rat
a reccesionista (hello, fashion)
a learner

I love to eat, go to museums, watch movies, go to concerts, garden, shop, play with patterns, analyze friendships/relationships/media, go to clubs. What in the world do I focus on?

Very few readers of mine, in this last week of 2009, I will figure it out. And in 2010, hopefully you will have some thick juicy content to use and inform others to your heart's content.

Soggy, unromantic me

There was a time when I considered rain to be romantic. When I was a little girl I used to wander out in our prone-to-flooding family backyard in waterproof boots and what - a nightshirt? Flannel pants? School clothes? - I'd often wade in the marshy portions of grass, whose organism count had risen with the inches of rainwater... and while everyone else in the neighborhood would be lining their abodes with sandbags, I would be in the grass, wondering what it would be like if John Malkovich as Mr. Hyde would spirit me away from the Valley to the wet, foggy streets of 19th century London to the life of God knows what unspeakable horror.

Yes, conveniently, I would have just watched "Mary Reilly" for perhaps the fourth or fifth time. So maybe I have major issues as to what I find romantic.

As a woman, I can admire greatly the typical idea of romance from afar. Not to say that, as a woman, I am a sentimental fiend, but I can appreciate the things that make one go "aww", since most of life's routine ins and outs don't behold that response. I'd say my favorite recollection of romance would be roses sent to a co-worker on her birthday. Who couldn't notice the contrast of golden yellow petals flecked with red, just sitting there against the grey-beige of her desk. I've never received roses at work before, and that's okay. I've received reciprocated rated-X text messages, but that's about it.

Friggin' romance: in conversations with others, it seems I'm a little jaded for my twenty-something profile when it comes to things like hand-holding, lip-locking, gift-giving, and interpersonal exchanges of words. It's beyond obvious how I'd like to think that romance isn't chocolates or diamonds or hand holding in public places. Whatever, however. Familiarity, camaraderie, in the muck with me. This is romance... unless I'm entirely mistaken?

Bonus round: What do you define as "romantic"?

I'm kinda busy (but not really)

It's not exactly been public knowledge, but I was laid off a week ago tomorrow. I'd known for about 3.5 months prior. Even still, it's been an interesting ride, the aftermath. Work, as much as I despised what the company I worked for became, was something that I did every day, something that I was good at, and something that I was thankful to bring a paycheck home from.

It's been nearly a week, and I've done all the things I wished I could've done from the confines of my cubicle: cleaned, done laundry, rode my bike, run, gone to the mall, to the movies, to the bank - hell, yesterday a friend and I went to City Hall for a meeting on cycling and transportation. I think I've done it all. Tomorrow I intend to meet my boyfriend for lunch and spend the better part of the weekend with him.

I've got so much time and I don't know what to do with it.

If anything, I hope in the next month to:

train my body to be accustomed to higher speeds on my bicycle
to write, write, write, no matter what it is
to ride, ride, ride, no matter where or for whatever reason
to help put together one of the floats for the upcoming Tournament of Roses
to organize my closet and donate whatever I don't want to the Salvation Army
and to learn to make meals to nourish both myself and my roommates, because why the hell not?

Other than that... I think that save for education, the internet, electricity, and other modern conveniences, I might go crazy.

/cry for help

Really?

I just wanted to say that I'm happy to be viewed as a writer by my friends and fellow writers and others who - dare I say - depend on feedback, on analyzation. I am thankful for retaining a pseudo-creative way in validating a bias without the one reading being the wiser. I am happy to promote those I want to see do well, so long as the favor is returned (credit on a first and last name basis, please). Despite my doubts about my work and my relative ability, something tells me that this is standard criteria, this distrust and disbelief in self. I don't believe in fate, but I do believe that so long as someone has the drive, most anything is possible.

Yeah, I said it.

