| moving day |
[24 Feb 2003|05:06pm] |
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mood |
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coughing |
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music |
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"Tiny Spark" by Brendan Benson |
] |
Because of greater customizability, I am moving. I'll miss the pink and the cute picture of Hermione, but sometimes you just gotta say goodbye.
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| oscillation |
[21 Feb 2003|10:10am] |
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mood |
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pale |
] |
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music |
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"In Other Words" by Ben Kweller |
] |
I'm literally so tired I can't think straight.
Anyway, should I keep using this livejournal site? Or should I move here?
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| xerox. oh wait, no, canon. |
[21 Feb 2003|09:13am] |
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I just did work at the copier for about five minutes. The copier! What a great work tool! It is mind-numbingly repetitive to make copies of any more than, say, 20 pages, and let me tell you, the mind-numbness feels so good.
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| plug |
[21 Feb 2003|08:51am] |
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mood |
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disoriented |
] |
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music |
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"Of Course We Will" by Ultimate Fakebook |
] |
Paul Krugman rocks me.
I can't think of a single time I've read something he wrote that didn't make me feel enlightened or enraged or, as is usually the case, both.
No exception.
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| it's the best that i can give |
[18 Feb 2003|03:24pm] |
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mood |
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fidgety |
] |
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music |
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"Nothing Gets Crossed Out" by Bright Eyes |
] |
Aching to leave my desk, I've been reading. Dooce's account of grade school put me in a recollective mood. I remember alphabetized lines. My last name begins with 'L', so I was always in the middle, normally a perfectly acceptable place for a fence-rider like my wee self. But there were always little fantasies of being in the front.
Every once in awhile, the teacher (sensing oh-so-intuitively that every kid should have his or her chance at holding a single-digit place in line) would get the ingenius idea to line up the kids in REVERSE alphabetical order. Gee, thanks. I was #12, and now I'm #11. (This held even when teachers were really, really creative and tried to work in first names. My first initial is 'K'. I was doomed to middledom forever.)
So I tried to think of ways to manipulate the line order to get myself in front. The only thing I remember coming up with is an "inside-out" line in which you start with the middle letter and work your way outwards. The order would be M, N, L, O, K, P, J, etc.
I yearned to suggest this to teachers, but knew only too well how severe would be the teasing.
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| that movie that's called 'life sucks' stars everyone. heeheeeeee. |
[18 Feb 2003|11:51am] |
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mood |
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cooped up, Angelou-style. |
] |
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music |
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"Caught Up In You" by Convoy |
] |
The two weeks prior to this one were immensely busy for me. So that I would be able to get everything done, I took a significant amount of time off work and spent the greater part of it at the library. This arrangement worked nicely for me, and left me with the distinct feeling that my scholastic life could be in a hell of a lot better shape if I spent less time at the office with my purchase orders and newspapers and contact reports, and more time at the library with my readers and notebooks and cute study companions.
The problem, of course, is that library time doesn't pay the rent. This is a dilemma for me. I know quite well what I need to do in order to pull myself up by my academic bootstraps: I need to work less. But it's literally impossible to do this and still have enough money to get by, and it's hard for me to accept this fact.
Since I moved away from home, especially since moving off-campus, I've had bouts of jealousy toward the kids I know whose parents pay their expenses. Meaning, everyone except for my ex-boyfriend and I. That he paid his way alone, too, was encouraging for me, because I never felt disadvantaged or unduly burdened around him; he carried the same financial load I did (albeit without the out-of-state-tuition fees).
But I know no one else who pays his own way, in its entirety. That I am reminded every time I collect rent from my roommates that I'm receiving parental funds brings on a wee bit of bitterness on my part, bitterness unfairly directed at my mother for not also helping out with my inflated rent and frustrating bills. It's unfair, because my mother has as little money to spare as I do, and many more financial worries.
Furthermore, I don't want my parents to give me money, really. I'm too old for an allowance and I want financial independence. I don't want to pose a burden and I don't think I should be on the receiving end of cash that could only too easily be spent on shoes and records and concerts, things that are sadly unrelated to rent, electricity, and DSL.
So unless I'm completely in the hole because of unavoidable and unexpected expenses, like car repairs, I don't ask for help, and I'm generally proud of it. It's satisfying to know that I don't rely on a parental crutch, that I have my own good credit rating, that I have a grasp on how to budget expenses and that maybe, just maybe, that will help me out when I'm out of college and free of that educational safety net that's been thankfully sheltering me from the real world since the moment I walked into my kindergarten class and took my seat next to Christopher with the bloody nose.
