Being Alive

It's a beautiful thing, I am still alive, 25, and living in a beautiful apartment on a beautiful street with a pretty cool guy that brings me home lime popsicles. There is nothing better, not that I can think of anyway.

We hosted a couple of traveling bicyclists for the past few days, which inspired me to sign up for couchsurfing to allow others use of our couch. I don't use that piece of furniture much anyway, and I enjoy getting practice meeting/talking to people. I isolate myself very well, and this is could be a kind of safety release. Also, it is on my own terms, not just a bunch of random strangers being thrust upon me. Not anxiety-inducing at all.

I have been reading Murakami and I believe I have fallen in love with his writing. I am about to finish The Wind-Up Bird Chronicles and I desperately need to know how it ends, but I don't ever ever want it to end. I want to live in this man's crazy, phantasmagorical, splendidly fragile and beautiful fantasy world.

I've started to dream that I am a character in this book, one of the many women that lead him into these murky channels that may or may not be reality. It's great. I love having a stack of books to read, and that is one of the best things about having had a birthday recently.

Then there is Takashi Murakami. I was not acquainted with him until I went on a stroll around the internet reading everything I could about the other dude that shares his surname. I want

this: +

on my wall while I read Murakami. YES. It would be a splendid acid trip indeed.

Growing up,

I remember my family always being so excited when they had a Herb Caen sighting...

Reading this gave me goosebumps.

He was a great journalist and a great man.

On grief:

"I never did anything specific to cope or even externalize any of what I had been feeling. At one point near the end, sitting in the ER waiting room with my Mom, I finally exploded emotionally. I am not sure I have ever cried like that since I was a pup. Uncontrollable sobbing and the whole deal. I don't think I could have stopped it if I tried. Some of it was finally admitting ‘defeat’ and the other was lament for the wonderful person, my Dad, whose days on this Earth were winding down." -random user on Reddit

It's hard to find someone who's willing to believe in you no matter what, no matter how much you've fucked up, no matter how many false starts, no matter how unpopular the idea is, as much as my grandfather. I've taken to carrying around this greeting card he wrote me.. It was probably one of the last cards he wrote anyone. The handwriting is shaky and uneven and I can imagine him sitting there at his living room table concentrating on getting the words out with his arthritic hands that never cooperated. He wrote about how much he believed in me, and how proud he was that I was finishing school despite the obstacles. He told me how good it would feel to graduate knowing that I had completed this promise I made to him completely on my own. He even made a jab at my sibling who has received "everything on a silver platter." We bonded over ridiculing the holier-than-thou sector of the family, the parent and child team who pray together, vote together, and feel morally superior together. We both saw through the BS, and I am going to dearly miss the knowing glances he sent my way over holiday meals, when the subject inevitably turned to politics.

It just kills me because you don't just find people that beam with happiness when they speak of you. Typically, you are born and there are a finite number of people that will be truly happy that you are alive, and marvel at your development as a human being. These people dwindle as you get older, and if you don't find new people to love you, then you are alone by middle age typically. What a thought. I miss that twinkle in his blue eyes (which he didn't pass down to any one of us, damn those recessive traits) when he saw me, I miss so many tiny things that remind me every day that he is gone. I am constantly taken surprise by the persistent ways he sneaks into my mind just to say hey, don't forget me. I cry every time, but will continue to wait on a day where I am content to smile and go on with my day.

Attachment Style quiz for SXS 300

via http://www.web-research-design.net/cgi-bin/crq/crq.pl

"Combining your anxiety and avoidance scores, you fall into the dismissing quadrant. Previous research on attachment styles indicates that dismissing people tend to prefer their own autonomy--oftentimes at the expense of their close relationships. Although dismissing people often have high self-confidence, they sometimes come across as hostile or competitive by others, and this often interferes with their close relationships."

The Long Version

Starting school again actually excited me. Not sure how long the allure of waking up at 7 AM will last, but for now it is worth rising with the sun to listen to two brilliant professors lecture all day.

At around 9:30 in the morning, we had to get into groups and list all the names we could think of (derogatory, funny, clinical, or otherwise) for human genitalia and various sex acts. It brought me great joy to say the words pussy, cunt and cock for legitimate reasons in a classroom. I suppose I'm easily overjoyed.

