I would never in my right mind have guessed that 'Sinaas Appel Sap' translates to 'OJ' in Dutch.
Sinaas. Like sinus. Like infections and phlegm and snot.
Appel. Like the counterpart of orange.
And Sap! Like mushy-gushy romantic kitsch. Well, I guess Sap means juice in Norwegian, but REALLY, people. Sap?
10.09.2005
10.08.2005
Definately a Positive
Normally, I step into an elevator, squash myself into the corner, and stare fixedly at the ever-changing digital numbers displayed above the door. Avoiding the glances of my fellow sardines, I wait, wait, wait until the steel giants pry themselves open at my stop. I step out into fresh air, thankful to have rid myself of the thick, awkward silence that is characteristic of every elevator ride. And then I think of the poor suckers still inside and laugh.
But recently, I haven't had to do this.
It's simply amazing. I step into the elevator at work and strangers reveal their lives to me. Greetings are shared... and are meant! People (gasp!) smile. And make eye contact, introduce themselves, and then remember your name! It is a whole new world.
It is a whole new world and the writers of Elevator Etiquette would faint if they ever found out it exists.
But recently, I haven't had to do this.
It's simply amazing. I step into the elevator at work and strangers reveal their lives to me. Greetings are shared... and are meant! People (gasp!) smile. And make eye contact, introduce themselves, and then remember your name! It is a whole new world.
It is a whole new world and the writers of Elevator Etiquette would faint if they ever found out it exists.
10.02.2005
How To Make a Dutch Bicycle
Take a regular old bike. Yours, mine, your brother's. Strip it of its gears and handbrakes. Revert to the pedal brakes you had as a kid; you know, the ones you hated because you could never slow the bike down when you walked it down that hill you feared. Add a baby seat in the back. And hell, add one in the front, too, along with one of those mini-windshields so as to keep the wind out of the darling child's face. Throw a pair of saddle bags over the back tire, strap a basket onto the front of the bike, and cover the chain with a metal guard to keep your pants from being patterned with little grey spots every morning. Your little reflectors are replaced with pedal-generated lights. And your chain lock is out-of-date compared to the Chinese grip lock that physically prevents your back tire from moving. (You may want to exchange that.) Buy a new little bell for the right handlebar... and while you're at it, attach a compass to the left one. Now stand back in awe.
Congratulations.
You have just turned your pitiful street bike into an all-purpose 3 person grocery-shopping mobile. And your pant legs aren't dirty. You superstar, you.
Congratulations.
You have just turned your pitiful street bike into an all-purpose 3 person grocery-shopping mobile. And your pant legs aren't dirty. You superstar, you.
9.29.2005
09-09-2005
I eavesdropped on Thalys
From Den Haag to Paris
After we ran to catch the train.
The man in batik
Was talking techniques
Of management while I yawned.
He groaned at our delay.
(I watched him in the mirror.)
"Je pourrais courir,"
He bragged the whole way.
But with the gut he was hiding
I knew why he was riding,
Not running, this September day.
From Den Haag to Paris
After we ran to catch the train.
The man in batik
Was talking techniques
Of management while I yawned.
He groaned at our delay.
(I watched him in the mirror.)
"Je pourrais courir,"
He bragged the whole way.
But with the gut he was hiding
I knew why he was riding,
Not running, this September day.
Extermination, Aggression, and a Lack of Sunlight
Neela stared at the roses wilting on her desk. "Everything I do during the day deals with death and destruction... Even the plant gets depressed."
9.23.2005
Just Amusing
Whoever decided to set up Willy’s Hot Dog Shop next to The Hague’s erotica exhibition gets major comedy points from me.
9.21.2005
Why I Slept Naked
(No, it wasn't for fun. It's cold in Holland, remember?)
I slept naked last night because I did my laundry yesterday.
(Still don't get it, do ya?)
Laundromat owners here are conniving, I tell you. I can go and do my laundry there for only 50 cents a kilo if I do it myself. What a bargain!, they advertise on their glass windows in orange spray paint. They drag you in. They dragged me in. The place was clean, well-kept. Detergent creeped up my nostrils, reminding me of Jenn and her almost OCD need to do laundry every week in Westwood. (What an awesome form of OCD.) They had won me over.
I was about ready to sprint home, shove dirty clothes into a bag and skip right on back, when everyone filed out of the place, the lights went off, and the door was closed with a very anticlimatic 'click.' Just like a gun with the silencer on. Just like that, my dreams of laundry were dead. It was 6 o'clock. The laundromat was closing, like every store and service in The Hague. And it wasn't going to open again until after I'd left for work the following morning.
How convenient.
So how do I do my laundry? Well, here comes the conniving bit.
The laundromats will wash your laundry for you! You can go to work or school or take care of your kids or whatever and they will do all the dirty work! Not such a bad deal, except for the fact that it costs 2.50 Euros per kilo. 2.50 Euro! That's five times as much the price of me doing my own laundry! That's outrageous. I have to pay more for my laundry just because the laundromats aren't open at convenient hours? Harumph.
I dropped my laundry off yesterday morning. Being the expat I am, I didn't realize that it would take them 3 days to do my laundry. I guess I am unaccustomed to the Dutch work ethic.
I slept naked last night. My pj's are still at the cleaners. And so are my towels. (After my shower, I dried myself off with an unused kitchen rag that was still in its plastic wrapping.) And I have one more night to go.
I slept naked last night because I did my laundry yesterday.
(Still don't get it, do ya?)
Laundromat owners here are conniving, I tell you. I can go and do my laundry there for only 50 cents a kilo if I do it myself. What a bargain!, they advertise on their glass windows in orange spray paint. They drag you in. They dragged me in. The place was clean, well-kept. Detergent creeped up my nostrils, reminding me of Jenn and her almost OCD need to do laundry every week in Westwood. (What an awesome form of OCD.) They had won me over.
I was about ready to sprint home, shove dirty clothes into a bag and skip right on back, when everyone filed out of the place, the lights went off, and the door was closed with a very anticlimatic 'click.' Just like a gun with the silencer on. Just like that, my dreams of laundry were dead. It was 6 o'clock. The laundromat was closing, like every store and service in The Hague. And it wasn't going to open again until after I'd left for work the following morning.
How convenient.
So how do I do my laundry? Well, here comes the conniving bit.
The laundromats will wash your laundry for you! You can go to work or school or take care of your kids or whatever and they will do all the dirty work! Not such a bad deal, except for the fact that it costs 2.50 Euros per kilo. 2.50 Euro! That's five times as much the price of me doing my own laundry! That's outrageous. I have to pay more for my laundry just because the laundromats aren't open at convenient hours? Harumph.
I dropped my laundry off yesterday morning. Being the expat I am, I didn't realize that it would take them 3 days to do my laundry. I guess I am unaccustomed to the Dutch work ethic.
I slept naked last night. My pj's are still at the cleaners. And so are my towels. (After my shower, I dried myself off with an unused kitchen rag that was still in its plastic wrapping.) And I have one more night to go.
8.10.2005
The English at the Seaside
While living in Los Angeles, going to the beach was quite the after-school activity. We sprawled across Santa Monica's sands, flipping through the latest Cosmo, sharing grapes and cola. If the sun evaded us, we played volleyball to warm up. And at night, we'd light bonfires. Going to the beach never disappointed us, but then, the weather was always decent, as it was LA.
When the English go to the beach, however, they go no matter the weather. They go to be by the ocean, they go to hear the waves. They go when it rains.
Zipping through the towns of Fillifoot and Wetwang, rain splattered our windshield. We were not deterred. We splashed through rain water on our stroll by the sea. Bailey the dog ran figure eights around us, barking at David to hurry up. Slickers, wellies, umbrellas. And a man wearing a hat made from a garbage bag. Tents, even! Rain gear surrounded us; no one had been surprised by the weather. Yet it hadn't stopped them.
Sandcastles of majestic scale mimicked the large white Georgian mansions perching over the sea wall: 1920s resorts turned into hotels.
Michael laughed.
"What?"
"I was just thinking that it'd be really nice to visit here in the summer," he smiled. "Then I realized... It IS summer."
The English have an affinity for the ocean that was lacking in the Los Angeleno culture. But in a city where '76 degrees and partly cloudy' is a broken record, they can afford to be picky.
When the English go to the beach, however, they go no matter the weather. They go to be by the ocean, they go to hear the waves. They go when it rains.
Zipping through the towns of Fillifoot and Wetwang, rain splattered our windshield. We were not deterred. We splashed through rain water on our stroll by the sea. Bailey the dog ran figure eights around us, barking at David to hurry up. Slickers, wellies, umbrellas. And a man wearing a hat made from a garbage bag. Tents, even! Rain gear surrounded us; no one had been surprised by the weather. Yet it hadn't stopped them.
Sandcastles of majestic scale mimicked the large white Georgian mansions perching over the sea wall: 1920s resorts turned into hotels.
Michael laughed.
"What?"
"I was just thinking that it'd be really nice to visit here in the summer," he smiled. "Then I realized... It IS summer."
The English have an affinity for the ocean that was lacking in the Los Angeleno culture. But in a city where '76 degrees and partly cloudy' is a broken record, they can afford to be picky.