But on the other hand, sometimes I want some assistance. Like when I want to spend more time doing things that keep me happy, or up-to-speed in schoolwork, or able to devote myself to nonmonetary priorities. Like when I start to think that my job is significantly less that fulfilling. Like now.
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| go buy diamonds because THEY EQUAL LOVE |
[14 Feb 2003|09:59am] |
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mood |
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kinda ho-hum. |
] |
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music |
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"Love Detective" by Arab Strap |
] |
Everyone at the office gets really into Valentine's Day, even though you'd think they'd be directing their sugar-coated, red-frosted love elsewhere (say, toward spouses). This is generally okay, because it means a virtually inexhaustible supply of cookies and candy and of amusement at all the red sweaters and heart-shaped jewelry. But I'm a little worried this year that the 60-year-old man in the next office, who thinks women's eyes are located about halfway between their belly buttons and the napes of their necks (really, all women), is going to try to make me his valentine.
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| suicide and its benefits. |
[13 Feb 2003|03:56pm] |
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mood |
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i can't tell if i'm awake |
] |
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music |
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Radiohead ... DUH da da DA daaa DUH da da da DUH DUH |
] |
The scenario: my uncle, Randy, has just booked me a flight to London with his frequent flyer miles. Also, he has just seen my AIM away message: "i've a bad case of the midterms and i don't think i'm going to make it. i'm off to study at geisel library. and by study, i mean 'jump off the top of.'"
Randy, via email informing me of ticket reservation: "I hope you haven't decided to jump off the top of the library. If you have, I can cancel the ticket and get my miles back."
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[12 Feb 2003|08:52pm] |
microsoft word i am going to kill you or at least wound your grammar correction function so badly that you won't know what the fuck just hit you and i am going to do this because you refuse to end the torture, the torture, the torturous blinking of the awful green squiggly line, the line that disappears and reappears every time i type a fucking letter because it hates me and wants to ruin me so it interrupts my paper, zig-zags underneath my carefully chosen words, demands attention and distracts from my writing and won't. won't. won't. stop. blinking.
oh microsoft word you are going to cry out in pain after what i do with you, you are going to weep and beg for mercy and you will never, ever use your beastly, nefarious green squiggly lines against me again. EVER. i hate you
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| chocolate! food! umbrellas! rain! why did i have that big coffee! these are the things i think abou |
[12 Feb 2003|02:24pm] |
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mood |
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Caffeinated with a Capital "C" |
] |
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music |
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"BEAUTIFUL" BY CHRISTINA AGUILERA - SUCK IT BITCHES |
] |
I fucking love this rain. LOVE. IT. As I type this on the "Literary Index" computer in the reference section of the library (yes, clearly NOT INTENDED for recreational use), I am looking above and beyond the monitor at the 20-foot window, and through that out into the gigantic structure that is our library and the looming dark grey sky and the pounding (by So Cal standards) rain that shrouds the whole scene in streaming wet goodness. And although this school and this city are not built to handle the weather (ahhh!! there's water on the GROUND!!!), and it almost seems like the cement walkways were constructed to hold the water in, and my shoes are soaked and my hair is frizzy and I couldn't talk to the cute guy long enough after class because I just had to get out of the downpour and under my striped (that's STRIPE-ED) umbrella, I still fucking. love. this. rain.
However, I still have to wonder about the shoeless girl. Girl, you are carrying shoes. Why aren't you wearing them?
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| romance. |
[12 Feb 2003|01:16am] |
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mood |
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awake, by some twisted trick |
] |
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music |
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"Settle Down" by Zwan |
] |
In certain countries that will remain unnamed, this Friday is "Valentinstag." Now, does that make you want to shag, or what?
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| drugs are overrated. |
[04 Feb 2003|12:55pm] |
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mood |
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addicted |
] |
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music |
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"Alameda" by Elliott Smith |
] |
Speed might do it for you, but Adobe Photoshop does it for me.
And with help from Dooce, I'm cranking out hand- (okay, computer-) crafted memories by the eyeful.
This was taken while standing on railroad tracks in Del Mar, California. In the center, kind of off in the distance, is the popular and gorgeous Torrey Pines State Beach. To the right is a cliff, directly below which is a more sparsely frequented stretch of sand, from where I'd just come when I took this picture.
This is me ... then.* That's a little over a year ago, at the San Diego airport, with then-boyfriend. As I'm looking at it now, I'm realizing that although it looked fine on my iMac, it now renders a little darker than I'd intended. Sorry.
This should be a girlfriend and me. These two did it first, and we tried to imitate their cuteness, but were, alas, unsuccessful. That's why they get put on the web instead of us.
More to come.
