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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!