a pennys worth pt. 2

It's been two years today since Lucian died and a little over six months since I wrote about it.

Finishing "A Penny's Worth" was a lesson in itself. In the process, I was expecting to feel like I'd broken through some kind of wall. Or at least monumentally different, that my own writing would provide an answer to a question I wasn't sure of. I at least hoped for a sense of conclusion.
What I felt instead was that I was the same person with the same experiences with the same troubles. I had simply organized them and tided up these elements. The best way to convey it would be to compare it to a bookshelf. Beforehand, it had been cluttered, books stacked randomly, some stuffed in sideways, maybe some random papers or coffee mugs. Writing about Lucian has put it in order; it's all the same books, but now they are organized, spines lined up so you can easily pick through them and remember everything they have said.

And just because I've written it doesn't mean I feel any less anxious or confused by Lucian's death. I have to constantly remind myself of the yarn, the knots, the pennies. It's like I'm always working to catch up with my own well-being. I can expect to feel happiness only momentarily. Similar to the act of writing the memoir, it was not as if I had moved completely forward, never to slide back and revisit these emotions. I've gone through maybe month long periods of simple joy in and of itself and I've gone through periods of having to put all of my will power into convincing myself it is not all hopeless repeatedly in one day.

And I've pulled myself out of it before. Even on days when I really do not want to feel happy, telling myself any thing I do will only be a veiled distraction from "the Truth". Who knows what that is, but I do know I don't want it to be able to seep into my bones and smother my ability to enjoy myself.

Over time, I've stocked arsenals and created escape plans for days like these. Though I believe in letting myself feel what I feel, good or bad, to their full extent, I know I often have to take direct initiative to eventually find my way back out. One specific example would be writing lists, which I sometimes title "RX: Happiness" or "RX: Get Over It". They include tasks, hobbies, people to talk to and goals to accomplish. They don't always "cure" my directly but often help get me back on track to feeling okay. I remember the first one I wrote the summer after Lucian died and it included "Stop drinking coffee and stop reading Ernest Hemingway". My most recent was written two days ago over a breakfast I forced myself to eat but had no appetite for. The list is still in my backpack and suggests that I "sew button back on dress," "pet the cat," and "don't sit in bedroom too much."

I remember, for maybe a year after Lucian died, my efforts to squander this darkness (and somehow cheat death, I had secretly hoped) was feverish. If each moment was not filled with a "productive" activity or thought, I could feel the anxiety creeping up behind me. I carried my knitting, a book to read and for more social situations, a deck of cards, everywhere I went. I would often leave cafes, friends' houses or other get-togethers because it wasn't "fulfilling" enough. At home, I would continue knitting or sewing or listening to talk radio, isolated in my nervous elitism.

During the fall semester after Lucian's death, there was a week where my left eye twitched continuously. I never gave my eyes a rest because I was constantly reading or writing or knitting or sewing. Even walking to class or do errands had to be filled with music or phone calls to check in. I had to gather knowledge and accomplishments around me, attempting to find shelter in them.

But I wasn't necessarily any unhappier than I am now, about a year since I pushed myself so hard. I don't really think of periods of my life as completely happier or sadder than other parts. It's measured more in my awareness and grasp on my own well-being, how successfully I can force myself out of bed and eat breakfast on some mornings. The last few months it seems the feverishness has flipped, focusing my efforts towards relaxation and satisfaction in small, seemingly insubstantial moments. Who cares if I stay in Saturday night to joke with my housemates, lingering at the table long after dinner only getting up to refill our cups of tea. It doesn't matter if I "learned" or "created" anything because I was feeling something, simply happy. A few months ago, for example, I had a few friends, Bettina, Zach and Shelby, over for dinner. As we stood around the sink washing our dishes I said matter-of-factly that I wanted to go on an adventure. We threw around some ideas but in the end we didn't get farther than the corner store to buy sweets. We all walked Zach back to his house and as we were saying goodbye I apologized that our hopes for the night had not happened. He took a bite from his doughnut and waved away my apology with one hand. "I had a good time, anyways. I mean, it's nice hanging out with you guys no matter what we do."

Yesterday afternoon I listened to the radio show "This American Life" as I knitted a hat for my housemate. The episode, titled "How to Rest in Peace", is about how people have dealt and still deal with the loss of parents to murder and suicide. The first segment focused on a man named Jason Minter, who, at six years old, heard his mother and her friend being shot to death by robbers in an adjacent room. Throughout his life, he grew more and more obsessed with his mother's death. As a child, he worried about security and built weapons and traps. After studying Film in college he decided to make a documentary about his mother's death. He visited the crime scene, talked to police and even one of the accomplices of the murder trying to learn all the details. When the interviewer asked Jason what his hopes were for completing the documentary, he replied, "My hope is to cease to obsess over that day. You know, I hope to not think about the murder twenty-six times a day, maybe once a day or once every two days." He then changed his mind a little, reflecting that, "I wonder if I should intensely focus on my mother and, not forget about the crime obviously, but try to stay away from that as much as possible mentally and not make the rest of the [documentary]. [I] never really thought of [my] mother as a real person, she's been this event, or this horrible thing that happened to [me]. Not that she was a horrible thing, but she was a victim of this horrible thing, which has in some ways defined my life."

Yes, I am still the same person with the same experiences and the same troubles. I have most of the same hobbies, such as knitting and sewing and reading and writing, but like Jason, I have realized the importance of how I approach these activities. If they are done out of fear, because I am running away from something, I have failed in my attempt to escape that thing since it has such power over my daily life. Instead I should focus on Lucian and his life and what that has taught me. I should live each moment of my life, not because it will get me somewhere or teach me something, but because it is something that will make me happy in that moment for whatever reason.

Yes, I still think of Lucian whenever I see pennies around. I don't pick them up nearly as often, though.




POSTSCRIPT: Now here I am, having finished writing even more on the subject only moments ago and, like I said in the beginning, I now feel a little lost because I am the same person sitting in the same chair at the same desk with the same experiences and the same troubles. I've realized that I am grateful at least that I was consumed by this feeling to write and write and write for hours. While I was writing I didn't feel the anxiety or the uselessness but could feel all of my thoughts fall neatly into place and pour out of the tip of my pen.
And here I go again, to repeat the process over and over again.

a pennys worth

Here is a piece I wrote for my nonfiction class about my friend Lucian who passed away two years ago today. It's about grief, death, happiness, anxiety, pennies and knitting.