For the next hour or so I drank coffee and chai underneath a tree and read Reddit and other various sites I frequent on the internet. At one point a strange man sat directly next to me, but I stealthily avoided him by slowly inching away in my chair. And tilting my computer screen faaaar away from him as I did my homework on the-clitoris.com.

The next class (Current Issues in Psychology) only meets twice a week, thus it is 4 hours long. Luckily, the professor turned out to be an awesome goth lady with dreds and platform boots, who is also a nicotine addict (frequent breaks!). This helped combat the problem I always face in long classes - my loud stomach. It grumbles at the slightest hint of hunger, thirst or annoyance, which isn't noticeable unless I'm in class. As a result, over 25% of calories consumed during semesters are in bar form (typically of the granola variety). I am overdue for a Costco trip to purchase more Clif Bars.

I learned a lot about the use to psychedelic drugs in psychiatric treatment. Currently, the VA is treating veterans who suffer from PTSD with MDMA (on a trial basis). This is both fortunate and unfortunate, since initially it shows promise as relieving lots of the debilitating symptoms, but of course the long-term effects are not desirable (and even less so for those that already suffer from psychological disorders). When the brain is being treated with MDMA or LSD, it responds in a way that is analogous to intense religious/mystical experiences in believers. She also touched on the MK-Ultra project conducted by the CIA, a small part of which consisted of giving soldiers acid.

I dream in Farsi

I had an incredibly vivid dream last night that there was a string of Farsi characters scrolling down on a screen, repeating over and over in different fonts and colors. Felt/looked reminiscent of this. All of them said "Revolution." But it wasn't this revolution (if you can call it that yet), it was the 1979 Revolution. The Shah was being overthrown.

دور، دوران كامل ، انقلا ب.
واگشت ، شورش ، اشوب ، انقلا ب ، حركت انقلا بي ، چرخش.

These characters kept scrolling and scrolling down my monitor with frantic speed, as if someone were pleading with me to listen and help. But I didn't know how. Much like I don't know how to help those brave and beautiful women over there now, but would if there were a way. All I can do is admire their strength.

All of this made me think about Azar Nafisi and how I never gave her book the detailed read it deserved. On the other hand, I absolutely adored Persepolis. Let's call it a draw.

Writing More

The task is daunting, but with the thought of two months of summer (before the late summer Hmsx/Psych classes I have signed up for) with all play and no work (beside the obligatory floristry), I am going nuts trying to think of projects to take on.

I have a new beautiful 1981 Mamiya Quartz SLR, a gift from my friend Larry, to play around with.

I have a list of books to read from a professor that I am going to take on as well. Lots to do with American politics, empire, neoliberalism, global media, postcolonialism, and other things I currently only vaguely grasp.

I have lots of clothes piled up that I can sew (but this is a mostly boring, perfunctory task).

Most of all, I need to start writing again. I feel ideas and fragmentary thoughts bursting out of me at inopportune times (mostly during class) and they get lost. I forget to tell people things I've been meaning to express. My memory is worse than usual because I have lists of tiny tasks that seem to never end (probably like most of American humanity), and when I come to the end I wonder what I have accomplished, and what I set out to do in the first place. Is this what college is supposed to feel like? I feel like I am getting better at completing tiny tasks than critically analyzing academic studies. Hoping this improves.

Coming to the end of my first semester as an upperclassman makes me think things like that. I wonder what, in the end, I will get out of this besides more lists of things to do, things to read, things to research, things to learn more about. And how in the hell can this be translated into a living in the end? Can I become some sort of analyst for how we react to current events psychologically? How mass media molds the collective conscience into something none of us should be proud of? It's going to be an interesting ride.

Reflecting on the end of the semester: two totally unrelated pieces of writing from professors, one general and one directed toward myself--

"I have only the vaguest idea of what twittering is and I’m hoping to keep it that way. If I were a better intellectual I’d slip into a bit of Zizekian irony and embrace what seems to be another instrument for the fragmentation of consciousness into shiny, useless pieces."

". . by the way, before I forget to mention it, I really enjoy your authorial voice – to the point that I would encourage you to exercise it in class more often. Your peers might well find your thoughts interesting and benefit from hearing something of the repertoire of skills you bring to your studies. Also, I find that there can be a fruitful connection to experimenting with one’s spoken utterances during periods in which one is intensely engaged to one’s written work . . . one can inform the other, allowing one to find in extemporized speech an unfolding of syntax and structure one might not otherwise have stumbled upon . . ."