8.03.2005
richly oxymoronic
my father would have returned from moscow with rolls of film if rolls of film were still used these days. his digital images threw me into a world of russia far different than i had imagined, one far from the grey, stained walls of churches i'd visited in saint petersburg. old churches, burned down by stalin, were rebuilt in moscow with their old charm. deep reds and pale blues characterized the classic city squares. the sun shone. people looked... happy.
but behind the cosmopolitan air of downtown lay corners wrought with history, and for some reason, history seems to have a twisted sense of humor in moscow. the large market hall that housed the communist state department store (an old-timer's russian walmart) now screams capitalism and is home to the boutiques of YSL, dior, hermes, and chanel.
the building on the embankment, where stalin's cronies were forced to live and where knocks on your door in the middle of the night meant that you'd never see your family again, now is prime real estate. i can just imagine the tour... "and the apartment on your left was home to bukharin until he was bloodily executed for having a sensible but slow economic plan. you can own it today. the real estate office is downstairs. they will collect your deposit..."
but behind the cosmopolitan air of downtown lay corners wrought with history, and for some reason, history seems to have a twisted sense of humor in moscow. the large market hall that housed the communist state department store (an old-timer's russian walmart) now screams capitalism and is home to the boutiques of YSL, dior, hermes, and chanel.
the building on the embankment, where stalin's cronies were forced to live and where knocks on your door in the middle of the night meant that you'd never see your family again, now is prime real estate. i can just imagine the tour... "and the apartment on your left was home to bukharin until he was bloodily executed for having a sensible but slow economic plan. you can own it today. the real estate office is downstairs. they will collect your deposit..."
6.22.2005
6.10.2005
the last friday ever
it's funny how time is suddenly sitting on my doorstep. the next six weeks are crowding in through my front door. throughout the quarter, i've been able to relax, to not think past the weekend, but without warning, graduation is around the corner, followed by theendofjunemovingoutjulyfourthsayinggoodbyevisitingarizonapacking and leaving for the netherlands via the uk and portugal. seniors at oregon, washington, and davis finish this weekend, and next sunday, i'll have a b.a. in poli sci and the lazy days of summer will be upon me. i doubt i'll have the luxury to be lazy, but it amazes me that the chance to trip over my feet in front of thousands of people has once again arisen so quickly.
6.05.2005
in the land of the lorax
we didn't mean to set up camp next to a group of musically-inclined naked female hippies, but i guess that just made our trip even more exciting... for the men in our group, that is. each morning as we fought persistent squirrels away from our breakfast, we audienced a rather compelling display of nude yoga in the campsite next door. (barbara was so stricken by the women's liberation pow-wow to which we were witness that she immediately became a domesticated goddess. "here nathan, let me make you a sandwich.")
flies, weighed down by the sun, wafted over and about our fallen left-overs.
in spite of the lazy heat, our days filled up quickly. we found the shady sides of rocks to clamber up and repel down. yes, even i- one not enamored by heights- repelled down the side of an almost perpendicular face... but it took much convincing on the part of my fellow adventurer to get me to step off the edge. "i rock climb because it scares me," brad said, as if that would encourage me to will myself to my doom. relying on a boulder, rope, and my own sanity (which, believe me, has reason to be questioned), i walked backwards off the edge of the rock.
it was worth it for the chance to hang tens of meters over valleys of joshua trees.
when brad and i reached the ground, an inquisitive little blonde girl ("much like i imagine you were at her age,” he said) quizzed us on the climb. don't try this at home, hon. she scrambled away into the rocks, leaving her parents in her wake. much to our amusement, her mother, not particularly comfortable jumping from rock to rock (much like my mother was at her age, wink), flapped her arms to help her "fly" between them.
our hands grew tender from gritty granite, and we ventured out into the desert, hiking up to the park's highest peak one day and exploring an old mine shaft the next. after having reached the summit of ryan mountain, we came face-to-face with a camera-shy big horned sheep. for reasons unbeknownst to us, said sheep did not feel like joining us on our way down and, instead, shot off into the rocks. (if only he'd gotten to know us first! looks aren't everything.) but i understand the sheep's reservations about strangers. after all, i had the same reaction to the rattlesnake we almost stepped on the following day...
we were welcomed back from our day trips by the singing hippies, who were always a) topless, b) screaming, c) holding hands, or d) burning photographs of the ex-boyfriends... all of which are, of course, things i always make a priority on my camping trips.
meals proved to be quite interesting. who knew crows had a thing for aluminum foils tubes? or that squirrels could be so brash as to refuse the eggs we left them and actually demand something else? such gall. one squirrel almost met his end when he made the mistake of going after brad's plate. a knife missed his neck by a half-inch. i screamed and tried not to picture what our picnic table would have looked like had the squirrel taken another second to move.
the weekend ended with a drive up to a point overlooking
6.02.2005
5.26.2005
how to get 25 nations to agree
lindsay, stephen, and i have given the EU constitution quite a bit of thought. eleven weeks of thought, to be exact. and, seeing as a "oui" vote from france seems highly unlikely, i'd be willing to wager that the constitution that we wrote- 60 fine pages of finite rules- has a decent chance of presenting some new and welcomed ideas to history-burdened europe. sure, we are just a couple of crazy twentysomethings who chose to drink margaritas while composing the afore-mentioned document, but does that make us any less qualified than the leaders and formulators of the european constitution? true, we have lived a good 30 years less than most of them. we were not alive to see first-hand the effects of communism on the ussr. we were not alive when singapore, honk kong, and malaysia were not the asian 'tigers' they are today. but! we bring something to the table that none of the constitution's creators can offer: a fresh, yet-to-be-jaded outlook on the world and a willingness to try something new.
so i say to you, europe, shoot us ucla poli sci nerds an email and we will introduce you to the luxuries of an unbiased rotating judicial branch, amongst other genius ideas. i dare you.
so i say to you, europe, shoot us ucla poli sci nerds an email and we will introduce you to the luxuries of an unbiased rotating judicial branch, amongst other genius ideas. i dare you.
5.23.2005
newsweek v. pravda
for a paper whose title means "truth," pravda leaves one hell of a lot out. under yeltsin, russia had seen an original deterioration of the constraints imposed on the press by the Party, but putin has successfully reined in the press, thus creating an institution that rarely dares to wander from regurgitating that which the so-called democratic government demands of it. when it comes to the press, the united states has, for the most part, enjoyed mostly hands-off administrations. unfortunately, as the recent newsweek/guantanamo bay debacle has illustrated, it seems we may be drifting towards the amount of censorship russia has come to accept as normal.
what exactly happened here? a well-reputed news magazine cited "reliable sources" in its printing of an article mentioning american soldiers' treatment of the qur'an. the government got wind of this article, didn't approve of the way the united states was portrayed, and pulled a withdrawl and an apology out of the magazine. they did this even though newsweek had approached a "senior defense department official" before printing the article, asking for his permission... and receiving it. you'd think that if the government found something untruthful about the article, they would have disallowed its printing... but, allowing the article to be printed presented the government with the opportunity to set an example. through newsweek, the united states government has scared journalists into self-censorship. first, it was the photos of american coffins on the shipride back from iraq. (photographers: check!) now, this. (writers: check!) and what an expanse of time between the two!
now, newsweek claims that it will not base its stories on anonymous sources. [see the famous drudge report.] it's interesting that intentions of truth can protect journalists in libel suits but cannot protect newsweek from the thrashing jaws of our government. and the worst part? americans seem to be ok with that. according to a knight survey from january 2005, 32% of american high schoolers believe that that press has "too much freedom," and 37% believe that press should receive government approval before publishing articles.
what are we teaching our children? does the first amendment mean anything anymore? or are we simply trying to bring pravda (please, define as you wish) to the united states?
what exactly happened here? a well-reputed news magazine cited "reliable sources" in its printing of an article mentioning american soldiers' treatment of the qur'an. the government got wind of this article, didn't approve of the way the united states was portrayed, and pulled a withdrawl and an apology out of the magazine. they did this even though newsweek had approached a "senior defense department official" before printing the article, asking for his permission... and receiving it. you'd think that if the government found something untruthful about the article, they would have disallowed its printing... but, allowing the article to be printed presented the government with the opportunity to set an example. through newsweek, the united states government has scared journalists into self-censorship. first, it was the photos of american coffins on the shipride back from iraq. (photographers: check!) now, this. (writers: check!) and what an expanse of time between the two!
now, newsweek claims that it will not base its stories on anonymous sources. [see the famous drudge report.] it's interesting that intentions of truth can protect journalists in libel suits but cannot protect newsweek from the thrashing jaws of our government. and the worst part? americans seem to be ok with that. according to a knight survey from january 2005, 32% of american high schoolers believe that that press has "too much freedom," and 37% believe that press should receive government approval before publishing articles.
what are we teaching our children? does the first amendment mean anything anymore? or are we simply trying to bring pravda (please, define as you wish) to the united states?
re butt al
re: the comment posted in response to "dear anonymous skinny dipper"
last weekend, in that nor cal town,
i ran up hayes street hill and down
with the knowledge that i could get caught
behind a wrinkled arse wraught
with dimples.
but, once back in l.a.
and at work the next day,
i did not expect
something so erect
to jump out of the pool
after hours.
forgive me, runner 5552,
but kicking him out was the least i could do.
last weekend, in that nor cal town,
i ran up hayes street hill and down
with the knowledge that i could get caught
behind a wrinkled arse wraught
with dimples.
but, once back in l.a.
and at work the next day,
i did not expect
something so erect
to jump out of the pool
after hours.
forgive me, runner 5552,
but kicking him out was the least i could do.