Lacking the drive

So based on the way my blog has been booming in entries (not), it goes without saying that I've not been that inspired to let the world in on my opinions on the things that don't seem to matter so much in the greater scheme of things. That and I've just been too busy. Not recording a multi-platinum album or writing a best-selling novel brand of busy by any means. Pretty much, if it takes more than 140-160 characters to get across, it hasn't been that important. This, obviously, needs correcting.

Anyway, with that said, I had an observation this evening. My friend's been in New York for the last two weeks, and instead of his parking his truck at the airport for that length of time, I've been taking charge of its operations until he returns. Generally, since I take the bus, bicycle, or walk where I need to go, I've only driven it a handful of times since he's been away. This evening, however, I drove to my folks' house to pick up something, and on my way there I couldn't help but think that - even though I've driven very little since I got my driver's license - I'm a safe, cautious, practical driver. Never driving much over or under the speed limit, always using directionals, leaving a car length in front of me for each 10 mph when on the freeway, etc - what I consider to be reasonable rules of the road in which to avoid unnecessary accidents.

Living in Los Angeles, while it's not impossible to get by without the use of a vehicle, the majority of the population utilizes these readily available four-wheeled conveniences. Whether a personal, company, rented or borrowed vehicle, to have one at your disposal in order to get from Point A to Point B without relying on timetables is a nice feeling. As a result, nearly everyone in Los Angeles has a car. Nearly everyone.

I'm sitting here, wondering if I can get my point without actually offending anyone by coming out and saying it.

When something is exclusive - like a first class ticket, concierge services, a Club 33 membership - it usually means that some criteria must have been met prior to the red velvet rope having been set aside.

And while I understand that having a driver's license and driving a car don't necessarily mean the same thing, for purposes of this observation I'm going to pretend that it's the case. The requirements of having one's license are so low in comparison to what one actually learns on the road that it's like, why the formality? Especially when it seems that the supposed common sense doesn't kick in fast enough to avoid the making of a friggin' stupid move that does more damage than annoying the person in the vehicle behind you.

Peripheral vision is a godsend; if you don't know what it is, you shouldn't be driving. But rear-view mirrors, directionals, and easing up on the gas are also lovely ways to avoid erratic handling of self on the road. Being brake-happy is never a good thing. And hard stops (usually preceded by sharp cut-offs) are never necessary.

I just have to wonder if it's just me, or are people behaving more dumb as I get older? Or has it always been this way?

There's no nice way of saying someone is an idiot. One of these days, I will learn this.

Magic 8 ball

I love writing.

I had a great time in New York in September - frequenting museums, parks, and Brooklyn/Manhattan in general - but the best time spent was in my brother's studio, and being allowed to write. I was given the time, and the silence, and often the playlist accessibility slash alcohol content to enjoy it thoroughly. Ah, my brother; he has a wall about thirty feet long lined with books. For the time that I was there - aside from eating, sleeping, and making love to the city - I could do the two things that make me the most happy in the world: read and write. I read, and I wrote. Give me time off, and this is how I spend it.

In the real world, however, writing would first off involve being paid for it. Having spoken with many a friend and peering over their shoulders while looking for jobs, I am greatly offended by the Craigslist ads that offer experience, but no pay. Sure, name recognition and the experience can be considered gratifying, but only for so long. As for me, sure it'd be great to search elsewhere for more experience, but not at the risk of no pay. Not to toot my own horn, but finding out that a local venue's website refers to some of my write-ups for featured bands tickles my happy nerve. Receiving thanks and kudos from a band for a blurb or a detailed mention makes my day. I've been wanting to write something other than melodramatic poetry since I was thirteen years old, and here I am. Dream lived. And while there are still various kinks to work out, I've now a portfolio and references. I'm ready to be recommended. It's just that I expressly remember at least five years ago there being other opportunities for paid freelance work for those eagerly seeking it. And believe me, I know a lot of freelance writers eagerly seeking it.