I pulled my jacket tight around me as I walked from the San Francisco State campus to the bus stop. Though not a student, I spent most of my freshmen year there visiting friends from home who were. It was the beginning of the fall semester and I hadn't made many friends at my own school, the University of San Francisco. After graduating from a strict boarding high school and spending the summer at home, I found it very hard to leave once again. For the first time, I had felt settled in one place. But, the fall inevitably arrived and I was uprooted to another city.
As I turned the volume up on my iPod I heard a rattling close behind. Lucian glided next to me on a Razor scooter, put his arm around me and leaned his head on my shoulder. He was nonchalent with his affection, as if the most natural place for him was in a friend's arms. I offered him one of my headphones and he shifted his head to listen to his music.
We walked the rest of the way to the bus stop in silence, my feet stamping out a steady four quarter notes per measure while his struck the pavement every third beat, pushing himself forward on the scooter.

Lucian and I first met while home in Santa Cruz through mutual friends. I was unsure about his confidence. He approached strangers, including me and my group of friends, with ease and comfort, immediately diving into conversation. “Who is this kid? Who does he think he is?” we thought to ourselves. Maybe it was just a reflection of our own self-consciousness, that we were jealous of how effortlessly he expressed himself and connected with those around him. I started seeing him all over town and with mutual friends more often and, after leaving for college, his easy friendship was stable and comforting.
Our main group of friends at that time, the beginning of our first year of college, consisted of Lucian and me along with four or five other freshmen boys. Though I was known to be maternal, I was still one of the guys; we sometimes likened ourselves to Wendy and the Lost Boys. Our plans, whether for the night or for our lives ahead, were made enthusiastically. Hands waved in the air, spilling bear on the ground beneath. “I know this guy who lives on Church St., you know, near Dolores Park,” one of the Lost Boys told the group while I was visiting them at San Francisco State. “I ran into him and was talking about how much I would love to live there, and he was like, 'You know, this apartment is opening up in the next couple months'. Why don't we all move in together? Or at least in the same neighborhood!” We all agreed and started to plan out our room arrangements immediately. “We could have barbecues in the summer! And go out together every weekend!” another chimed in.
After the conversation died down, I realized that the night had grown late and the buses were no longer running. I had no way of returning to my own room at the University of San Francisco. Luckily, Lucian, whose roommate was out of town for the weekend, offered his room to me.
“Goodnight, 'lil Lu! Sleep tight!” I whispered to him from across the room. He hated when people called him that, but I was given special permission.
He laughed from underneath his orange blankets, “G'night, Jenny.”

____________________
Journal Entry, January 3rd, 2008, 1:00AM
“I am so ashamed that I still went through such mundane rituals as undressing and washing my face. I feel like in the face of this loss, I should recognize it in some way more concrete than words shared over the phone.”
___________________

At first Lucian didn't die. He was on vacation. Or taking classes back at school. Maybe it was a big practical joke. We were all waiting for him to come back because we knew it wasn't him. He was not the one they wrote about in the article and he was not the one lying in the street. I remember the night it happened I was on the phone with my friend Nick. He said, in a business-like tone, “Someone said it's just a rumor, that he is only injured. I'll call the hospital and if they don't know anything about it he must be fine.” But we knew. The longer we remained rational, double checking all of the facts, the longer it would be until it was all real. As I sat on the shag rug in the bathroom, that hint of hope felt like a gulp of air between swells of waves. So many plans, assumptions and expectations were swept up with the current. We had planned a road trip for that winter, to live together next summer, to know Lucian for the rest of our lives.
I held my toothbrush but could not bring myself to stand up straight in front of the mirror. Nothing felt more obscene, more inappropriate at that moment after hanging up the phone than just brushing my teeth. That action would delegitimize the whole thing-- it would prove that this was just like any other day. That, when it came down to it, no matter what happened. I would still end up committing myself to these mindless tasks. Yesterday, Lucian was alive and today he was not; there was a significant change in my life but no physical signifier to make sense of it.

I remember the first penny was in a basement, hiding beneath a layer of mud. This particular basement had been converted into a music venue; the building, which was accessible through a nondescript door on Mission St., also served as a record store during the day and bands played in the basement at night. I was leaning against an old wooden workbench. The room was loud with buzzed mingling and I kept myself removed, perched in my mind's lighthouse; my eyes, like the steady beams, scanned the rooms, straight, uninterrupted and halfheartedly. I tapped my toes in a small puddle on the basement floor. I thought about how much Lucian would have liked this place, with its darkened alley entrance and the punks all brown with dirt and sun. I could imagine him in front of me, smirking between sips of beer, his expression honest and engaged.
An orange circle peeked its way through the mud in front of me. It was just a penny, but I held my breath for a moment before bending down to pick it up. I wiped it off on my sweater, turned it over in my hand to make sure. It was old and damaged, the way old silverware looks after a spin in the dishwasher. I ran my fingers over the sharp edges.

A friend of mine had told me about pennies in late January, a few days after I returned to San Francisco for school. Her aunt believed that, through pennies, the dead communicate to the living. After her father passed away, the woman began seeing pennies, especially during moments of deep introspection. She had a poor relationship with her father but had felt, through the appearance and placement of pennies, that he was attempting to apologize, communicate at least. The legitimacy was questionable, unfounded, but the possibility was enough for me to hold on to.
I don't really know if there was some sort of supernatural force behind these pennies. To be honest, pennies had been lying around, glinting at me from the pavement my whole life. Either way, their golden presence became a source of comfort for me. It meant that, maybe, Lucian was still around in some form. He was still saying hello and I'm okay and I think you will be okay.
In a wave of students marching across the street to class, head bowed against the wind and chin hidden in my scarf, I would find a penny's orange oasis upon the concrete gray ocean. I would kneel down, scoop it up, plunge my fist into my jacket pocket to hide my secret treasure from the murky depths.