5.18.2005
dear anonymous skinny dipper
i'm sorry for flicking on flood lights
while you stole a swim last night.
it's my fault that
your clothes are now soaked
from dressing in a hurry to hide your hiney.
but, darling, you must understand.
yesterday, the image that ran
through my mind last
was your stark white ass.
you, then, should apologize.
you've scarred my eyes.
while you stole a swim last night.
it's my fault that
your clothes are now soaked
from dressing in a hurry to hide your hiney.
but, darling, you must understand.
yesterday, the image that ran
through my mind last
was your stark white ass.
you, then, should apologize.
you've scarred my eyes.
4.25.2005
the insanities of bunche 3123
three stories up and crunched into a desk made for preschoolers, i stare out the long sliver of a window next to me. three inches wide, this pane of glass runs from the floor to the ceiling and is the classroom's only source of natural light. one window. only one window. one window that has a metal shutter so all possible streams of light can be barred from entering the tiny white prison on the third floor of bunche hall. for some slightly psychotic reason, this enrages me. please, enlighten me, oh architects: what is the point of this arrowslit? do you fear that, between discussions of the irrationality of politics, some disturbed student would try and force herself out of the classroom by way of the sky and tumble to her demise? really, if that is their fear, should these topics be taught? after all, it is quite harrowing to think that this country's two mainstream parties are pro-death. one claims to support life (not abortion) but quickly sentences many to death row, and the other aims to abolish the death penalty while supporting the choice of mothers not to give birth to conceived children. sad, yes. disturbing, yes. suicide-provoking? well, not in my mind. the existence of this window, on the other hand, makes me want to prove its worthlessness and toss -not myself- but the snoring student in the back row through the gap.
kidding, of course.
kidding, of course.
4.24.2005
somebody told me...
...that they had once wondered if their life lacked emotion simply because they had experienced everything. acts that had once brought joy had been dulled through repetition. "it's like when you see kids jumping in the water and laughing. you can see their happiness. you can SEE it. but when i get in the water, it's not like that anymore." i guess sometimes you just have to be thrown in.
teachings of time
he told us to call him Teo. contrary to the claims of the sexy and secular sticker on his chest, my professor proclaimed to the class that while he may not be the james dean of our time, he was definately not partisan when it came down to religion. "if you are a believer, that is your problem, not mine."
the atheist whose friends call him God had returned from his cross-continental journey and soon filled the 300 student class in on the medical miracle that was his son's surgery. few of us had ever spoken to this man personally, and the class had just started two weeks ago, but he poured himself out to us, binding us to him through this act of honesty.
at home, when lying on his back lawn, he is the man who spares the ants wandering across his open reader. every evening, before he goes to bed, he places his collected figurines on their sides "so they don't have to stand up all night," he told us. cuban music fills the hall before lecture, and he answers phones students have forgetten to turn off. "'ello? who ees thees? ...no, you cannot speak to pablo. pablo ees keednapped. he ees... meat!" pablo's friend is comforted by Teo's promise that pablo will call him back in 34 days.
lecture begins, a conversation between the collective voice of 300 and our guru. during a discussion of medieval romances, Teo puts the question to use: if you could ask for anything from the gods, what would it be? for true love. for universal knowledge. for understanding. one after the other, we sputtered out answers hurriedly. then a boy in the back raised his hand. "for this girl next to me."
such is the magic of a class whose professor hides nothing and bases his lectures on honest life.
the atheist whose friends call him God had returned from his cross-continental journey and soon filled the 300 student class in on the medical miracle that was his son's surgery. few of us had ever spoken to this man personally, and the class had just started two weeks ago, but he poured himself out to us, binding us to him through this act of honesty.
at home, when lying on his back lawn, he is the man who spares the ants wandering across his open reader. every evening, before he goes to bed, he places his collected figurines on their sides "so they don't have to stand up all night," he told us. cuban music fills the hall before lecture, and he answers phones students have forgetten to turn off. "'ello? who ees thees? ...no, you cannot speak to pablo. pablo ees keednapped. he ees... meat!" pablo's friend is comforted by Teo's promise that pablo will call him back in 34 days.
lecture begins, a conversation between the collective voice of 300 and our guru. during a discussion of medieval romances, Teo puts the question to use: if you could ask for anything from the gods, what would it be? for true love. for universal knowledge. for understanding. one after the other, we sputtered out answers hurriedly. then a boy in the back raised his hand. "for this girl next to me."
such is the magic of a class whose professor hides nothing and bases his lectures on honest life.
4.22.2005
4.13.2005
a morning in court
[Note to readers: Caps used!]
"In two weeks time, I'll be sworn in as a barrister of this Court," said the graying lawyer to his elder friend, who was thinking about pancakes. If only he had heard his alarm the first time it went off; then he wouldn't have had to skip breakfast. Legal jargon left him unmoved. He was here for a different matter entirely. He was here for the Court's architecture.
The room consisted only of imported resources, the clerk had told the girl in blue yesterday. Although friendly enough, a hint of that East Coast supremacy floated about him as he pointed out the figures of Moses, Napoleon, and Confucius, each a seven-foot tall engraving in the Supreme Court frieze. I'm sure Napoleon would have appreciated the exaggeration of height. She was sarcastic at heart.
"The marble for these columns-" he gestured to the monstrous pillars behind the Justices' seats- "came from
To her left, the lawyer re-crossed his legs. "Been here before?"
She shook her head. Photographs in high school text books epitomized her prior exposure to the
The Court sat down as the Justices took their seats. And what a clan they were! Rehnquist, in the center, was hunched over notes constantly shuttled to him by his aide. Although the Courtroom had to strain to hear his withering voice and his aide had to help him out of his chair every time he needed to excuse himself, Justice Rehnquist exuded nothing but authority and honesty.
The case, concerning a Mexican national on death row in
His hunger having overtaken him, the elderly man had fallen asleep in the third row. So had Justice Thomas, or so it seemed. His arms were crossed and his head rested on the smooth leather backing of his reclined swivel chair. Justice Scalia cornered the lawyer with a question while Justice O’Connor’s eagle eyes took in every detail.
The girl with memories of Tuscan travels smiled at a boy with olive skin behind the Justices' bench. They'd known each other for nine years. Although he was no longer an awkward freshman in high school, he hadn't changed one bit. She had gone to DC to make sure of it.
[Unfinished.]
4.04.2005
normal?
i love my friends. they think that dressing up as transexuals every year for halloween, hosting pillowcase parties, and driving to texas and back in 3 days to purchase an arcade game are actions that should be readily accepted by society. and i tend to agree with them. hence the below photo.
three cheers for all of you amazing people i've met at university.
three cheers for all of you amazing people i've met at university.
4.03.2005
friday night lights
baseball season is starting again and i am thrilled. i am one of the weird few who adore watching the game on tv, live, or via webcam. it doesn't matter how i watch it as long as i am given the chance to catch those diving-backhanded-sling-from-third-to-first-base plays. but the majority of my friends find this odd, and though i understand this to an extent, i cannot comprehend disliking a live baseball game. "we don't know the players," "there's nothing to watch in between pitches," and "i don't understand the game" are their excuses. they seemed legitimate, so i hit up a bruin home game to see whether or not i could prove them wrong.
it was the bottom of the fifth and the bruins led by 4. it wouldn't last, but how were we to know? ben and i scanned the field from behind home plate, wallowing in the luxurious ignorance of our team's future loss and letting the evening deteriorate into a melange of strikes and outs. whenever we'd stop talking, i'd realize the goosebumps creeping up my calves. i found them odd. the transition from day to night had come and gone without my noticing it. the day had bragged beach weather, but now- well after sunset- the solid cold bleacher seats dented the skin beneath my jeans.
an events coordinator needed one more child for a promotional race. i almost volunteered.
"wanna rock-paper-scissors for it?" the mini bruin behind us nudged his friend and they held one of those 5 second competitions that result in a decision that becomes law as a child. the winner marched down to third base to kick some wildcat butt in a short dizzybat race against a little univ. of ariz. munchkin. the prize? a whole pizza twice the size of the tiny laps it later rested on one row behind us.
somewhere in the sixth, our starter showed some lag. our outfielding saved us, and some bruin parents to our left decided to celebrate, led by an overzealous middle aged man with countless empty beer cans under his seat.
"give me a b!" (b!) "give me an r!" (r!) "give me a u!" (u!) "give me a..." a wrinkle formed across the leader's forehead as he turned to his friend with a confused stare. the entire section erupted in laughter, including the drunk man himself. "i want whatever he had," another parent commented.
the game went downhill from there, featuring several straight walks in the seventh followed by a grand slam. those last two innings were a little depressing, but we kept the faith, and ben convnced me to buy him dinner if he could call our play-by-play comeback. we lost, but we stuck around until the end and laughed as raindrops keep fallin' on my head serenaded an unexpected sprinkler show that drenched the wildcats' outfielders in the eighth.
ben and i were familiar with the players and their records and we understood the game, but, ironically, the focus of the evening was not necessarily baseball. knowing the players, the plays, and the game sure helps when it comes to enjoying america's favo(u)rite past time, but the fans are often just as entertaining as the teams. if any of you still have an anti-baseball argument you want heard, come see me. i'll rock-paper-scissors you for who is right.
it was the bottom of the fifth and the bruins led by 4. it wouldn't last, but how were we to know? ben and i scanned the field from behind home plate, wallowing in the luxurious ignorance of our team's future loss and letting the evening deteriorate into a melange of strikes and outs. whenever we'd stop talking, i'd realize the goosebumps creeping up my calves. i found them odd. the transition from day to night had come and gone without my noticing it. the day had bragged beach weather, but now- well after sunset- the solid cold bleacher seats dented the skin beneath my jeans.
an events coordinator needed one more child for a promotional race. i almost volunteered.