School starts again next spring. I'll be going for my bachelor's degree and to be a credentialed teacher. Needless to say that I'm somewhat worried at how much time I will or will not have to put to what I love doing. Obviously I will not let throwing my opinion at anything that moves get in the way of any academic endeavors; still, I'm interested in seeing what will happen in the world of journalism, personal essays, entertainment reviews, etc., as - hopefully - the cut and paste function will cease to be a dependable option, and things will start dying on the reality television front.

If only - if only - I could predict the future.

Mmm.

It is 8:55pm on a Tuesday evening in southern California, and I cannot feel my toes.

Where and how are you?

In my universe, this is the middle-of-the-weekend. My boyfriend has safely returned from New York. For the last week we have forgone life's pleasures and have met at the center with food, life, and everything else in which to wish you and whoever chooses to read a safe and happy evening, wherever you may roam, conduct business, or otherwise.

ttfn

Ta Ta For Now

L.

A Brief "LA Candy" Dissection

So I'm reading New York Times Bestseller LA Candy, "written" by reality starlet turned fashion designer Lauren Conrad, and I felt it highly important to say a few brief things about it. Forgive me as I dive in headfirst:

a) The writing in itself is a good skeleton, but does not have enough meat to be desirable. It's all bones, and as attractive a slender figure can be, bony doth not feel good.

b) If it was in fact ghost-written, that ghostwriter should find another gig. If you're getting paid to make something better, it should actually be friggin' good, and friggin' good it ain't. It's alarmingly mediocre.

c) Elaborate where appropriate. Descriptions such as "the pretty brick building" or "the tall, industrial-looking light" are too simple, or rather, too vague. A little less cut-and-paste and a little more realism, perhaps, would bring life to the surroundings and not the object only.

d) The constant mention places and having to explain them to the reader is not an effective way of description and involvement. Describing something shouldn't be a laundry list of adjectives or adverbs. They should sing and perhaps lure the reader into conjuring up their own images. Keep the parantheses to a minimum. And, El Pollo Loco does not need explaining. "The Crazy Chicken" we know.

I'm just disappointed in that she got a three-book-deal, but even more so that I'm actually reading the first of them. I'll probably read them all as some sort of modern, silent torture.

In reading it, I must say that I'm actually worried - worried in that I could one day submit a book idea to someone so shoddily put together and watered-down for readers, thinking it was hot stuff, and being made fun of/criticized harshly because of it. Being a bestseller wouldn't matter. Being the best at making money doesn't mean success, or prestige, or real value. I'm sure there are plenty of monetarily advanced drug dealers and prostitutes out there, too.

I know that I'm not the best writer out there, but I'd like to think that I'm good at what I do. That I'm honest in whatever format is in front of me. I've got to hand it to anyone writing fiction; it's not easy. But when this brand of fiction is based loosely on your real-life experience - come now. It should be [relatively] gravy. Again, I guess that's what one gets when making their real-life experience "fiction" instead of non-fiction so as to avoid all the legal fees.

I really don't mean to sound so bitter.

"The Hills", or How Reality Television Killed the Writer

MTV's The Hills: reality show, soap opera, pop culture phenomenon. Starring Lauren Conrad, Heidi Montag, Audrina Patridge, Whitney Port and company, the show has refined the love of beautiful and expensive things while hiding under the guise of societal productivity. Having premiered in 2006, The Hills acted as a spin-off of MTV's Laguna Beach, an "experiment" of sorts with cameras and rich youth living in Southern California by the ocean (how Sunset Beach of them).

Laguna Beach launched the pseudo-career of Lauren Conrad, followed her all the way to her high school graduation, to her first year of college, all the while capitalizing on her tumultuous unrequited love triangle that contributed to one of the show's running storylines - for two seasons. The Hills picked up where Conrad had left Laguna Beach - driving down the freeway in her Mercedes en route to Los Angeles, "the city where dreams come true". As an intern at TEEN Vogue and full-time student at the Fashion Institude of Design and Merchandising (FIDM), Conrad had a lot on her plate to chew through and digest. Good thing her partner in crime - Heidi Montag, also to attend FIDM - was present to greet her poolside of their $3,000-a-month West Hollywood apartment complex.