____________________
“Now, if you see a bike that does not have traditional hand brakes, you think to yourself, well, just use the coaster brakes. Well, these bikes don't have a coaster brake. The crank just keeps rolling so the faster you go, the faster the crank goes and the harder it is then to stop that momentum with your legs. In some cases, it simply can't be done.”
KSBW Channel 8 News Report the day after Lucian's death, January 3rd, 2008
__________________

After setting my bike down on the sidewalk, I walked to the corner of Jessie and East Cliff, the same street I had ridden with Lucian before. It had been about a week since he sped down the nearby hill going 25 miles per hour without brakes or a helmet. As Lucian reached this corner, the delivery van in front of him turned right without signaling. He struggled to stop by slowing down his legs, but the velocity caused the bike to spin out from underneath him. His body hit the ground, followed by his head and the back tire of the van ran over his chest. It continued down the street, lazily turned left, indifferent.
And there I was, a few days later, in the same spot. The nearby fire hydrant was covered in peeling paint, wilting flowers and handwritten notes dampened by the recent storm. I pulled a sharpie out of my backpack, kneeled beside it and wrote his name.

The last time I saw Lucian was New Year's Day. My bike wheels clicked with content as I walked it to his front door and knocked. Lucian answered, his cheeks all apple, rounded in a grin.
“Look at what my mom made me wear.” I tugged at the poofy white parka. “She wouldn't let me leave the house unless I put it on so the cars would see me, she said! I feel like a marshmallow.” Lucian laughed and shook his head while I looked down at the jacket. “So, how's your New Year's Eve so far?” I threw my parka on the couch and used a sleeve to wipe the sweat from my temple. Nearly all of the flat surfaces in Lucian's living room had small, fist size sculptures of human faces that he had made. Each of them seemed slightly contorted, their features a little longer or droopier than normal, like in a dream.
“My day's been pretty good, actually. I decided to read the paper this morning in the back yard,” The weather had been unusually warm for the end of December. “...but I ended up just taking a nap in a sunny spot on the lawn.” He paused to put on his backpack, “Well, I'm ready to head downtown, you?”
Lucian rode in front of me, he was faster and more experienced. He had built his bike himself from spare parts. It was lightweight, neon green and all his own. We couldn't hear each other over the noise of the traffic and whooshing air so we settled on singing the theme from the musical “Sweeney Todd” in our loudest and most operatic voices instead.
At the crest of a small hill we could see the black silhouette of the eucalyptus trees as the sun set in violent oranges and reds. I pedaled faster and caught up with him, “Look at that, Lucian! Woo! G'bye 2007!” He screamed along with me, punching his fist in the air as we descended East Cliff St.
Later that night, after Lucian and I rounded up several friends in town, we returned to his house for the countdown. With all of our arms around each other in the living room we shouted at the muted television, daring the New Year forward. The next morning we said goodbye in his driveway. I don't think we hugged. It didn't occur to me at the time-- this is the last time you will ever see him-- so I put on my jacket and swung my leg over the seat of my bike. “I can help you fix your bike,” he said, examining the tires. “We'll make a project out of it.” He looked up and smiled. His generosity, his desire to help, was boundless and effortless. I couldn't wait to become better friends with him over the coming months. “Cool, sounds good. I'm going to my grandparents' tomorrow, but I'll see you when I get back,” I said. The clock hand pushed me steadily forward, down the street and farther away from Lucian.

____________________
“He law and puffed his lips out with his breath
And then-- the watcher at his pulse took a fright.
No one believed. They listened to his heart.
Little—less--nothing!-- and that ended it.
No more to build on there. And they, since they
were not the ones dead, turned to their affairs.”
“Out, out” by Robert Frost
____________________

During my sophomore year in high school, I went to the corner drug store to pick up some toothpaste. After grabbing a basket, my thoughts were absorbed in the different brands, claims, success stories. This decision seemed very important and I dedicated myself fully to choosing one of the options. I heard a crash to my right. My neck instinctively swiveled and I saw a middle-aged man face down in the linoleum floor. The pale skin of his exposed hands looked so fragile and human in the fluorescent lights. I stood there rigid, the metal basket filled with cardboard smiles resting on my elbow.
“Someone call an ambulance!” screamed a woman kneeling at his side, her eyes bulging. I heard the voice of a cashier shout, “I'm calling 911 now!”
I stayed there for a few moments weighing my options. I supposed I at least shouldn't just stand there staring. I wasn't needed, I should get back to shopping. I slowly turned, forcing myself along with each step. I walked into the next aisle and pretended to look at shampoo bottles, unable to suppress my sense of guilt.

The pennies kept me company. They were more than a financial gain. They were a collection. They were greetings. They were reminders. They were crumbs on a path. Even the pennies already found spoke to me. From my pockets or scattered on my desk or dropped on the floor, they continued their conversations. On similar walks, I would reach for something in my bag or slip my hands into my pockets, retreating from the cold to find something tickling my knuckles. I would thumb the smooth sides, flipping it through my fingers to say hello again. Half the reason I picked them up, paid so much attention to them was because I felt it was a way to communicate back. To ignore its presence, I believed, was to ignore Lucian. The first few times I passed them up I felt incredibly guilty. Once or twice I retraced my steps back to pick it up. I wanted him to know I still thought of him, was still aware of him, that he hadn't slipped into oblivion, been forgotten. Maybe all I was doing was picking up pennies, but it felt like maybe death wasn't a total eclipse.

There came a time when Lucian wasn't alive anymore. He definitely wasn't dead, though, but somewhere on the way to being there. This point occurred a month or so after we all arrived back at school for the spring semester. The reality hadn't hit us yet, but his absence was no longer a novelty, something to get used to. But he still felt present. While scrolling through my phone book, I would still instinctively pause at his name, ready to hit dial, to hear his voice. There were times when, upon orchestrating plans for the weekend, my mind would automatically weave Lucian into the scheme. I would imagine him arriving in his bright green shirt and pierced ears, how he would interact, his presence one string among hundreds of the night's tapestry. Without him, it would simply unravel.
It was like, if my life were a picture, Lucian was cut out. The scissors had left a space in his shape behind. Yes, he was absent, but his outline was not. His outline signified that he was once there, that he had existed, that he had left a mark.