"wanna rock-paper-scissors for it?" the mini bruin behind us nudged his friend and they held one of those 5 second competitions that result in a decision that becomes law as a child. the winner marched down to third base to kick some wildcat butt in a short dizzybat race against a little univ. of ariz. munchkin. the prize? a whole pizza twice the size of the tiny laps it later rested on one row behind us.
somewhere in the sixth, our starter showed some lag. our outfielding saved us, and some bruin parents to our left decided to celebrate, led by an overzealous middle aged man with countless empty beer cans under his seat.
"give me a b!" (b!) "give me an r!" (r!) "give me a u!" (u!) "give me a..." a wrinkle formed across the leader's forehead as he turned to his friend with a confused stare. the entire section erupted in laughter, including the drunk man himself. "i want whatever he had," another parent commented.
the game went downhill from there, featuring several straight walks in the seventh followed by a grand slam. those last two innings were a little depressing, but we kept the faith, and ben convnced me to buy him dinner if he could call our play-by-play comeback. we lost, but we stuck around until the end and laughed as raindrops keep fallin' on my head serenaded an unexpected sprinkler show that drenched the wildcats' outfielders in the eighth.
ben and i were familiar with the players and their records and we understood the game, but, ironically, the focus of the evening was not necessarily baseball. knowing the players, the plays, and the game sure helps when it comes to enjoying america's favo(u)rite past time, but the fans are often just as entertaining as the teams. if any of you still have an anti-baseball argument you want heard, come see me. i'll rock-paper-scissors you for who is right.
3.20.2005
hope
does it matter if a moment evaporates before its conception, if an idea vanishes before the lightbulb goes off? maybe the careless slaughtering of the hope for its feeble existence constitutes enough of a death--even if it is not worthy of molding yourself to the corner of your room, hiding under blankets, and staring at the white walls until they glow warm with familiarity--enough of a death to warrant a question, a sigh, and a miniscule hardening of the heart.
3.11.2005
procrastination
the sun has been a little more prevalent these days, the californian capri culture is reappearing, and i cherish my walks home. somedays when the shaded sidewalk curves up to our apartment door, i quicken my pace and pass time wandering alongside the gated national cemetary.
yesterday had the potential to be one of these days, but oh how it buckled under that pressure!
yesterday the sky yellowed and blued, and i put a slew of midterms behind me. despite the exams, papers, and my supersweaty post-gym self, yesterday wasn't all that shabby until the walk home. somehow, somewhere, an evasive little pebble found a way to wedge itself between my heel and the sole of my shoe. it slid toward my toes and i shoved a clumbsy finger into the sneaker to pluck it out. unsuccessful. damn. as i crossed over gayley and headed up the First Hill, the sharp little thing patiently ate away at my left sock. by the time i tossed my asics from my pink feet, my white sock featured a dime-sized patch of blood, and my foot, having done nothing to deserve the pain, yearned for a warm bath.
at the beginning of each quarter, professors toss us each a little stone. we slide it into jean pockets, and it cuddles against a loose seam. around fifth week, it slips through denim threads and when only two weeks remain in the quarter, it begins to graze the ankle. we have fourteen days- or ten, depending on when our finals are- to retrieve the pesky rock and polish it, all the while pampering our feet, bandaging their open sores caused by our own carelessness.
such is the cycle of term papers.
yesterday had the potential to be one of these days, but oh how it buckled under that pressure!
yesterday the sky yellowed and blued, and i put a slew of midterms behind me. despite the exams, papers, and my supersweaty post-gym self, yesterday wasn't all that shabby until the walk home. somehow, somewhere, an evasive little pebble found a way to wedge itself between my heel and the sole of my shoe. it slid toward my toes and i shoved a clumbsy finger into the sneaker to pluck it out. unsuccessful. damn. as i crossed over gayley and headed up the First Hill, the sharp little thing patiently ate away at my left sock. by the time i tossed my asics from my pink feet, my white sock featured a dime-sized patch of blood, and my foot, having done nothing to deserve the pain, yearned for a warm bath.
at the beginning of each quarter, professors toss us each a little stone. we slide it into jean pockets, and it cuddles against a loose seam. around fifth week, it slips through denim threads and when only two weeks remain in the quarter, it begins to graze the ankle. we have fourteen days- or ten, depending on when our finals are- to retrieve the pesky rock and polish it, all the while pampering our feet, bandaging their open sores caused by our own carelessness.
such is the cycle of term papers.
3.09.2005
same feelings, old words
(i beg your forgiveness for my repetitious antics.)
fool
behind smokey silver shades, he teases
the air, wraps
us up in brass.
and though i'm spinning
circles on the floor,
he is bound by the music
when i find my door.
this is where we differ,
the jazzman and i.
fool
behind smokey silver shades, he teases
the air, wraps
us up in brass.
and though i'm spinning
circles on the floor,
he is bound by the music
when i find my door.
this is where we differ,
the jazzman and i.
3.04.2005
insert angel face here
it was an evening like any other. ucla hung on to win its 2nd-to-last basketball game. jenn and i switched between it and repeats of the OC. we talked about boys. i baked cookies. and then stephen came over.
he planned to do laundry and studiously crank out his spanish essay while waiting for it to be spun and tumbled. but jenn had bought wine earlier. and there were those fresh cookies on the counter. what harm is one glass and a cookie or two? and why not bust out the gaudi puzzle on the round table?
"clare, put on some music."
we spun through the classics, and when michael jackson came on, we decided that we needed to somehow honor his trial at the santa barbara courthouse. before the end of the quarter, the plan is to gather a clan of us to dress up as little kids in bonnets and oshkoshb'gosh and memorize new lyrics to michael jackson tunes, like man in the mirror. ("gonna make a change for once in my life." hah!) we shall then grace the mj supporters with our voices one sunny--or, highly likely, rainy--day. oooo, maybe you'll see us on tv!
what harm is two glasses and licking cheese off a mutual knife? puzzle pieces came together and we plotted a way to get all of our parents together for a graduation party. we plan on getting them drunk. shh.
and then suddenly it is the middle of the night and i'm writing in my online blog while slightly tipsy. yay for spell check. and this is why i love college. the end.
he planned to do laundry and studiously crank out his spanish essay while waiting for it to be spun and tumbled. but jenn had bought wine earlier. and there were those fresh cookies on the counter. what harm is one glass and a cookie or two? and why not bust out the gaudi puzzle on the round table?
"clare, put on some music."
we spun through the classics, and when michael jackson came on, we decided that we needed to somehow honor his trial at the santa barbara courthouse. before the end of the quarter, the plan is to gather a clan of us to dress up as little kids in bonnets and oshkoshb'gosh and memorize new lyrics to michael jackson tunes, like man in the mirror. ("gonna make a change for once in my life." hah!) we shall then grace the mj supporters with our voices one sunny--or, highly likely, rainy--day. oooo, maybe you'll see us on tv!
what harm is two glasses and licking cheese off a mutual knife? puzzle pieces came together and we plotted a way to get all of our parents together for a graduation party. we plan on getting them drunk. shh.
and then suddenly it is the middle of the night and i'm writing in my online blog while slightly tipsy. yay for spell check. and this is why i love college. the end.
3.03.2005
a few tips on indo life
speed bumps are often just pythons crossing the road.
biking in hot hot hot weather is never a good idea. the tar roads make one liken the experience to sinking in quicksand.
if you choose to wear them, shoes should be shaken out before being worn. lovely little creatures like to hide in them... scorpions, garden snakes, leeches. mmmmm, a feast for your feet.
near rumbai, the local "salon" consists of two barbers. go to the one with the uglier haircut.
don't expect things to get done "tomorrow." "tomorrow" means never.
biking in hot hot hot weather is never a good idea. the tar roads make one liken the experience to sinking in quicksand.
if you choose to wear them, shoes should be shaken out before being worn. lovely little creatures like to hide in them... scorpions, garden snakes, leeches. mmmmm, a feast for your feet.
near rumbai, the local "salon" consists of two barbers. go to the one with the uglier haircut.
don't expect things to get done "tomorrow." "tomorrow" means never.
