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 Siena, Italy."

Siena! She'd seen those quarries summers earlier, knee-deep in thistle weeds near a bus stop in Piombino. The scent had reminded her of her Thinking Hill in California, where she'd watch fireworks and write in her journal, but, that summer, she was eight thousand miles away from that haven. Eight thousand seven-minute jogs. Ignoring the obstacle of the ocean, it would have taken her almost thirty-nine days to run home without stopping. It was cold that evening near the coast, that evening at the bus stop. Her heart had felt the chill. Giant quarries to the East exposed wounded mountainsides, parts of which had been carted thousands miles away.

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 United States' highest Court. Although she was a newcomer, she knew each Justice by name, seated in descending order of seniority, starting in the center with Rehnquist and alternating from left to right, ending with Justice Breyer, who had already spent eleven years in the junior seat. Poor guy. Eleven years on the job and still the most inferior of the gang, Breyer's duties included defending the constitution of the United States and making Starbucks runs for his eight other colleagues.

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 Texas (surprise, surprise), began as a clear monologue presented by [insert stereotypical lawyer here] but soon became a Q&A with the Supreme Court. The thirty minutes allotted to each side would not be enough for both the lawyers' speeches and a quiz session, and the Court preferred the latter. So it goes.

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.]

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.

finals week: the quarterly ucla undie run

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.

classic los angeles art deco at the wiltern

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!

the portland wall spoke to me.

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."

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.