Next item on my agenda (after the 2 finals and 1 paper more to complete): Cruise to the Caribbean. I really need to solidify the correct spelling of "Caribbean" before I get there. One R, two B's... The most important part of my trip will be hanging out with stingrays in their natural habitat. Rays are definitely one of the best animals in terms of texture and shape. And they are always happy:

Let us strive to be this joyous about our place in life, as our homeland is being exploited for tourism.

Daydreams

Whenever I am in class and there are long periods of silence (tests, etc.), I create the following scenarios in my head and try to predict how they would play out:

--I suddenly become ill, and there is no time to leave the room. I vomit violently and loudly on the floor.

--Someone suffers a stroke/seizure and no one knows the proper medical procedure to care for them.

--There is a massive earthquake, and the building is not structurally sound.

--A crazed gunman bursts into the room, and either a) opens fire, or b) holds everyone in the room hostage.

--There is a loud explosion heard in the distance (the explosion is not close enough to blow out the windows, but definitely within the city limits, and casualties are a certainty).

I forget what I did to deserve this.

I have a really great boyfriend who takes care of me when I am drunk. Luckily I drink far, far less than I used to... because I am happy now. Working out 4-5x a week really does great things.

I also unfortunately write far, far less than I used to... also because most of the time I am too happy to do so. Once spring break winds down I will hopefully return to a semblance of a regular schedule.

Another Dream

C, another friend, and myself all snuck into the attic of a house somewhere near Collinsville because it had "the best view in the bay area". The curtains were closed and I got their attention and starting reciting some long, boring monologue (I recall in the middle of talking realizing how boring it was) about the history of the town, and how it was decided that this had the best view out of anywhere. I threw the curtains back, and we all gasped at how beautiful it was. I thought it was a little unsettling, because the buildings looked too close and the perspective seemed to be off. We snapped a few pictures and decided to go. Then, the building (which was now an airplane for unexplained reasons) started shaking and took off! There were paying customers below, so we didn't dare go downstairs. I tried to keep everyone calm, even though we had no idea where we were going. I prayed the plane would take us back to San Francisco so we could go home. The pilot came onto the PA system and said he got lost and was just going to land on a deserted street until he got his bearings. Once he figured out how to get there, we flew to Los Angeles, and were pretty upset. I wake up. FIN

Incidents in the Life of a Slave Girl

Reading Harriet Jacobs has done a number on me. I had nightmares half the night that I was a slave escaping from my captors. I hid out in a swamp being constantly bitten by mosquitoes; I spied alligators drifting by; I heard my voice being called and saw the dim glow of torches in the distance. I knew that if I were caught I would die. I had the most stressful night of sleep since the late 1990's, and I do not believe that is an exaggeration.

I must pause long enough from my own superficial woes to say... What a goddamn impressive woman Harriet Jacobs was.

New Goals

For the next six months, while I am in school full-time, my goal is to use money as little as possible. The necessities include food (eating at home as often as possible), BART ticket, rent, insurance, and textbooks. The rest has to go if I am going to meet my goals. Having a home theater (thanks libber) will help, as free movies and tv shows provide nightly entertainment. I'd really love to intertwine my spending goals with my health-related goals as well. They remain the same as always: more locally grown, organic whole foods, less crap. I was a child brought up on junk food and tv dinners, and the life-long habit of going for convenience as opposed to quality is a hard one to break.

It helps to write this all out and put it in the public arena.

I just realized how boring my life has become. Lots of bite-sized tasks but no overarching themes or goals. I guess changing that is my one main goal. This year, figure out if I want to be a librian, therapist, both, or neither. Also go here more often when the weather is nice:

A Dream, and Awakening

Broken Glass: To see broken glass in your dream, signifies a change in your life. Alternatively, it could be symbolic of an aspect of your life that is in pieces. You will find that a situation will come to an abrupt and untimely end. If you are walking on broken glass, then it suggests that you will be experiencing some heartache or pain.

"Life has got to be bigger than death, and love has got to be bigger than fear, or this is all a total bust and we are all just going tourist class" - Anne Lamott, "Operating Instructions"