Understanding the natural tendency to find other people's lives more interesting, The Hills has been successful to the Nth degree, having resulted in various spin-offs of its own (The City, starring Whitney Port working PR for Diane von Furstenburg in New York City, and soon, The Audrina Show - no guesses there). The more remarkable fact that remains is that none of this has consistently involved the continuous presence of a writer.

The situation comedy has been made obsolete by the reality and dating show format. Situation comedies considered to be hot stuff (ie Friends) weren't necessarily overly brilliant; however, despite the greed that infects any situation involving money, when things were good they were mutual between writers and actors. The experimental The Real World, on the heels or perhaps ankles of the universally-watched sitcom, was perhaps the first of its kind - a situation, comedic or otherwise, without the aid of a writer. It was with The Real World that shows like Laguna Beach - and eventually The Hills - were able to be inseminated into the womb of our subconscious.

As a teenager (albeit nineteen) I watched Laguna Beach, fascinated that the cameras could capture such drama and cattiness between blondes and brunettes alike. The dollar sign sheen on the BMWs, the Chanel shoes, and the unsupervised parties at suites overlooking the beach was brilliant as much as it was coveted. However, realizing that this money didn't belong to the onscreen participants themselves made the show in itself tolerable to watch. However, with what spin-offs such as The Hills have become - from relaxed somewhat contrived dinners at Luna Park then to "business meetings" at Salades De Provence now - it is clear that at least to an extent, much more than a release form has been signed. Something smells of lawyers present at various contract agreements ("her best angle") and salary negotiations (to the tune of, say $65K an episode for the lead).

Monsters are born, but they don't stay babies forever. Like the humans that bear them, eventually they learn to crawl, walk, talk, and feed themselves, always at their hosts' expense. There is no way to misunderstand something so much like ourselves when it is we the audience who keeps making it fat. Like the child of a loving parent, we will feed our children before we feed ourselves. The stars of The Hills seem to think that we forget certain things like times of day and when photos are taken along the timeline of the show's progression that contradict it continuously. Again, like the loving parents that we are, we realize that it would do no good to just kill the kid. Instead, we continue to indulge it, at least for one more season.

The Hills will air the second half of its fifth season later this month, and will now star Laguna Beach alum Kristin Cavallari, as Lauren Conrad has rather wisely decided to capitalize on more than her blonde hair and amazing wardrobe. Yes, even with all the broadcast trips to Mexico and Hawaii on private planes, and the numerous trips to the Warren Tricomi Salon, I still think give her props for doing so. Conrad has milked the teat for as long as she could latch onto it and now works relatively behind the scenes on a fashion line. While not the most inspiring gig, however, in the name of the monster who has led the way out of its controlled environment, others have come out of the woodwork - naturally, her replacement, Cavallari, and the most blatant of all, Heidi Montag and Spencer Pratt (aka Speidi).

Whores carry and conceal disease. Need I say more?

Outside of the television realm (executed and in production), there have been books, blogs, albums, TV appearances, even fitness plans have been made available to satiate admitted gluttony. As of Thursday night last week, my video iPod has made friendly with the fourth of The Hills' five seasons. There appears to be no stopping these young, rich, and "untalented". My purchase alone is proof in that our fascination isn't helping them. We're enabling them. And yet it seems as if they're the ones that are doing something right.