____________________

“Isn't life a series of images that change as they repeat themselves?”
Andy Warhol
____________________

I sat up, I brushed my teeth, I buttoned my shirt, I looked in the mirror, I folded laundry, I did the dishes. Within each activity I said a little apology to Lucian and sent them in the creases of my cotton shirts and the soap bubbles in the sink. I mentally crossed off time on the calendar. It was time subtracted from my life. Everyday I grew more anxious, putting every action in the context of my mortality. Merciless instability loomed behind all of my plans. After agreeing to meet with friends for dinner in a couple weeks, for example, I wondered if I would even live through the days between.
Even the important things, the fun things, that I had before looked forward to were mocking reminders that no matter how I live, no matter which route I'll take, I'll end up in the same rut. I had entered a room to find that all the doors and windows back out were locked. I could spend my time however I pleased, but I was still entirely trapped.
The pennies piled up on my desk. I was careful to keep them separate from the other ordinary coins. They would taint Lucian's pennies, like rain to an inky letter—his message blurred and fuzzy by association.

A few days after his memorial service I found myself at home on the couch. I had spent most of my days alone, confused and fearful. I had a skein of golden yellow yarn that had been tangled and dragged into a mess by the dog. My mind's swiveling lights for once halted, remained focused and sure. I sat on the couch slowly unraveling it. I concentrated all of my energy and attention on the movement of each hand, the simultaneous curling of each knuckle, my breaths growing deeper and more consistent. I allowed myself to become lost in the yarn's knots. All that was before me was this sinewed nest of wool. Hours went by until I tamed it, rolled it into a ball the size of my fists.
I started to knit, casting on each stitch by twirling my wrist and running the yarn over the top of my fingers. The first few stitches always resists being knotted. But a few rows in, the yarn lets out a breath, grows flexible, offers itself up to my crooked spider fingers. I arrange the wool, centimeters at a time with hundreds of knots. Examined one at a time they are so inconsequential, minuscule, petty annoyances. Stringed along, in a scarf or hat, these knots create beautiful patterns. Looking back on the knitting, making each knot was necessary to the whole. It is beautiful, worthwhile that you spent time making the knots because, when you see them all together, you know they amount to something and that they are yours.

A penny is hardly worth anything. But they are the building blocks of our currency. They are necessary to dimes and dollars but we take them for granted, in some cases even throw them away. As I picked up more and more pennies the months following Lucian's death, I began to reflect on my newfound collection. Each penny, golden and forgotten, was like the menial tasks that had been building up all around me. I could ignore them, I could walk past them everyday, I could toss them aside. Or I could take each one for what it was worth, hold on to it and admire it. I could allow myself to find little joys in the simple, everyday actions I had beforehand found myself trapped by. Whether it be the warmth of the water running over my hands in the sink or the dull rhythms of the knife against the counter, slicing each onion. If I collect these actions, like I collect my pennies, they will inevitably lead to other events, conversations, discoveries of greater worth. I started picking up pennies I had burrowed safely in my room and slipped them, one by one, into the porcelain piggy bank.

more knitting revelations

1) A few weeks ago I was at my grandparents learning how to cable knit. I ran my thumb along the raised pattern. My grandmother put on her glasses, attached to a string around her neck, and waved me over to where she was sitting, in the process of knitting a sweater. "Looks good," she nodded. "Yeah, I messed up a couple times though, purled when I should've knit," I bent over and pointed. My grandmother removed her glasses, "Mmmhmm. It happens. The lady at the knit shop reminded me that, to be honest, nobody will notice these little things, so you shouldn't worry about it. They only stick out to you because you made them."

2) After finishing my scarf, I believe I was in Santa Barbara at the time, I was trying to explain to some friends how knitting works. It's all one string (unless you are making a sweater or something and have to sew the arms to the torso, but just ignore that for now) connecting the thousands of knots. That fact reminded me of the Buddhist concept that there is no self, that the only thing that strings our individual lives together on a day-to-day basis is the chain of memories and pain. It's like every day we wake up and are not the same person we were the day before, save for our memories. And it could be seen as bleak, but it could also be seen as a fresh start. Or a really great scarf. Ba dum chhh.

lessons in humility

It's healthy to be reminded of your place in the world, the fact that there are things above and below you in all matters. About two years ago, a fellow showed me one of his "favorite spots", which was simply the farthest point out on the wharf. Being dark out, there was nothing to disturb the surface or the sound of the water. If I stared directly out at the ocean, all dark dark blue and grays of the reflected moon, it felt like I wasn't standing on anything, that the water had swallowed me whole. On all sides I could see the heartbeat of the ocean, sliding steadily and sure and indestructible and silent. And it went in every direction, the same pulse all along the length of the beach as far as I could see. After barely being able to make sense of and stow away this image in its entirety, I remembered that what I was looking at was only the bay, the Monterey Bay, that the entire ocean spread out for thousands of miles past where I could see and unlike the land around me, punctuated and abridged and divided by trees and mountains and rivers, the ocean was one. The pulses I witnessed had traveled the length of its body, and I was simply witnessing the subtle twitch in the wrist of that body. I could feel myself shrinking in relation to the growth of my comprehension of that body of water. Along with it went my worries and my pride.

patrick's job

I currently hold the position of baker at the Spicy Pickle in Licoln Park, and I would like to officially declare the things I have learned in my month of employment there:

-the general weight and size of a 5 ounce ball of bread dough and a 4 ounce ball of cookie dough (I have had at least one dream in which I am chopping up an endless pile of dough, I am covered in flour, and I and weighing the pieces into 5 ounce balls- if I don't get it right I cry)
-that tedious tasks can have beautiful ends
-to trust my eyes
-to follow a recipe for gods sake, it makes things so simple!
-to take time
-that sleep doesn't disappear, it just reappears in new places of the day
-to clean up as I go
-that I can lift large bags of flour and gently measure ounces and cups and tablespoons of salt yeast and durum
-that I can bake in a large pickle costume
-that even if you mistake sugar for salt you can still save yourself; there is always a way to work it out so it won't happen again, there is always someone you can call.
-a trade, I have learned the basics of a craft, a skill set that brings people what can be considered a necessity; something that involves labor and mental capacity, and using my hands to create a gratifying and tangible result. I am able to take home a few of my rolls and have a reminder of my accomplishments, I can feed myself to a degree with what I do.

elements of the good days

I just came back from back from a mighty fine show at the Fun House tonight. I was condensing it into something more manageable while on my ride home. Here is what happened to come out of it.

what a joyful sound

He dances like 5 pine planks painted black and nailed together;
And another, he moves like those plug-in Santas that light up and jingle bell boogie.
Heads and arms are spinning like Saturn rings, their finger tips are many moons;
I dance like a lazy donkey, ears floppy and booted hoof so lightly stomping.