On an unrelated note, I noticed that one of the homes I had to look up at work (don't ask, it's way to boring and/or creepy) is on Mimosa Street. Mimosa Street! How much would I love to live there? Doesn't hurt that I happen to know it's in one of the nicest areas around (if you can forget that whole Heaven's Gate thing).
*Yes, it's a joke.
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| what war? |
[30 Jan 2003|02:14pm] |
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mood |
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 amused |
] |
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music |
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"Superman" by Eminem - don't clown, now |
] |
If I'd had a camera with me today on campus, it would have documented a beautifully hilarious event: in the background, an impressively large student rally/parade in protest of the coming war against Iraq; and in the foreground, this guy and this guy posing delightedly and completely obliviously for swarms of tube-topped girlfans.
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| semi-surreal. |
[28 Jan 2003|01:05pm] |
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mood |
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bothered |
] |
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music |
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"No Hay Problema" by Pink Martini |
] |
When you encounter a friend in a busy public place, and he's on a pay phone looking like a drug dealer, so you waltz over to poke fun, and he hands you the phone and tells you that the person on the line is someone you are acquainted with but don't know well and have not seen for months because she is overseas, and you say "hello," a bit awkwardly, and she sounds tired and stressed out and not too keen on this surprise,
what do you say?
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| a couple of observations re: the superbowl. |
[27 Jan 2003|12:48am] |
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mood |
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fun weekend |
] |
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music |
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"Cumbia de los Muertos" by Ozomatli |
] |
On Monday, I predicted that I could most likely go the week without even consciously realizing that the Superbowl was here in San Diego.
I could have been further from the truth, like if I slept both with the coach of the Raiders and of the Buccs, or if I was in a coma.
No, the Superbowl made itself apparent this week, especially these past few days, as everyone living in the San Diego area has been scraping up bragging rights from the ground the teams thud around on. SD, with its big-city mentality but little-town soul, has been loving the attention the way an insecure 16-year-old girl loves the attention she gets when she and her friends are drunk.
The approach of the event could not have been missed, with the Raiders lodging at the Hilton adjacent to the building in which I work, and the Buccaneers staying the week at the Hyatt down a couple streets from my house. (Or do I have them mixed up? It was so vogue this week to know where each team was booked, people rattled off the information without bothering to remember which hotel belonged to which team, of course resulting in chaos as everyone tried to boast to back-home friends about their near proximity to the madness legitimately.)
The Buccs practiced at our field. Alex waited on them at Cozymel's. (Other) Alex served the Raiders at P.F. Chang's. They booked a club we had ambitions of visiting, thwarting an evening's plans. It was unbelievably hard to ignore these football players, whose presence, hypnotizing an entire town, turning us all into gossips, into teenagers who stalk their crushes, dwarfed even their towering physical size (and how often did I hear, "My friend totally saw them and they totally are huge!" Who knew?!).
San Diegans, and twenty-something La Jollans in particular, seemed alert, wide-eyed, ready at any moment to strike at and snatch up a snippet of insider info on these momentary celebrities and their whereabouts. Fabricated but totally representative conversation:
"What do you think the Raiders are doing tonight?"
"I don't know, probably going to a restaurant around here. My friend saw them at a restaurant yesterday."
"Yeah? I saw some of the Buccaneers in front of Rite-Aid earlier. I wonder what they were doing."
"They're big, huh?"
"Yeah, they're huge."
"It's cool that they're here, you know? Like, I don't really care about football, but it's cool to just have it all right in our neighborhood."
"Ditto."
This conversation can be repeated as necessary, at least once per day, and with greater frequency upon actual spotting of specimen.
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| enchanted |
[23 Jan 2003|12:40pm] |
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mood |
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take a guess |
] |
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music |
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take a guess |
] |
Sometimes, much in the same way a person can capture your attention and stay on the tip of your thoughts for days, a song will connect to me in a way that makes me believe it is part of me. It entices my ear and imprints itself upon my senses. I see the world through the veil it weaves into my consciousness. I hear it when I'm not thinking. I play it on repeat at home while I eat cereal and write a to-do list on illustrated post-it notes, wishing I could jump into its beat, skip around on its rhythm, wrap myself up in its melody and embrace every one of its words.
Son, Ambulance - "Katie Come True"
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| limpin' n listenin' |
[16 Jan 2003|12:36am] |
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mood |
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fuck thumbs. my heels hurt. |
] |
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music |
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"Like Dylan in the Movies" by Belle and Sebastian |
] |
I wore my smart and aptly named loafers today. They are fairly new, but I was sure they'd been sufficiently broken in for campus use. And sure enough, my feet were perfectly comfortable.