Are we that inclined to let the madness remain?

structured rant

I used to talk a lot when I was younger. I'm actually embarrassed by that. I'd like to think that this was because for a long time I didn't have much of a life. Being excitable and bright-eyed and really really young, I wanted everyone to like me. At seventeen, my life was a sterilized bubble of high school and religion. At eighteen I got a taste of something else, something completely different. Naturally I reverted back into the bubble for a year, but at nineteen I re-emerged. Of course, I still talked a lot because I still didn't have a lot going on, but with getting to know all sorts of people through work, school, and life in general, I've been able to channel whatever verbal word count I exceeded into print. It doesn't come nearly as easily, but there is the convenient benefit of self-editing.

I just don't like it when people talk a lot. It makes me nervous and uncomfortable. I often end up somewhere in the middle, wondering if they want me to participate or if they're just ranting and I should just sit by and let them go until there's no more fuel to burn. As a result I've become an expert at tuning people out. I'm trying to modify that 'talent' because only recently have I found that I might actually be missing out on something by doing so. But I can't help it. Sometimes people don't know when to shut up.

I keep my opinions to myself, unless they're spelled out on my face. It's not that I don't care; it's that most of the time I'm just too tired to respond. Unfortunately I think that I've fallen into the category of "Well, we'll just have to see how things pan out, shall we?" and "There's little to nothing that we can do at this point so why worry so much about it?" This would involve a lot of internalizing and blow-ups that just aren't pretty. I need to work on this if I would like for people to consider me dependable and decent. However, I don't need everyone do like me. I don't want everyone to like me as much as I'd rather a choice few think I'm intelligent with a reserved, neutral personality. As long as the universe knows that I'm reliable and don't contradict myself, I could really care less otherwise.

My day job involves listening for key phrases and controlling the conversation; keeping things short, sweet, and to the point. Benefit and detriment, that, but something I couldn't do before. I've gradually incorporated that into daily dealings, and as a result I actually like people, although not always. I just wish I could target what's my deal in that 'silence is golden' should be practiced by others, and not merely a suggestion flashed on a movie screen right before the previews.

Yeah, that's it.

/structured rant

Why I Love Lady Gaga

Television has reminded me that Lady Gaga is considered to be a "new artist". On Sunday, September 13, she will be in the running for a number of honors at the MTV Music Awards, one of these being "best new artist". This post is pretty much to highlight why I happen to be drawn to this particular artist.

My first exposure to Lady Gaga was on Livejournal community ohnotheydidnt, a place for entertainment commentary both scathing and adoring. When photos of Lady Gaga started showing up rather frequently, I couldn't help thinking who the hell was this person impersonating Christina Aguilera, and why wasn't she wearing any pants?

Last December, my younger brother showed me a video on YouTube for a song called "Just Dance" by this artist, Lady Gaga. The music video involved a lot of drinking, making out, pimp cups, and wading in inflatable pools. I pretty much said to him in response, "Oh my God; what's wrong with these people? Is this what fun looks like?" Being a twenty-something, I should probably know the answer to that question, but it's safe to say that I don't.

Fast forward to - for some reason - listening to a song called "Poker Face". I actually really dug the song - the heavy beats, the synths, the glittery effect, yet the personality behind the voice belonging to this Lady Gaga person. I ended up watching the video on YouTube, naturally, and found that between 10 and 10:15 that evening I had watched/re-watched and replayed certain scenes at least a ten left-clicks. For some otherworldly reason I was transfixed by the stomping, platinum, electric blue hussy. She was by no means a lady. Two minutes later I was downloading the song on iTunes.

About two or three months ago, whilst on YouTube yet [again] I had seen one of those preview screencaps of the music-video-to-be-premiered, "Paparazzi". She had me at the subtitles and softcore faux foursome on the Victorian-era couch.

My playlists consist of only three of her songs - the aforementioned - and one music video. One of these days I'll own The Fame, a physical copy on sale at Target, probably. Naturally she has a great production team behind her - someone's running the show, but not enough to tell her what not to wear. God, what an amazing, effed-up sense of style. If she wore the same thing twice, those watching would definitely know; she's that out there. Most things on the runway aren't 'meant' to be worn in day-to-day life unless incorporated in a vanilla fashion. In a sense Lady Gaga is a walking, heaving-chested runway - especially with the suit of Kermit the Frogs. She takes chances, she not classically sexy, and her personality (I would like to think) is the oomph that differentiates her from other artists. Different, in a way that used to be and probably is still considered to be odd and a sign of trying too hard, but somehow manages to work.