She dances like a three quarter full pitcher of lemonade perspiring
On a wobbly end-table, a July evening, before the lightning bugs are shining.
And everybody moves, but it will not be like me and it will not be like you-
Everybody moves but it has to be different if you want it to be true.




---------

Patrick amasses some recent little revelations

- People drive over speed bumps in different ways and at different speeds, and I like to pretend that that is the way they approach events in their life.
-I miss my best friend much more than I could have imagined, and it is only deepened by the fact that I can't contact her in any way. But then again I know when I see her it will be a(these are the only words I can possibly think to describe it)golden jubilee.
-The strange aphorisms of Frances Caroline Waldear make me giggle and are rarely understood by people who do not see them come out her mouth. Ask her for her opinion if you see her, it will be one of the best you have ever heard. If you live in Chicago I suggest you ask Martha Lein, she has been on a roll recently (who am I kidding Martha is always on a roll).
-If I could choose anything to remember most clearly from the Yeah Yeah Yeahs show, it how RoRo's eyes looked everytime they played and old song.
-Stewing in your own sweaty discomfort, both physically and mental, doesn't always bring you comfort. Sometimes you just end up over ripened and sad.
- When I open myself up to the world, I feel like a milk bottle pyrimd at a carnival. Some people are able to knock me down better than others, but but there is always a chance that they will miss. And even if I do get hit I rarely am knocked over completely. And even if they win, at least they get a prize. It also allows me to see people who try to knock me down as bloated from cotton candy and chili con carne. Thats my prize.

Patrick has a new mantra

No one asks to be born- but that doesn't mean you have to hate that you are here.

You can be like yourself just with a new pair of sunglasses, you can be yourself with just a touch of someone else.

Have you ever performed an action you would never associate with your character (in fact it is some action that you associate with someone else entirely) and you realize it only after its done, making you smile and laugh a little to yourself. To condense that: have you ever done something you don't do, that someone else does, and liked it. If you couldn't tell, that was the gist of my thursday morning, I became for a brief stretch of time, Jeff Gill.

Jeff Gill is my brother. He is my rock of Gibraltar while being the bane of my existence, he is the ringing in my ear when something I am wearing is too loud and sometimes a philosopher king; but all metaphors aside, Jeff Gill is my brother. I love him dearly. And I could not be alive and well without my brother in my life. So when I woke up, on a day where my work was canceled, I refilled the coffee maker with dark, fair trade, coffee and some cheap espresso powder I bought at Aldi . It was just like getting ready any other day, but without the pressure of leaving. I then had a taste in my mouth for something nostalgic but new. I had time to kill. I remembered I had always wanted to get into the band X, the southern California punk icons who have delivered a continual onslaught of sonic glory on the world for decades. So I went to youtube and shamelessly listened to their live stuff (youtube is a good point of reference, when discovering new bands, and judging me is stupid because I judge myself so much already); X is everything I wanted in a solid and beautiful punk band(steady speed, angsty but not trite, no instrument overshadowing another, and the plus point of a good female vocalist). I then made a Pandora station of them, I was then lost in wonder. The Ramones and the Clash came on, the Decedents, the Jam, the Misfits,and the Dead Kennedys whipped through too. I even got Video Romeo and Siouxse and the Banshees. And X would come up over and over again, bringing to my table what I had been missing for years. My coffeemaker was soon sputtering that it was all out of water, so I took of the pot and poured the smoldering liquid into my cup ( the one with the lords prayer and Myrtle Beach painted on it). I mixed in some sugar from my lovely old time sugar bowl, and decided while the good music was playing I could get in the zone to read some for my classes. The beat helped my keep on point, but sometimes I would get distracted by my eye twitching from caffeine or the chorus of a song. After around an hour or so of this kind of living though, I almost dropped my coffee in my lap and my eyes blasted open and felt like a window in a windstorm. I had become Jeff Gill. Or at least I had woken up and gone on with my day in the way I thought Jeff Gill would have. Every time we talked while he was in college he would proclaim the glories of coffee with more coffee and bar chords with more bar chords and being at peace with yourself when this all twined together. Granted I wasn't reading the Financial Times like him, but 19th century British poems could suffice. I told him about this when he called later that day, and I would like to think I made his drive through East Texas bearable. He laughed, and proceeded to tell me how he filled up two bottles of powerade with his urine, and was driving safer than he used to back home ("No no no Patrick, I drive much safer now, like 80 to 90, not 90 to 100.)

Doing this welcomed into my mind so many feelings: pride, honor, commradire, excitment, dehydration, and a strange sense of liberation. First of all, it is understandably confusing to feel free while acting like someone else; but in essence what what I was doing was not acting like Jeff, but simply taking what I saw and heard from him, distilling his thoughts and applying myself to them. If this brought me joy without me trying, what could happen if I did this actively? To go even deeper into my mind, when I felt angsty in my teenage years and rejected even by my so closely knit family (If you know them, don't ask how I came to the conclusion that they hated me sometimes), I made a decision to never be like Jeff. Jeff was my best friend growing up, and I felt abandoned when he left for college and changed. I never wanted to like what he liked in college: fast driving, dark coffee, fast music, philosophy. I already have brought philosophy into my life, but not in the way Jeff had. And for a few years I had myself fooled into believing I could never like fast and hard music again; finally when I brought it together with lovely lovely coffee, I felt happy, and not just because Jeff did it, but because those were all things I actually liked. It was almost as if I had been denying myself these things because they are liked by Jeff. Don't deny yourself of something you love just because it may associate you with someone you don't want to. You could be embarrassed by your love, but its still something wonderful to you.