Until.
I felt a smarting pain in my heel. Investigation revealed not only a blister but a POPPED blister, a both extremely uncomfortable and unsightly foot accessory.
On a happier note, here is a list of albums I've obtained for free from various philanthropic friends, collectively cementing the realization that I am, with exceptions, an indie pop girl:
Belle and Sebastian, If You're Feeling Sinister; Lazy Line Painter Jane; The Boy with the Arab Strap; Tigermilk
Gorky's Zygotic Minci, The Blue Trees
Imperial Teen, On
Queens of the Stone Age, Songs for the Deaf
Common, Electric Circus
My Bloody Valentine, Loveless
Sigur Ros, ( )
Neutral Milk Hotel, On Avery Island
Elf Power, A Dream in Sound; When the Red King Comes; Winter is Coming
Olivia Tremor Control, Black Foliage; Dusk at Cubist Castle
Not a bad week's work. And not too bad a replacement for an actual entry.
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| did you get that memo? |
[15 Jan 2003|10:28am] |
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mood |
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my thumbs hurt. |
] |
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music |
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"Start Together" by Sleater-Kinney |
] |
I'm 20 years old. I am too young to have dread-filled thoughts a la Office Space. I'm 20 years old. I am too young to live in a cubicle. I'm 20 years old. I am too young to talk to accounting and disbursements departments on a regular basis. I am too young to fritter away my eyesight on CRT monitors that stare unblinkingly back at me eight hours a day. I'm 20 fucking years old. I need food, money, sex and sleep, in an order I've yet to decide, and on a good day, I might squeeze class in there somewhere, maybe, like if I can reasonably expect to see someone there who is hot and funny and smart and in possesion of an absolutely devastating accent. MAYBE.
I am too young for this job.
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| remorse and resolution |
[13 Jan 2003|11:26pm] |
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mood |
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hopeful |
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music |
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"Fresher Than the Sweetness in Water" by Gorky's Zygotic Mynci |
] |
I haven't written anything here in awhile, which makes me feel a little down for a number of reasons. One is that it is one of actually several places I write my thoughts -- none of which I've been writing in recently (to tired to construct that sentence correctly). Another reason is that this is one of many so-far-failed resolutions I made for the new year, and that is of course a little discouraging.
But most of all, I feel down about neglecting the site because I love to write and one of the things I feel most passionate about is learning how to be a better writer, and the best way to do so is to simply practice, and I haven't been doing that.
So consider my wrist sufficiently slapped; this is turnaround time, baby. In honor of that, the remainder of this post will counterbalance the self-pity that characterized two of the last three entries.
* * *
Since my breakup a couple of months ago -- and that is a useful demarcation for the beginning of this, though not a cause -- I have come to grips with my long-lived but underground love of writing. For as long as I can remember, I have wanted to be a writer. But for just as long, I have thought (subconciously at least) that no career could come from writing alone, and so until recently I had never voiced my desire. I remember being asked in the second grade to sketch a picture of the profession I hoped to have as a grown-up, and not having the faintest idea what to draw. With "author" or "writer" an impossibility -- and for some reason, I really thought it was -- I had no aspirations.
This continued for years. When I was eight years old, my dad brought home a laptop computer. It was several inches thick and was barely light enough for my frail arms to carry. I took it up to my room and wrote stories until late at night, when my mother came in and made me stop. I'd do this night after night, but day by day I had no concept of what I wanted to be when I grew up.
I started a weblog about 15 months ago or so, which served as my first vehicle for regular recreational writing in years, and my first-ever experience writing pieces that could be viewed by anyone. I updated it pretty faithfully, and grew increasingly fond of composing little snippets of cleverness for it. I failed much of the time, of course, because I'm not all that clever, but I loved it anyway.
This fall, I realized how much I loved writing. I remembered (I had forgotten!) how much I loved writing as a child, how I dreamt of being a novelist, how I had, sadly, discounted the possibility of achieving that aspiration. And I committed myself to learning the craft, to developing my own style, to getting used to throwing out words until something clever or funny or intuitive or beautiful emerges from the mess.
Because very few things make me as self-satisfied (in the best sense) as looking over something I've written and being pleased with the result. And because few compliments, if any, touch me as deeply as a compliment on something I've written, or on my ability to write well.
I am all too well aware that a fault of mine in the past has been to describe myself as "not naive," and that declaring oneself "not naive" is almost always followed by some proverbial fall. So I'm not going to say I'm not naive about the writing craft or the writing business or writing as a career. I am naive. I know very little about it. I do know one thing, though, which is that I have so, so much to learn -- and that excites me.
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