Although, it probably helps that I've barely heard her opinion. Actually, I don't think I've ever heard her speaking voice. If I did, that would probably change everything.

(Editor's note: I was born in 1985. Cut me some slack.)

Lately

I've been a little behind, with much apologies.

My folks went on their pretty-much-yearly trip to the Bahamas for two weeks by way of the Disney Cruise Line, and being a good daughter, I house-sat for them. Being that I'm one of their five children still living in the state of California, it was the most decent thing to do. Two weeks of a house, playing nursemaid to their two dogs and one cat, and most importantly, a fridge and pantry full of food. By full, I mean "could easily throw a party for twenty with this much food" full. A set-up such as this would ordinarily be heaven for your normal, average single individual, but considering that I'm neither normal nor average, I pretty much went through various levels of WTF in the last two weeks: where the positives were negatives, and what were once negatives were positives.

For one thing, I was provided full use of one of their [five] vehicles with which to drive to and from my place (to take care of my felines), to work, and to their place. Ordinarily my commute involves either a twelve-mile bicycle ride to and from work or by-luck use of Metro's services - no matter what, I am getting exercise at some time during a normal 12-14 hour day. However, with the car, although I was able to be rested and relaxed while driving to and from, well, everywhere, I was unable to be active for the time it was given me. Sloth, frumpy, and unattractive just covers the surface of how I felt. When my parents returned this past Saturday evening, I made sure to go on a 25-mile bicycle ride the very next day.

It must be said as well that with the time given me to enjoy by myself, I didn't really enjoy it at all. It's odd that the house in which one grows up in as a child does not feel like home without the instigators of the idea. And with work and commuting and responsibility taking the majority of my time, there was little time for fun. There was no Downtown ArtWalk for me. Whatever free time there was was bookended by thoughts of being here, being there, and oh Hell, I have to work tomorrow (don't get me started about work; that will take at least three paragraphs). I missed my roommates, who conveniently double as more than good friends and chosen family. And the wireless service at my folks' house? Sucks, as far as my laptop is concerned; their machines, available though they were, proved to be slow like honey. So what I consider to be purposeful work (writing) didn't get done within my or anyone else's timeframe. I turned in a blurb today, with no muss, no fuss. A review will be in tomorrow. Needless to say, I feel uber empowered at the thought of a reliable operating system and frakking high speed internet. Life's simple pleasures, indeed.

I'm a creature of habit, as we all are. In the last two years, I have become master of my domain. My domain, my control ship. Were that change were completely within our control, I think it would be welcomed a lot easier; however, that's not how it will ever work.

I am catching up.

Explanation, please?

This morning I woke up from a dream in which I was going through a bunch of my dad's old memories in a closet/on a shelf, etc. One of these memories was a box of greeting cards that had the image of two white women with angry, justice-is-served faces, and a black man crying; the other image was of a boat sailing in the ocean, resembling some sort of people-freighter. The box, a sort of faded green color, was labeled with the phrase: "Some boys make bad mistakes." In the dream, I opened the box and inside was a short letter from my sister to my dad, which read:

"Dear Pop,

I'm sorry; I only realized what this was when I opened up the box. Maybe one day Lindsey can send me a birthday card.

Love,
Jessica"

It was then that I woke up.

I've no idea where all that came from, either, but damn it if it wasn't amusing enough to remember.

Dead and gone

Thinking about the past can be both positive and negative. This evening, my thinking about the past is, unfortunately, a negative - which is funny, because not too long ago (read: last week), it was a positive.