Taking up someone else's process can make daily living an exploration, and it can sometimes create a bond between you and the person you are imitating. In a strange way I saw myself venerating my brother, and taking up a similar method to our life goal: living happily. That moves me to the second thing I felt while I sipped my coffee: I felt like I was honoring my brother in a small way. I was doing something he swore by, something that he would jokingly say was integral for human survival. And it was just as good as he described it, the computer shuttering as it emitted heavy and fast waves of sound, the second pot of coffee roaring as it was close to burning, and me reading, shutting out all other stimuli save those three. And though I love these things all well, I felt like Jeff was proud of me for taking on his traditions and enjoying them. I felt that I validated, barely and possibly only in my own mind, some of the things he did and showed him how much he meant to me. And the feeling of someone being proud of me, is so beautiful, so beautiful.

Yes a small thing like waking up to coffee and punk can show someone you love them, so think then what things you enjoy that someone else does, that you can bring into your life and hold special with them. People don't have to be dead for you to honor them. And you don't have to do something completely original to be free. I am not saying every action you undertake must be lifted from someone else, if that we to happen... oh lord that is a whole other stories worth of metaphor and bombast. I am simply saying that you can take from your own time a small space, and take from someone close to you a small action, and fuse them into something harmonious and yours. You can be like yourself just with a new pair of sunglasses, you can be yourself with just a touch of someone else. And it can make you feel good, you can feel good.

"is there a text in this class?"

"in the procedures i would urge, the reader's activities are at the center of attention, where they are regarded not as leading to meaning but as having meaning. the text is an experience; it occurs; it does something: it makes us do something."
stanley fish

you run and hide from your buck teeth and split ends

(SPOILER ALERT!)
Have you ever seen "The Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind"? Yeah, I saw it the night I broke up with my first boyfriend and the idea of erasing my memory was never so appealing. But part of the allure of the storyline was the fact that, at the end, they both fall into the same trap. They were meant to find each other, to fall (literally) madly in love and hurt each other. Maybe I just have an unhealthy view, but it seems half of the excitement of falling in love is being completely unsure what the other will do to you when you are completely vulnerable, have offered yourself completely to them to either discard or embrace. And sure, no one likes arguments with loved ones with icey stares and cold shoulders, but what would love be without making up, without having to say I'm sorry, no really, it was my fault, I realize I really do need you. Do you know what I mean? (END SPOILER HERE!)
You can't have the light with out the dark. Without the shadows, our world would be washed out, blinding, until you could not see the individual features. Most happy people I know, including myself, have reached that highpoint because of the low points before. Excuse this cliche image, but like a rollercoaster gains momentum to climb its peaks from the descent, how can we climb new heights without having crawled through new depths?
Anyways, you are probably wondering when I will get to the point. A few weeks ago, there was an article on the front page of the New York Times about scientists getting closer and closer to being able to erase specific memories from humans' brains. The article claims this discovery will help people overcome addictions, bad habits and help us better understand the lump of tissue that is our brains.

http://www.nytimes.com/2009/04/06/health/research/06brain.html

Benedict Carey, the author of the piece, poses the same questions I worry about, "Millions of people might be tempted to erase a severely painful memory, for instance — but what if, in the process, they lost other, personally important memories that were somehow related? Would a treatment that “cleared” the learned habits of addiction only tempt people to experiment more widely?...

...Yet any such drug, Dr. Hyman and others argue, could be misused to erase or block memories of bad behavior, even of crimes. If traumatic memories are like malicious stalkers, then troubling memories — and a healthy dread of them — form the foundation of a moral conscience....

...A substance that improved memory would immediately raise larger social concerns, as well. “We know that people already use smart drugs and performance enhancers of all kinds, so a substance that actually improved memory could lead to an arms race,” Dr. Hyman said."

These possibilities are all worrisome. I'm sure that, once available to the public, there will be laws, rules, at least some sort of interview process before you can go through with the procedure. Well, the same thing is true for plastic surgery, for sex changes. But that doesn't mean there aren't a handful of doctors who in certain situations put profit before their patient's health.
Then, you could argue, the good that this procedure would overcome the bad. Rape victims, child soldiers all could use a clean slate, a sturdy foundation to base their trust in humanity. After such traumatic events it is nearly impossible to lead a normal life.
Now, excuse me for a moment, because I feel I may insult some. I still do not feel it would be right to erase these memories. No one deserves these experiences but life is the good and the bad. Life is overcoming obstacles and life is getting hurt.
Last night, a former sex slave spoke at my school. His babysitter started prostituting him at the age of seven. He was still turning tricks at twelve, but at this point it was to feed his meth addiction. In his twenties he suffered a mental breakdown and was hospitalized several times. Now, this man works for S.A.G.E. (Standing Against Global Exploitation) in San Francisco. His job within this organization is to teach "Johns" (men who have used prostitutes) the physical and emotional consequences of their actions, to themselves and to the women (or even men, or even young girls and boys) that they are sleeping with. They also take leads and tips to free victims of human trafficking in the area. If there is someone taking part in the sex trade against their will, they do everything in their power to remove them from that situation and help them stand firmly on their own. This man, standing up tall and proud in front of the crowd, acknowledged his unstable childhood and acknowledged its necessity. Without his experiences, he would not be the man he is today, he said. He would also not be able to help S.A.G.E. in the same way he does now, as he would not be able to relate to the victims he sees on a daily basis.
The ability to embrace one's painful memories and realize that they are another building block in the person you have become today is an admirable and incredibly mature quality. It shows you are confident in the person you are now, that with the cards you were dealt you were able to build a castle of sorts.
I'll end with a quote from George Orwell's essay "Reflections on Ghandi" (yeah, he went there);
"The essence of being human is that one does not seek perfection, that one is sometimes willing to commit sins for the sake of loyalty, that one does not push asceticism to the point where it makes friendly intercourse impossible, and that one is prepared in the end to be defeated and broken up by life, which is the inevitable price of fastening one's love upon other human individuals".