3.01.2005
random acts of unkindness
lindsay and i shuffled past powell at what seemed like the dawning of the day. it was almost ten o'clock. we ignored the video camera pointed at the quad. after having walked through sets of old school and van wilder, us uclaers are used to clans of camermen. but the boy in front of us- the boy walking towards us- turned away from the camera and threw two huge middle fingers up in the air in the filmer's direction. how crude. how lovely. and just how i want to start off the month of march.
my apologies/what remains unsaid
amy says i am slacking. too true. let's squeeze one more in before the end of february.
note: this was inspired by kevin's long-ago blog on the importance of discourse and by many recent 'moments.' must give nods to those who deserve 'em. ;-)
it's in the one word responses to simple "you ok?"s and "want to talk about it?"s. yes. no. not now. it is how you choose to portray yourself to someone new. we disclose secrets, tell stories, embelish some, and leave others out. the tales still get told and what is missing is rarely dire, but our own censorship changes the view others have of us. we do that on purpose. our actions and words unspoken reveal worlds.
take, for example, a short plane ride. i went to oregon last weekend to visit my best friend. the man two seats over on southwest threw his bookbag down on the middle seat. what wasn't said told me he was either tired and really wanted extra room to stretch out his legs on the 90 minute SJO-PDX flight or he was greedy and despite having slept well and having eaten a full breakfast of pancakes and eggs, he just didn't want to have to rub elbows with someone on his left.
but it isn't only with strangers that we allow silence to speak for us. typical girls often claim "nothing" is the matter even if they're sulking in the corner, clinging to their pillows. and the inquisitive intruder into their thoughts is rarely Mr. Jones, humming hands-in-pockets down the street, searching for some sad soul to bother; usually it is just a close girl friend.
"nothing," as most of us have learned by now, usually means everything.
and then there are those semideep conversations we have with folk who have recently lost the status of stranger in our lives. what do we veer away from sharing? we select slivers of our lives to reveal, moving in circles around memoires that shed a tainted light on the desired projected image. but what we don't realize is that these newbies know more about us from what we don't say. i don't claim that these hidden snippets are important in themselves, but because they aren't mentioned, they become important. why leave them out? are we afraid of them? fear. embarassment. shame. why leave them out? our own truth frightens us.
so now i wonder. in writing this, have i said all that i mean to? you will think i am purposefully forgetting something thrilling. maybe i am. or maybe its absense is what makes something banal take the form of a juicy piece of gossip.
ohhhh, the power!
note: this was inspired by kevin's long-ago blog on the importance of discourse and by many recent 'moments.' must give nods to those who deserve 'em. ;-)
it's in the one word responses to simple "you ok?"s and "want to talk about it?"s. yes. no. not now. it is how you choose to portray yourself to someone new. we disclose secrets, tell stories, embelish some, and leave others out. the tales still get told and what is missing is rarely dire, but our own censorship changes the view others have of us. we do that on purpose. our actions and words unspoken reveal worlds.
take, for example, a short plane ride. i went to oregon last weekend to visit my best friend. the man two seats over on southwest threw his bookbag down on the middle seat. what wasn't said told me he was either tired and really wanted extra room to stretch out his legs on the 90 minute SJO-PDX flight or he was greedy and despite having slept well and having eaten a full breakfast of pancakes and eggs, he just didn't want to have to rub elbows with someone on his left.
but it isn't only with strangers that we allow silence to speak for us. typical girls often claim "nothing" is the matter even if they're sulking in the corner, clinging to their pillows. and the inquisitive intruder into their thoughts is rarely Mr. Jones, humming hands-in-pockets down the street, searching for some sad soul to bother; usually it is just a close girl friend.
"nothing," as most of us have learned by now, usually means everything.
and then there are those semideep conversations we have with folk who have recently lost the status of stranger in our lives. what do we veer away from sharing? we select slivers of our lives to reveal, moving in circles around memoires that shed a tainted light on the desired projected image. but what we don't realize is that these newbies know more about us from what we don't say. i don't claim that these hidden snippets are important in themselves, but because they aren't mentioned, they become important. why leave them out? are we afraid of them? fear. embarassment. shame. why leave them out? our own truth frightens us.
so now i wonder. in writing this, have i said all that i mean to? you will think i am purposefully forgetting something thrilling. maybe i am. or maybe its absense is what makes something banal take the form of a juicy piece of gossip.
ohhhh, the power!
2.21.2005
downtown athletic club
two more honey-stained brews
make slick circles on the tavern table
and the boys smirk.
two more foam mustaches line the lean lips
their girls like to kiss.
their girls who sip white wine,
their girls who blush at memories
and point at the lemon balanced on one boy's glass.
"it belongs in the beer," says the blonde.
he shrugs in protest.
the brunette disagrees, "don't put it in yet,"
and her friend turns.
"whose side are you on?" she asks.
"the lemon's."
make slick circles on the tavern table
and the boys smirk.
two more foam mustaches line the lean lips
their girls like to kiss.
their girls who sip white wine,
their girls who blush at memories
and point at the lemon balanced on one boy's glass.
"it belongs in the beer," says the blonde.
he shrugs in protest.
the brunette disagrees, "don't put it in yet,"
and her friend turns.
"whose side are you on?" she asks.
"the lemon's."
2.19.2005
at LAX
i'm at the airport again, but this time (knock on wood) the shuttle was on time, the lines didn't hold me up, and my flight is yet to be delayed. (it is, afterall, southwest.) i've got my tazo tea and am as comfortable as ever in this self-enclosed world that we call los angeles international.
i was a lucky little girl: thanks to my parents, traveling became second nature to me at a young age. i lived in airports. my brothers memorized airline schedules. my father explained the physics of flight. and my mother grinned, occasionally rolling her eyes when the boys wouldn't notice. some summers, we'd hop across the globe, running, weighed down with stuffed animals and gameboys, across dallas international or singapore chiangi. other holidays were spent in fly-infested shacks-on-tarmack: southeast asian airports whose electrical fans urged beads of sweat to run down your neck, providing just enough relief from the stifling heat. often, they would tell you they didn't think they'd seen your name on the passenger list. ten american dollars always helped them remember. european airports weren't necessarily any better. cigarette smoke used to fill the waiting chambers of heathrow. you had to meander into boots pharmacy or find your way outdoors to catch a breath of fresh air.
so, on my way home over christmas break this past year, my six-hour stay at LAX's gate 4 seemed almost pleasant in comparison to some of my childhood terminal adventures. my flight had been delayed, delayed again, and then cancelled. "bad weather over san jose," they told us. a phone call to my dad soon proved them wrong. filthy liars. grr.
they placed my name on numerous standby lists and i took my seat next to a throng of disgruntled passengers who had been foolish enough to book themselves on my flight. my chair squeaked as i sat down. damn. everytime i shifted my weight, tired eyes turned my way, obviously put out by the unoiled joints. what nerve i had to provoke such a noise! how rude.
the floridian couple to my left were furious at their bad luck. decked out in last year's worst hawaiian shirt, the pink puff-cheeked man continually threated southwest from under his straw hat. the wife, her middle as round as her husband's, chimed in with sporadic words of agreement. her eyes would glaze over for minutes at a time, and just when you thought she had calmed down, a shrieked "terrible service! terrible!" would wake you from your silly dreams.
across from them sat a patient young mother and probably the best-behaved kid i have ever seen. she was friendly and entrustd me with her boy's care- and a coke- when she ran over to grab a pizza to split from cpk. the boy clasped his hands together upon his lap. after sizing me up, he offered to show me his latest comic. "you like Superman, right?" he was oldschool. "who doesn't like Superman?" i asked. i think i won him over. (my kids better like Superman. oh, and they'll be bilingual. i hope.) ten minutes pased and his half of a pepperoni pizza arrived.
i flipped open my silver cell and called my brother, telling him to wait awhile before lugging the ghetto green minivan to OAK to pick me up.
"terrible service! terrible!"
i laughed. a boy in front of me caught me smirking at mrs. miami. i eyed his guitar. without hesitation, he opened the battered case. he pulled his beanie down further over his forehead, cocked his neck to one side, half-smiled, and asked me if i liked led zeppelin. he was from the east coast. his accent gave him away. i nodded and watched his pale fingers pluck out parts of kashmir, most of stairway, and all of the eagles' hotel california. my mind was taken from the wait. every long wait needs a guitar. in fact, i say people should carry them around for just this reason.
finally, when the goddess of doom behind the counter read our names off the standby list and issued us new tickets for the flight we were crowding, i smiled at the guitarman and got a high five from Superboy.
when we took off, the poppies that line the runways were in full bloom.
i only hope i'm so blessed today.
i was a lucky little girl: thanks to my parents, traveling became second nature to me at a young age. i lived in airports. my brothers memorized airline schedules. my father explained the physics of flight. and my mother grinned, occasionally rolling her eyes when the boys wouldn't notice. some summers, we'd hop across the globe, running, weighed down with stuffed animals and gameboys, across dallas international or singapore chiangi. other holidays were spent in fly-infested shacks-on-tarmack: southeast asian airports whose electrical fans urged beads of sweat to run down your neck, providing just enough relief from the stifling heat. often, they would tell you they didn't think they'd seen your name on the passenger list. ten american dollars always helped them remember. european airports weren't necessarily any better. cigarette smoke used to fill the waiting chambers of heathrow. you had to meander into boots pharmacy or find your way outdoors to catch a breath of fresh air.
so, on my way home over christmas break this past year, my six-hour stay at LAX's gate 4 seemed almost pleasant in comparison to some of my childhood terminal adventures. my flight had been delayed, delayed again, and then cancelled. "bad weather over san jose," they told us. a phone call to my dad soon proved them wrong. filthy liars. grr.
they placed my name on numerous standby lists and i took my seat next to a throng of disgruntled passengers who had been foolish enough to book themselves on my flight. my chair squeaked as i sat down. damn. everytime i shifted my weight, tired eyes turned my way, obviously put out by the unoiled joints. what nerve i had to provoke such a noise! how rude.
the floridian couple to my left were furious at their bad luck. decked out in last year's worst hawaiian shirt, the pink puff-cheeked man continually threated southwest from under his straw hat. the wife, her middle as round as her husband's, chimed in with sporadic words of agreement. her eyes would glaze over for minutes at a time, and just when you thought she had calmed down, a shrieked "terrible service! terrible!" would wake you from your silly dreams.
across from them sat a patient young mother and probably the best-behaved kid i have ever seen. she was friendly and entrustd me with her boy's care- and a coke- when she ran over to grab a pizza to split from cpk. the boy clasped his hands together upon his lap. after sizing me up, he offered to show me his latest comic. "you like Superman, right?" he was oldschool. "who doesn't like Superman?" i asked. i think i won him over. (my kids better like Superman. oh, and they'll be bilingual. i hope.) ten minutes pased and his half of a pepperoni pizza arrived.
i flipped open my silver cell and called my brother, telling him to wait awhile before lugging the ghetto green minivan to OAK to pick me up.