Relationships end. Live and let live. But strangely enough, it's likely that the part of your self that was invested in said relationship will die along with it. It's been a slow death in my case, one five-and-a-half years in its duration. I've found happiness and richness in other relationships since, but it's difficult to really forget the way 'it' felt the first time. The newness of love, the spark, the desire. Or was that lust? I wouldn't have been able to tell you the difference then. Looking back, it was a delicate mixture of both. But there's only so much one can take. I understand that now.

The universe deals second chances in some ways, but doesn't in others. I would love it were I given a second chance, but I truly am thinking I was lucky enough to have been enjoyed the time while it lasted.

Yes, I am aware of the awkward drop off. Such is life.

Happy 4th of July...

...from within the walls of my cubicle.

I shouldn't complain, though, as I had yesterday off from work. With these four-day work weeks, I've actually been able to enjoy some sort of summer vacation from school, which has virtually been unheard of in the last three years. While I haven't necessarily gone stale yet, I haven't been as active in social circles as I'd've liked. I am going to need to work on that.

I acknowledge that I haven't been writing here often as of late, and the reason for that I must admit is the little compact thought processor also known as Twitter. I've been enjoying cramming my thoughts into 140 characters. In some odd way it forces the person doing the conveying to be precise with their words, while allowing room to be creative, if applicable. Feel free to follow me; I'm sure we'll have a good time together.

Writing, reading, working - such is life as of late. Still no car, still no winning lottery ticket. Life is one day if not one moment at a time, and it's working out for now. Viewing life in such a way keeps me from freaking out about the future. For once in my life I'm totally uncertain as to what the future holds, where I'll be in a year when it comes to everything - professionally, in relationships, with school, living quarters, everything. It's all up in the air, subject to change. Living in the moment is the equivalent to living in a bubble filled with pure oxygen - it's safe... until it's popped, that is.

Should that moment arise, I hope to not break out in hives. Or, you know, die from exposure. Let's think the best, shall we?

Post-school days

School is done with for the semester. It has literally been a whole day and a half and already I'm feeling a little weird. I'm positive that I won't be on the same campus that I have been for the last three years, adding classes and frequenting the library and the student store, experiencing late nights over an energy drink studying my brains out -- it's over at that location, at least. Right now I'm in a bit of limbo as I transfer from one school to the next (hopefully in the spring). I'm trying to figure out what next to do in the meantime. Considering that unfortunately I haven't been getting much satisfaction from writing lately (this semester was chock-full of writing, so much that rewrites and proofreading was out of the question) which is just... unheard of for me. Since I was thirteen, writing has always been a means of escape. My boyfriend suggested to me that I carry a notebook with me and set a number of pages to write every day and stick to it. The content doesn't matter, just free-flowing verses and phrases and observations and weavings of words, just to do it is the goal. So I will. Merely observing isn't enough; it is given life when on paper, even though it is frozen in space.

So that's what I'll be doing. Until I can get my transcripts together from this past semester, I'm also going to look into a dance class - what kind I don't yet know; swing? Modern? Jazz? Belly dancing? - and just... figure something out. More late-night bicycle rides? Reading more? The last thing I want is to go stale.

I don't know how you all do it.

Scattered about

I had lunch with my dad yesterday. I love my dad; he is seriously one of the nicest people anyone could know. At the same time, he's so nice a guy that he doesn't realize how nice he is, and that really bothers me. He's so unmotivated, yet he has all of these dreams in a trunk going unfulfilled. He's let too much time go by to achieve them. Hell, I am definitely his daughter. Wishing, hoping, thinking, praying. Worrying about time, doubting anything and everything, but actually doing?... Eh, not so much. I mean, I'm doing things I never thought I could, at the belief and persistence of others' encouragement. I hope though to actually give myself credit for putting myself out there and trying, even if it feels so half-assed at times. Ah, but my daddy. I'm learning more about him every time we have lunch together - which I'm hoping will be everything other week or something. I'm thinking it's probably one of the biggest favors either of us could do for ourselves.