inspired by interiors

This spring break I traveled. I met new people, refreshed my outlook, charged my heart's batteries. One night, after watching Crimes and Misdemeanors (Woody Allen) with some new friends, I fell asleep thinking about Interiors (another Woody Allen movie). There is one line from Interiors that always ends up echoing in my head and I end up arguing with it. The argument is always the same, and goes something like this:
Head (which sounds suspiciously similar to Diane Keaton's character in 'Interiors'): "Life loses its meaning in the face of death."
Jenny: Really? You think so?
Head: What's the point? I mean, you saw 'Stardust Memories'- no matter which route you take or how much money you spend on your first class ticket you end up in the same dump.
Jenny: I'm not sure I agree with you. I can see why some would. Because death would mean that, no matter the course of our lives, we end up in the same spot, like what you said. That makes sense. We can struggle continuously without really moving anywhere.
This is not, however, absent of meaning. If life were never ending, if we were immortal, how would that infuse any more meaning? I think it would dilute any meaning. Our actions and thoughts would not be as precious. Since we would have all of the time in the world, we would simply be running this metaphorical treadmill infinitely.
Life, in the face of death, is a choice. We are allotted a certain amount of time and the way we ration it out is meaningful. A sunset is beautiful because its colors are so intense and fleeting. Would it not lose its beauty if the sun never dipped below the horizon?

material: liquid

Every morning I sit down at my desk and drink a cup of warm tea. Although redundant, this ritual is not buried beneath the persistent second-hand of my morning clock. As I grip the ceramic in both hands, I can feel the warmth spread through my palms and as I tip the cup it travels down my throat, past my lungs and heart until it finally falls to the pit of my stomach. Within moments my thoughts are clearer and my head lighter. I am especially grateful for these moments during the cold winter months when warmth is hard to come by. Many fend off the chills with coats and hats and leggings, but the wind always finds a way into that nook between your neck and shoulder where your scarf doesn't quite reach. And it's not an independent chill, content to sit upon your collar bone while you walk the sidewalk, head bowed. It seeps like thick ink across a page, rendering your armor practically useless. But, my cup of tea is my elixir, raising my body temperature from within so that I may more squarely face the rain and wind.
So my advice is to prepare yourself. Even before you know of a cold front headed your way, to build your defenses from the inside. Construct the strongest of fortresses so that you may endure the thickest of arrow falls. You'll still get the glory of battle, but with your head intact.






(what im trying to say is that cold weather/battles represent the hard times, and it's best to prepare for the hard times by strengthening yourself from within because we can't always change what is around us, we can only control our reactions to it, i just wanted to have fun with some extended metaphors.)

second hand news comes to Patrick

Classes started for me today, and I believe that because I woke up and had a symmetrical breakfast, two cups of coffee with two pieces of toast and two apples, I entered this day with the true joy. Granted I could not initially find the building for my first class, and after stumbling into the correct room just after its beginning, everything was still looking up. The class was Reading and Writing Poetry, and as a side note the professor wore a sleek gray and black three piece suit complete with pocket square,and spoke with a very deliberate and almost theatrical aplomb (if you don't know me personally, these things garner a great amount of respect). You could actually tell that this man not only enjoyed the subject matter, but he loved to expand upon the idea of what a poem can say and he wanted to defend it from critics who found his love of poetic expression frivolous. But it was not what he said about poetry that I kept with me throughout the day. It starts as we were discussing the Ezra Pound poem, which I will place right here right now:

"In a Station of the Metro"

The apparition of these faces in the crowd;
Petals on a wet, black bough.


The words are beautiful in and of them self. In the discussion afterwards my professor said that sociological studies have shown in moments that we make eye contact with strangers, on the train or bus, in the grocery store, walking down the street, when we make that brief connection and "give them that closed lip smile", we (almost everyone) believe for a moment we connected to that person and that psychologically we are going through the same thing. We make instant eye contact and instant eye contact causes a moment of connection. I know little connections like this happen to me, though few and far between. But I have decided to let people know I will empathize, as long as they are willing to make eye contact.

confessions of a materialist

I recently applied as a transfer student to some of the UCs. One of the application essay questions asked very generally about me as a person, so I decided to write about this blog and how it shapes who I am. There are some bits that I have been meaning to post at the end, but here is the whole thing. I will highlight and organize it into bits.

The ways I view and interact with the world have changed significantly since I started to write for my blog, the big blanket. I felt that many of the people around me had grown disenchanted with their life and what it has to offer. Although I agreed with many of the pessimistic points they made, I realized that we all have the power to change our perceptions and be grateful, even mystified, by the chance we are given to live. One of the recurring posts my best friend, Patrick, and I write are lists of events, emotions or things that, while by most may be considered insignificant, are examples of the beauty, humor and poignancy that can be found in day to day life. Whether it is the rhythmic motion of the bus, the sensuality of cooking with your bare hands or the fleeting romance of making eye contact with strangers, I wanted to express to those around me that in every moment there is a chance to make art, find love and be happy. Through writing this blog, I have taken on the mindset I have hoped to bestow on its readers. I find myself constantly trying to keep my eyes, and heart, open to the world around me. Not only are films, essays and books chances to learn, but also conversations, solitary walks and chance encounters.

KNITTING
For instance, I had always thought of knitting as an incredibly passive activity that while relaxing, was rather redundant. My perception slowly changed, however, and I realized that by knitting, I am creating something beautiful and functional out of a series of knots. This was a good way to think about life's hardships, I realized, and that although times may be difficult, to keep in mind that by looking at the bigger picture, it is worth the struggle.
CASSETTES
In another instance, I was frustrated that my favorite band only sold musics on cassettes, which I found to be so archaic, inefficient and bulky. After finally buying the cassette, the chunky plastic rectangle started to grow on me. The good thing about tapes, I thought to myself, is that you are forced to listen to the album all the way through. With a tape you slowly build connections with each song and accept it as a whole entity, as opposed to gleaming out your favorites like with a MP3 player. This taught me a lesson about human relationships. No individual person is free of flaws or will complement your qualities perfectly. Friendship should not only take place when it is convenient- in fact it is most significant when it is not. Looking back on it, the healthiest relationships have the occasional weak spots and arguments as it proves each individuals dedication, patience and understanding to the other.

These are only a couple of examples of the small and large changes I have made in my thoughts, actions and interactions that have altered the way I view the world; I appreciate life's small rewards and accept life's big downfalls, while also living in the present moment. This has also helped me reconcile my spiritual beliefs. It is increasingly more and more difficult to find meaning in a world where we make friends with computer screens, run miles on a conveyor belt and prescribe well being in a pill. I have opened my eyes to the beauty that still exists in our world and only hope to help others do the same.
(the end).