"terrible service! terrible!"
i laughed. a boy in front of me caught me smirking at mrs. miami. i eyed his guitar. without hesitation, he opened the battered case. he pulled his beanie down further over his forehead, cocked his neck to one side, half-smiled, and asked me if i liked led zeppelin. he was from the east coast. his accent gave him away. i nodded and watched his pale fingers pluck out parts of kashmir, most of stairway, and all of the eagles' hotel california. my mind was taken from the wait. every long wait needs a guitar. in fact, i say people should carry them around for just this reason.
finally, when the goddess of doom behind the counter read our names off the standby list and issued us new tickets for the flight we were crowding, i smiled at the guitarman and got a high five from Superboy.
when we took off, the poppies that line the runways were in full bloom.
i only hope i'm so blessed today.
2.13.2005
classic
to reinforce west coast cliches, here's this week's venice, california sunset... palm trees and all. (how's the weather, boston? wink.) i had been running. but in honor of all things childlike, i then kicked off my shoes and played on the swings, the BIG swings. unfortunately, perfection is only in the photograph. now the weather is moody- typical sunday study weather- and zola and aslund beckon me away from the temptations of blogging. pity.
2.11.2005
rainsong
i find something soothing in the relentless tiptapping of rain on my window. it begs, tenderly and persistently, for me to slide open the pane, to let it in. sometimes in fury it hammers on the glass. sometimes in pain it simply slides down the divide. i love it when the rains summon thunder and my placid state of being is shaken by each bellow. or when lightning threatens to darken the hour, cutting off electricity and arousing shrieks from all corners of the tangible world.
i wish this happened often in california.
today, the rain is like people everywhere who are just fine. how are you? i'm fine, you say. (well stop being fine and be alive!) the rain is just there, it doesn't threaten anything. nothing spectacular, nothing earth-shattering. (don't you want to be spectacular?) as i walk to class with collide, the killers, or the cure in my ears, the rhythmic drops roll off of my hood and smack my sneakers, which march in time with the rain, with the beat. when i return home, my jeans are rolled up to prevent water from creeping eerily up the back of my legs. my fake glasses fog my vision. i slip into a bathrobe and lie down, dry at last.
but the drops continue to zigzag across my window. the rain still knocks quietly for admittance to my heart. i decide to open it ajar.
i wish this happened often in california.
today, the rain is like people everywhere who are just fine. how are you? i'm fine, you say. (well stop being fine and be alive!) the rain is just there, it doesn't threaten anything. nothing spectacular, nothing earth-shattering. (don't you want to be spectacular?) as i walk to class with collide, the killers, or the cure in my ears, the rhythmic drops roll off of my hood and smack my sneakers, which march in time with the rain, with the beat. when i return home, my jeans are rolled up to prevent water from creeping eerily up the back of my legs. my fake glasses fog my vision. i slip into a bathrobe and lie down, dry at last.
but the drops continue to zigzag across my window. the rain still knocks quietly for admittance to my heart. i decide to open it ajar.
easily amused
1. while sitting at your desk, lift your right foot off of the floor and make clockwise circles.
2. now, while doing this, draw the number 6 in the air with your right hand.
does your foot change direction?
2. now, while doing this, draw the number 6 in the air with your right hand.
does your foot change direction?
2.10.2005
straight out of prime time nbc
the door swung open and in ran two of my ucla-clad, antsy roommates. i was on the phone. but as they jumped up and down, grinning and staring at me, it became increasingly apparent that i needed to hang up.
"guess what we found out!"
"maybe she knows-"
"-she doesn't know. she would have told us if she-"
"-but maybe she forgot."
they sat down on either side of me. they had news. BIG news. and it had to be shared. this meant one thing and only one thing: it was milkshake time. fifteen minutes later, we piled into the plastic-apholstered booth and hid behind three giant menus. three giant milkshakes were ordered and one giant plate of fries was on its way. we didn't wait long.
armed with junk food, the stories began to spill. old news, new news, it didn't matter. the three of us lounged sitcom-style, laughing and downing an unbeatable combination of grease, salt, and ice cream at midnight on a weekday. the gossip that brought us there is not what is important. we found time in our crazy lives to just be with each other, something we all tend to put on the backburner too often. we bonded. again. we consumed way too many calories. we plan on going to the gym today. oh, and we all decided to name our middle child aidan.
"guess what we found out!"
"maybe she knows-"
"-she doesn't know. she would have told us if she-"
"-but maybe she forgot."
they sat down on either side of me. they had news. BIG news. and it had to be shared. this meant one thing and only one thing: it was milkshake time. fifteen minutes later, we piled into the plastic-apholstered booth and hid behind three giant menus. three giant milkshakes were ordered and one giant plate of fries was on its way. we didn't wait long.
armed with junk food, the stories began to spill. old news, new news, it didn't matter. the three of us lounged sitcom-style, laughing and downing an unbeatable combination of grease, salt, and ice cream at midnight on a weekday. the gossip that brought us there is not what is important. we found time in our crazy lives to just be with each other, something we all tend to put on the backburner too often. we bonded. again. we consumed way too many calories. we plan on going to the gym today. oh, and we all decided to name our middle child aidan.
darling adelphia
now, i know it is really only my fault when my blog remains empty for almost two weeks (oh, the horror!), but it is just so much easier to blame the cable company. seriously. high speed internet, you say? how about paying up the nose for a signal that decides to stop working out of the blue? oooo, yeah, sign me up for that one. i shut down, restarted, ctrl-alt-del'ed, petted and caressed my computer. i prayed to it, read it poetry, and flung myself sobbing at its feet. still no luck. the cable LED on the modem remained unlit. (some pcs just have no heart.) but after a week and a half, and after an hour on the phone with adelphia, and after screwing around my schedule to fit the Cable Guy into a two hour slot on friday, the techie gods concluded that i'd gone through enough torture and they readmitted me into the eworld! so hi. i'm back. and so incredibly happy to be so.
1.31.2005
saturday night
red carpet productions used to premiere here. cushioned seats lined the balcony and five dollar italian sodas were sold just inside the ornate entryway. today, we still wear our finest to its guarded doors. we have to, or we're turned away. we queue up outside and exchange bills for tickets at miniature glass windows. but now we must be twenty-one. now we arrive at ten o'clock. now we come caffeinated, for a two hour flick is not why we flock here. we come to salsa.
a three-tiered stage stands where the screen used to hang and few wallside stools replace the endless rows of plush, rockable, side-by-side chairs. but the walls of The Mayan are still etched with columbian runes. the ceiling is still a handpainted sun-calendar. save for the giant swinging disco ball, we could be trapped in the depths of some great archaeological find.
i couldn't possibily be in southern california.
benny leads me out to the floor as the salsa band picks up its pace. skirts, so many skirts, spin out around me. millions of men. and heels- 3 inches, platforms, stilettos- pose a danger to everything but the feet they cling to. a minute ago, i was clickclacking down a cement alley between the lakers' staples center and cheap hot dog kiosks. a minute ago, illuminated skyscrapers- self-proclaimed properties of various money-centric accounting firms- sprung up at my sides. now i am underground in latin america. now i am a spanish cinderella kidnapped by cannibals. i am a meringue goddess. dip me, flip me.
but i am in l.a.
when the early morning curtains close and the gilded guitars close themselves in cases, i grab the grey wool coat that followed my mother around in her twenties. i live under eversunny skies and when night arrives, i don't care if it is only 40 degrees, i shiver. so the coat and my five fellow dancing friends find our way above ground, hop into imported cars, and drive on north up the 405, another night of dancing under our belts and under our skin.
want to come next time?
a three-tiered stage stands where the screen used to hang and few wallside stools replace the endless rows of plush, rockable, side-by-side chairs. but the walls of The Mayan are still etched with columbian runes. the ceiling is still a handpainted sun-calendar. save for the giant swinging disco ball, we could be trapped in the depths of some great archaeological find.
i couldn't possibily be in southern california.
benny leads me out to the floor as the salsa band picks up its pace. skirts, so many skirts, spin out around me. millions of men. and heels- 3 inches, platforms, stilettos- pose a danger to everything but the feet they cling to. a minute ago, i was clickclacking down a cement alley between the lakers' staples center and cheap hot dog kiosks. a minute ago, illuminated skyscrapers- self-proclaimed properties of various money-centric accounting firms- sprung up at my sides. now i am underground in latin america. now i am a spanish cinderella kidnapped by cannibals. i am a meringue goddess. dip me, flip me.
but i am in l.a.
when the early morning curtains close and the gilded guitars close themselves in cases, i grab the grey wool coat that followed my mother around in her twenties. i live under eversunny skies and when night arrives, i don't care if it is only 40 degrees, i shiver. so the coat and my five fellow dancing friends find our way above ground, hop into imported cars, and drive on north up the 405, another night of dancing under our belts and under our skin.
want to come next time?