In other news, I've unfortunately let indimidation get the better of me when it comes to writing. Writing for my peers has never been a pleasure of mine, but for the last fourteen weeks it's all I've had to do. Still, it's been interesting having people take apart my work, and taking apart theirs. I told my creative writing professor that as much as I hate receiving criticism, I appreciate going through the experience - and she said that if I want to be a writer, there are going to be all sorts of ignorant comments knocking on the door, and it's going to be my job to sift through them like a pro. I'm nervous, but I'll take it on.

In the last fourteen weeks, I've also learned that the short story is the format for me. Since I was a teenager I've preferred to capture moments, minutes, seconds, because those always stayed with me longer than an actual day, or week. Sensations from sweet to sickening still take me by surprise whenever I feel them, and I find them beneficial to my spirit (or something like it) if I can write about it.

With that said, life has been okay. It's at a little bit of a standstill, but for what it is work has been good, and most everything else has been neutral. I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop in so many areas. Looking forward to the summer to be able to enjoy writing, and getting in touch with people, being a young and crazy twenty-something (like I ever was before; hah!). And oddly enough, I've been feeling something that feels similar to ... jealousy? And I'm not quite fond of it. Jealousy does not become me. I'll be through with it soon.

As of late

Life has been going relatively well. Heading towards the end of yet another academic semester, I feel as scared as I did going in. I will be obtaining a degree and quickly working towards another. I am proud of myself yet wish I did things differently (like spent less time toggling between YouTube and Twitter and did homework when I had the time). I am interested in seeing what the future holds, still as a student next spring. In one way or another, I'll always be a student. When it comes to writing, I'm still learning every day. At the same time, though, I'll look at something I've written between the 300 and 500 character frame and wonder how tired I was when I wrote what I did, because "I don't remember writing that". Yet it still read well. Someone tell me that's one sign of a good writer, please. Indulge me. In either case, at the end of this month it will have been a year since I found myself ducking out into the corporate stairwell, answering a phone call from Mali, being given instructions to log into Wordpress. It goes without saying that I'm really appreciative of the opportunity of building, expanding on, and retaining a voice.

Day job corporate bullshit has hit the fan, involving a new schedule (4-day workweek [M, Thu-Sa from 8am-7pm]) starting this coming Saturday, May 16. Me[and the rest of the staff]thinks that this is an operative motion to drive us out to avoid severance and unemployment - a thought that used to cripple, but actually has driven me to do better. I believe that I have. Lay-offs have come in quarters, as in of the year, so I'm going to brace myself for the next cut to pendulum swing at the end of June and take my head with it. If so, it'll be bittersweet; if not, same emotional outcome. You can't win and you can't lose with a pompous, indecisive, insecure corporation; you can only work with what you've got.

In my spare time, I've taken up running and working out with the goal of running the LA Marathon in 2010. Towards that goal, I'm working on running 6 miles in one go without effing with my knee (working on it!). In a little under a month, I'm planning on bicycling 100 miles as part of the LA River Ride. I enjoy being active, feeling strong. It takes away from the 8 hours a day my ass is glued to my desk chair, and I love the definition in my legs and abs (not done yet, but we're getting there). Ability does wonders.

Hopefully this blog will become more conversational to anyone reading, given the lack of time I've spent here. This year has been full of writing - with school, my day job, with reviewing and featuring. I've honestly never written more in my life, hence the disappearing act. When I do talk with others, though, I've been doing so over the phone, via IM outlets, email, etc. Going out. Having dinner. Spending the night. Going for a walk. Maybe I'm a little jaded, but I've become of the mind that blogging/talking about yourself is a bit self-serving, self-promoting, self-ego-stroking, kind of like masturbation. All of which is well and good. Still, it's rather nice once you find that someone else can mutually do the job for you.