On top of this, I would like to add the act of
COLLAGING
The other day I was joking with my friend Franny while I cut out pictures for a soon-to-be collage. I mentioned how collage is often seen as a lesser art form, if an art form at all. I understand why people think this, but I see something more romantic than stealing and rearranging others' paintings and photos. First of all, I like to think I am recycling artistically. Other than this, when I collage, I create whole new worlds out of what I usually assume is a stable world, how the world "is supposed to be". But I take these elements, remove them from their "natural home" and place them in a completely new environment. This gives me the courage to create, mold and alter my world and my views. Most of life and our relationships can also be seen as collages; as random assortments of colors, vocal points, national geographic clippings, all from different magazines and books but when they come together make something beautiful, bizarre, sometimes even eerie. Sometimes, maybe even most of the time, these images are even more beautiful in their new surroundings. They are no longer stiff and confined to the stiff pages of textbooks. They form a cacophony of paper that eventually learns to harmonize.
When I collage, it gives new meaning, purpose and beauty to otherwise discarded scraps of newspaper. They are given a second chance at infinity, immortality. Sometimes it makes me think that maybe I, too, in memory, in spoken word, may find some sort of immortality. That the words I speak will ring forever in the ears of my peers, like an echo in a cave caused by a rock that has long since quit tumbling but whose presence lingers on. That maybe all that I have done, said and felt may reverberate continuously through the world. These actions are the notes which cause(along with many many many others) the tuning fork (the world) to hum, and long after the key has been played, the vibrations can be felt.

the view/throwing rocks at trees

the gist of the lyrics:

Your gun went off.
Well you shot off your mouth and look where it got you.
My mouth runs on too.

Shouts from both sides,
"Well we've got the land but they've got the view!"
Well now here's the clue.

Life it rents us.
And yeah I hope it put plenty on you.
Well I hope mine did too.

As life gets longer, awful feels softer.
Well it feels pretty soft to me.
And if it takes shit to make bliss,
then I feel pretty blissfully.

We are fixed right where we stand.

For every invention made how much time did we save?
We're not much farther than we were in the cave.

If life's not beautiful without the pain,
well I'd just rather never ever even see beauty again.
Well as life gets longer, awful feels softer.
And it feels pretty soft to me.

For every good deed done there is a crime committed.
We are fixed.
For every step ahead we could have just been seated.
We are fixed.

We are fixed.
We are fixed.
We are fixed right where we stand.


I was listening to this song while I was on a walk and some of the lyrics really struck me. It relates to a post that I have been brewing up in my mind for an awful long while and so this was the straw on the camel's back to get me to start writing it. I know a while back I wrote that the only thing keeping yourself from being what you want to be is yourself and if you want to you could easily bridge that gap. Also, that happiness is attainable if you so choose, you just need to tweak your definition of it. In my opinion, these are all true, but it is not like happiness is a point you reach and then stay there forever after. It is not something you can hold onto for very long or ever fully comprehend. And, to be honest, would happiness be all that it is worked up to be if you could so easily bask in it at your leisure once you reached that level? No, it would be taken for granted. People would still be searching for that next high, that bliss that is another step above where they already are. So then, if these last few statements are true, happiness is for the most part unattainable, save for momentary glimpses. The closest we can get to happiness is striving for it. To always be working towards it, changing yourself, inventing new contraptions to reach it. As long as we are constantly toiling and yearning, we are getting closer, and in a sense, already there. I know I have contradicted myself several times, but something as complex as happiness, I'm sure, folds onto itself repeatedly so that any mere mortals words of reason can only claw at the surface. Here is an excerpt from an essay I wrote about utopia for my science fiction class that is applicable:

"...Furthermore, it may not be possible for a true Utopia to exist. Not only does everyone have a different definition of Utopia, but living within an actual perfect, peaceful, constant world might even be considered Dystopian by some. It is not a state that can be reached and maintained by reforming some laws or rearranging our genes; even after these changes, a constant struggle would still be necessary. Attempting to reach Utopia is similar to Shevek's example of throwing a rock at a tree because “[i]t doesn't matter how far it's gone, there's always a place, only it's a time really, that's halfway between the last place it was and the tree” (29). As Shevek exclaims when on Urras: “[t]he means are the end” (296), and therefore, the closest we can actually get to Utopia is striving for it."

ask yourself this:

"You will search, babe, at any cost,
But how long, babe, can you search for what's not lost?"

some ramblings from a tired yeti

good morning. even if you did not just wake up, you are not who you were the night before or even the moment before. you are fresh, a creature spawned from your own last breath. you have endless opportunities at your fingertips, did you know? did you know you can be who you want to be, you simply have to bridge the gap between who are you and who you will be. your own paths lay ahead of you like a trillion circuits and you can plug into anyone you choose, lighting up the way to a trillion more. put on your shoes and lets go for a walk while the sun is still up.

there is something liberating about letting everything tumble out for a second

the best possible thing for you to do, when faced with a build up of emotions,and to walk into where you live or where you call home, and ask someone close to you, emotionally or physically, why you are doing the things you are doing. Then you explain yourself when they look or sound alarmed and intrigued. and then you talk. you talk calmly and you listen. to me its better than crying, its better than ejaculating.

and by whatever you swear to you have to listen, even if you never use that advice. you have to listen because that person cares enough about you to give you an answer. even if these moments make me tired, i am always so glad they happen. now all i have to do is redirect my life energy towards positive ends and not get so caught up in things not being congruent to my standards. and for some reason that sounds easier.

the dispossessed by ursula le guin

"He would most likely not have embarked on that years long enterprise had he not had profound assurance that return was possible, even though he himself might not return; that indeed the very nature of the voyage, like a circumnavigation of the globe, implied return. You shall not go down twice to the same river, nor can you go home again. That he knew; indeed it was the basis of his view of the world. Yet from that acceptance of transience he evolved his vast theory, wherein what is most changeable is shown to be fullest of eternity, and your relationship to the river, and the river's relationship to you and to itself, turns out to be at once more complex and reassuring than a mere lack of identity. You can go home again, the General Temporal Theory asserts, so long as you understand that home is a place where you have never been." (p. 55)