1.28.2005
lost and found
i worked in the a/v booth tonight, decked out in black and sporting an oh-so-cool intercom that must be left over from a 1970s rock show. between changing the lighting cues for the brave souls who dared compete at an oratory contest at ucla, i rumaged through the crosswords and daily bruins left abandoned in my soundproof hideout.
sometime after the judges left to deliberate and the half-asian gospel choir began swaying, i found it. one of those square hallmark envelopes that require an extra seven cents postage was home to the little treasure addressed to marcello. it remained unsealed. my fingers slid the card out.
"happy anniversary," smiled its yellow front. open up. "i still remember the boatride to catalina, and with the look you gave me, i needed no words. mabel."
i returned the message to its corner in hope that it gets to where it is going. or maybe it already achieved all it was meant to. it made a long night shorter and a lonely booth warmer for one student working late in january. i'm thinking i should start writing love letters to strangers and leaving them between library book pages and on coffee counters. just for kicks.
sometime after the judges left to deliberate and the half-asian gospel choir began swaying, i found it. one of those square hallmark envelopes that require an extra seven cents postage was home to the little treasure addressed to marcello. it remained unsealed. my fingers slid the card out.
"happy anniversary," smiled its yellow front. open up. "i still remember the boatride to catalina, and with the look you gave me, i needed no words. mabel."
i returned the message to its corner in hope that it gets to where it is going. or maybe it already achieved all it was meant to. it made a long night shorter and a lonely booth warmer for one student working late in january. i'm thinking i should start writing love letters to strangers and leaving them between library book pages and on coffee counters. just for kicks.
1.24.2005
what is real
"i just want this understood. i cry at songs like these," while listening to damien rice.
1.22.2005
another four
there isn't an atom in my body that celebrates the continued presidency of our fearless, foolish leader. but, as bush was sworn in two days ago, as he promised to value the support of our allies, and as he proceeded to find 27 different ways to squeeze hot word freedom into his inaugural address (please, count them yourself), i found a renewed faith in something unexpected.
taking the alley into westwood on january 20, i caught up with my mom on the phone. "strange, the roads are all blocked off," i mentioned in passing. i planned to meet someone for dinner on a central village corner, so i took a sharp left, heading towards our rendez-vous. that sharp left led me right into a horse's mouth. i screamed (poor horse), much to the amusement of the hundred or so policemen lining the avenue. five or six dozen horses grunted, spat, and defecated on streets normally lined with impatient l.a. drivers. my mom calmly suggested i wait on another corner.
the streets had been cautiontaped off by lapd to give term two protesters free passage around the village. they were not isolated to two-lane side roads, either: famed wilshire boulevard was trafficless for the first time since i took up residency in so cal. the police did not grasp tightly to their holsters, waiting for an uprising. they, instead, smiled and escorted the thousands down through the centre of town. i excused myself from the dinner table to wave peace signs at the marching crowd, a crowd that grinned at the prospect of having passed the halfway point of our dearest emperor's reign.
since starting my studies at ucla, i have heard nothing but complaints from my elders about the apathy of modern day students. according to them, we just don't care anymore. we immerse ourselves in a material world and do not concern ourselves with the consequences of our inaction. we attend what is supposed to be the bluest of blue institutions- a public californian university- but we do not so much as lift a finger to change the world around us for the better. i now see that they are wrong.
taking the alley into westwood on january 20, i caught up with my mom on the phone. "strange, the roads are all blocked off," i mentioned in passing. i planned to meet someone for dinner on a central village corner, so i took a sharp left, heading towards our rendez-vous. that sharp left led me right into a horse's mouth. i screamed (poor horse), much to the amusement of the hundred or so policemen lining the avenue. five or six dozen horses grunted, spat, and defecated on streets normally lined with impatient l.a. drivers. my mom calmly suggested i wait on another corner.
the streets had been cautiontaped off by lapd to give term two protesters free passage around the village. they were not isolated to two-lane side roads, either: famed wilshire boulevard was trafficless for the first time since i took up residency in so cal. the police did not grasp tightly to their holsters, waiting for an uprising. they, instead, smiled and escorted the thousands down through the centre of town. i excused myself from the dinner table to wave peace signs at the marching crowd, a crowd that grinned at the prospect of having passed the halfway point of our dearest emperor's reign.
since starting my studies at ucla, i have heard nothing but complaints from my elders about the apathy of modern day students. according to them, we just don't care anymore. we immerse ourselves in a material world and do not concern ourselves with the consequences of our inaction. we attend what is supposed to be the bluest of blue institutions- a public californian university- but we do not so much as lift a finger to change the world around us for the better. i now see that they are wrong.
1.21.2005
all in a minute
today, a friend of mine found me in the park as i lay with my bare befreckled back facing the sky. a quick hi there and some words i don't remember, nor need to. he walked away and i was happy because it had seemed long since the last hello.
but serenity is so short.
laughing and pacing and cracking leaves balanced on the january green, a stranger in reflective shades pointed in his direction. "i can tell, i can tell..." he trailed off into a broken cackle characteristic of men who know they are smarter than they are. "he rehearsed for three, three hours before coming to- i can tell!- coming to talk to you." he stayed near, repeating and uttering disjointed nothings. then a lavender lady in a wide-brimmed sun hat with a ribbon that ran off it and down her spine passed. we both watched her. his antics ended. trying to dislodge a frisbee, a child lost his thrown shoe in a tree. and i lingered in simple flattery.
but serenity is so short.
laughing and pacing and cracking leaves balanced on the january green, a stranger in reflective shades pointed in his direction. "i can tell, i can tell..." he trailed off into a broken cackle characteristic of men who know they are smarter than they are. "he rehearsed for three, three hours before coming to- i can tell!- coming to talk to you." he stayed near, repeating and uttering disjointed nothings. then a lavender lady in a wide-brimmed sun hat with a ribbon that ran off it and down her spine passed. we both watched her. his antics ended. trying to dislodge a frisbee, a child lost his thrown shoe in a tree. and i lingered in simple flattery.
1.17.2005
sunsetcanyonrecreationcenter. thisisclare. howcani [breath] helpyou?
"yes. lemme speak to the manager."
"i am the manager."
"well then." long pause."you should know... there was a person today in my lane who was going too slow-"
she spat person as if she was referring to a slimy bottom-feeder.
"i'm sorry, ma'am. there are signs in front of each lane that indicate the speed of the swimmers and i can talk to the head lifeguard-"
"nonono. you. don't. understand. every single day, this person swims in my lane, and every single day, he swims too slow. when i arrive, he takes off his fins and starts doing breaststroke. just to get in my way! he does it onlywhenheseesme. he does it just to annoy me. then the pool temperature drops to 72- which is wayyy too cold, especially in los angeles, goodness!- and it begins to thunder and lightning and you close the pool. every single time i come you close the pool. and the locker room is too hot, the soap is out, and the parking meters are broken. every single time i come. it's all done on purpose-"
how right she was. every time i see her walk in, i summon up my godly powers and bring about all possible miseries.
sigh. after a day of pool patron placating, it is clearer than ever that you need una poca di grazia to do more than dance la bamba.
"i am the manager."
"well then." long pause."you should know... there was a person today in my lane who was going too slow-"
she spat person as if she was referring to a slimy bottom-feeder.
"i'm sorry, ma'am. there are signs in front of each lane that indicate the speed of the swimmers and i can talk to the head lifeguard-"
"nonono. you. don't. understand. every single day, this person swims in my lane, and every single day, he swims too slow. when i arrive, he takes off his fins and starts doing breaststroke. just to get in my way! he does it onlywhenheseesme. he does it just to annoy me. then the pool temperature drops to 72- which is wayyy too cold, especially in los angeles, goodness!- and it begins to thunder and lightning and you close the pool. every single time i come you close the pool. and the locker room is too hot, the soap is out, and the parking meters are broken. every single time i come. it's all done on purpose-"
how right she was. every time i see her walk in, i summon up my godly powers and bring about all possible miseries.
sigh. after a day of pool patron placating, it is clearer than ever that you need una poca di grazia to do more than dance la bamba.
on underwear
there are two things in this world that never fail to make me feel completely irresistible: my black fedora and sexy lingerie.
men have figured out the secrets of the fedora. long have detectives hidden beneath its brim; even
but no matter the extent to which the male species has used the hat to its advantage, it is women (yes! us!) who have exploited the secrets of scintillating undergarments. i can march out of my apartment in old sweats and flip flops, and if satin, silk, or lace is stretched across my behind, i can still rule the world. an omniscient power overcomes me. i know something no one else knows: whether today's choice is satin and navy or simple white lace.
men, you say there is a certain something about a woman that is attractive... something you cannot put your finger on... something that could be called presence. well, allow me to let you in on a little secret. it is simply our underwear that affects our disposition.
1.16.2005
ella, louis, and frank
on that thursday night, he wanted to go dancing. i had been driving north on pch and turned around to follow the coast back south to santa monica or venice for some late night jams. we flew through a few patches of low cloud and let the fog lights guide the way. there was no moon that night, and the stars above us dimmed as they stretched towards the horizon. los angeles projected its brights up from earth, turning the first third of the sky a smokey green.
a desire to listen to the waves took us to the side of the road. i dug my shoeless feet into his sides and hopped on his back for a ride to the edge. the winding coast hid the city from our sights and i doubt anyone would have heard me had i screamed. (i didn't.)
back in my roommate's car, he changed cd's and smiled (god, it's so beautiful when the boy smiles). "would it be worth putting your shoes on for a dance?" i loathe sneakers, but i'd do anything for a dance. reaching towards the steering wheel, he turned on the headlights, which cut through the black morning air to reveal our gravel clifftop dance floor. down went the windows. up went the volume. out stepped clare.
for the next hour, the drivers of each car that passed a certain viewpoint north of pepperdine caught a glimpse of two jazz-inspired 20-something silhouettes swinging the night away in the highbeams of a honda. they then wondered why they themselves weren't dancing- weren't living- as we were, deep into the midnight hour. i hope they rolled down their windows as singsingsing faded, breathed in the salt air, and remembered the last time they wasted hours on pleasure.
(it is no longer thursday, and i am sitting at my computer in my red polkadot underwear promising myself that days between dances will be few.)
a desire to listen to the waves took us to the side of the road. i dug my shoeless feet into his sides and hopped on his back for a ride to the edge. the winding coast hid the city from our sights and i doubt anyone would have heard me had i screamed. (i didn't.)
back in my roommate's car, he changed cd's and smiled (god, it's so beautiful when the boy smiles). "would it be worth putting your shoes on for a dance?" i loathe sneakers, but i'd do anything for a dance. reaching towards the steering wheel, he turned on the headlights, which cut through the black morning air to reveal our gravel clifftop dance floor. down went the windows. up went the volume. out stepped clare.
for the next hour, the drivers of each car that passed a certain viewpoint north of pepperdine caught a glimpse of two jazz-inspired 20-something silhouettes swinging the night away in the highbeams of a honda. they then wondered why they themselves weren't dancing- weren't living- as we were, deep into the midnight hour. i hope they rolled down their windows as singsingsing faded, breathed in the salt air, and remembered the last time they wasted hours on pleasure.
(it is no longer thursday, and i am sitting at my computer in my red polkadot underwear promising myself that days between dances will be few.)
1.12.2005
in wake of the waves
the tsunami that hit the western shores of indonesia in late december washed up broken boats and palm fronds, broken hearts and foggy memories. those of us that spent our childhood wandering sumatran jungles found ourselves filtering through our years for moments of pure equatorial innocence. we need to hold onto these memories once again, for without them, the images of upturned lands and faithless faces that we see every day on Page One would engrain themselves in our minds.
we used to make necklaces out of peel-off 7-Up lids. soda was a luxury in indonesia and cans were nowhere near being childproof. my parents' generation had learned from their mistakes when it came to aluminum, and my mom insisted on opening my first one for me. after slowly peeling the triangle lip away, she bent the soft metal in half and gently squeezed it through the opening. "don't. ever. do. this." she turned the can upside down, and 7-Up splashed my feet. when the lid landed between her shoes and mine, she brought her face down to me and smiled. "that could have been in your stomach."
so, being forewarned of the dangers of sharp, jagged metal, my friends and i thought it genius to wrap chains of these lids around our sunburned wrists. we were regular ten-year-old masterminds and The Pool, rumbai, sumatra was our hq.
The Pool stretched a never-ending 25 yards across a cracking cement deck, and the jungled picnic area next to it was our playground, one into which no adult evil could penetrate. its exotic branches canopied the soda sippers below and served as our catwalk while we straddled the soft bark and shimmied from tree to tree. we laughed, we lived miles above everyone else. sometimes, indonesia itself seemed designed solely for the perfect innocence of children.
the green melted into blue where the leaves crept up to The Pool gutter. they would have gladly gone for a swim if they'd been allowed. anyone would, really. i'd like to say that my memory focuses on a hot, sticky summer moment, but it could have been a hot, sticky fall day. or a winter one. or spring. that's the way it was 45 km from the equator. everyone was always at The Pool. everyone always drank cold 7-Ups.
and there we were: my little brother in his red speedo and matching dripping locks, two fellow expats, and me. lathered in bare-bottomed-girl sunscreen and sitting indian-style on the grass, we hid from the glaring sun's reflection. the parents were nowhere to be found, and in one of each of our hands was a sweating green can of carbonated heaven. michael's was almost done. i took pride in taking the longest to finish. we had all brought our metal chains, and with the delicacy of a jeweller, we each folded the new lid through the end link, secured the chain around a wrist, and turned our chins upward to the tempting branches.
seeing as the wilderness was beckoning us, one girl hatched the brilliant idea of stringing her proof of pop conquests around her bare neck, freeing up her hands. but the 3 o'clock bells across the street at our fathers' office began to ring and our necks jerked sideways at the prospect of pushing papas into The Pool's accepting waters. the necklace sliced through the skin of our darling friend's young neck, dripping deep red onto her pale pink bathing suit. our mothers reappeared from hiding, removing shreds of silver from their children and wrapping an old teeshirt around the imperfect neck of an unlucky little girl. there would be no more jungle adventures that day. no pushing dads in the pool. our picnics were packed in a snap and from that day forth, we would sip our soda from glass bottles.
we used to make necklaces out of peel-off 7-Up lids. soda was a luxury in indonesia and cans were nowhere near being childproof. my parents' generation had learned from their mistakes when it came to aluminum, and my mom insisted on opening my first one for me. after slowly peeling the triangle lip away, she bent the soft metal in half and gently squeezed it through the opening. "don't. ever. do. this." she turned the can upside down, and 7-Up splashed my feet. when the lid landed between her shoes and mine, she brought her face down to me and smiled. "that could have been in your stomach."
so, being forewarned of the dangers of sharp, jagged metal, my friends and i thought it genius to wrap chains of these lids around our sunburned wrists. we were regular ten-year-old masterminds and The Pool, rumbai, sumatra was our hq.
The Pool stretched a never-ending 25 yards across a cracking cement deck, and the jungled picnic area next to it was our playground, one into which no adult evil could penetrate. its exotic branches canopied the soda sippers below and served as our catwalk while we straddled the soft bark and shimmied from tree to tree. we laughed, we lived miles above everyone else. sometimes, indonesia itself seemed designed solely for the perfect innocence of children.
the green melted into blue where the leaves crept up to The Pool gutter. they would have gladly gone for a swim if they'd been allowed. anyone would, really. i'd like to say that my memory focuses on a hot, sticky summer moment, but it could have been a hot, sticky fall day. or a winter one. or spring. that's the way it was 45 km from the equator. everyone was always at The Pool. everyone always drank cold 7-Ups.
and there we were: my little brother in his red speedo and matching dripping locks, two fellow expats, and me. lathered in bare-bottomed-girl sunscreen and sitting indian-style on the grass, we hid from the glaring sun's reflection. the parents were nowhere to be found, and in one of each of our hands was a sweating green can of carbonated heaven. michael's was almost done. i took pride in taking the longest to finish. we had all brought our metal chains, and with the delicacy of a jeweller, we each folded the new lid through the end link, secured the chain around a wrist, and turned our chins upward to the tempting branches.
seeing as the wilderness was beckoning us, one girl hatched the brilliant idea of stringing her proof of pop conquests around her bare neck, freeing up her hands. but the 3 o'clock bells across the street at our fathers' office began to ring and our necks jerked sideways at the prospect of pushing papas into The Pool's accepting waters. the necklace sliced through the skin of our darling friend's young neck, dripping deep red onto her pale pink bathing suit. our mothers reappeared from hiding, removing shreds of silver from their children and wrapping an old teeshirt around the imperfect neck of an unlucky little girl. there would be no more jungle adventures that day. no pushing dads in the pool. our picnics were packed in a snap and from that day forth, we would sip our soda from glass bottles.
1.03.2005
beauty is
"when i go from hence, let this be my parting word, that what i have seen is unsurpassable."
-rabindranath tagore
-rabindranath tagore
1.01.2005
self-explanatory
...and we are tucking one more year away into the dusty cabinets of memory. after making the work out more/be more organized/etc. resolutions repeatedly with little or no results, i'm changing my ways not only in that i'd like to actually accomplish my goals this year, but in that my goals deserve to be accomplished. my pg resolutions for 2005:
- carry a notebook everywhere [in an attempt not to forget all the mini-moments that i'll clog a novel with someday]
- learn something or go somewhere new each week [i am explorer at heart; feel free to tag along]
- start a blog
- dance more [i can't get enough of it]
- begin the long process that is researching my grandma's real life [partly out of curiosity and in hopes of preserving the past... but also because i'd like to write about her someday]
i don't know about 1, 2, 4, or 5, but number 3 is off to a pretty decent start, and my brother is banging out van halen's right now on the piano. it's my tomorrow.
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