Rusings

A day like today

2011-02-07T23:40:00.009-05:00

a woman with her baby walks in the deli/cellular retailer

snaps at the store employee

when he tells her, that the famous amos cookies are $1.25

"they sell deese uptown for fity cents, you know dat?! a dollah twenteefih... I don't got a dollah twenteefih, I got a dollah."

the store employee and his coworker looks away in silence

her toddler tries to open the stubborn packaging

the woman barks,

"you're gonnah help me wih dat while I wait?!"

she is referring to her smart phone

he says "yes." then he adds, "I'm just finishing up with this customer here."

"I'm AXSING you, you're gonnah help me wih dat hea?"

he hesitates before answering in the affirmative.

I turn to look at her. Our eyes meet.

now some people are going to say her rudeness is a matter of class, a matter of education.

where I am at, in my professional life, I'm inclined to disagree.

She's doing it because she can. She's doing it because she can.

it is extremely difficult being an object.

it is extremely difficult to be numb to the harshness of others,

be it intentional or not.

to seek the sources of intentions.

to communicate one's subjectivity.

to shut down these sensitivities make me feel as if I am dead already.

I do not believe in a world of objects -

of objects pushing objects, while some, at one time or another, having become objects of power, sets & reinforces the status quo, without care for the humans underneath their object (body) exterior. I keep hoping, despite evidence to the contrary, that I am not already living in it - that my struggles are merely matters of perspective...

come another day,

when I will find light & color in others again.

come. come.

Goodies

2010-08-14T00:05:00.001-04:00

I have a lot of things on my mind. While I'm trying to write them in the most coherent way possible, I'd like to share some things I'm enjoying and thinking about (while redoubling my efforts at applying for jobs - so that I can become a useful contributing body in this society of bodies).

10. Youtubedoubler

My current favorite has to be this: Woman who claims to suffer from dystonia after getting flu shot & Walk it out Remix

9. Hello Kitty Psychology Test

8. Boogie Nights (1997)

7. Lectures online - Current top picks

Jonathan Haidt on the New Science of Morality (EDGE conference)

Eliezer Yudkowsky - The Human Importance of the Intelligence Explosion (Singularity Summit)

Slavoj Zizek - What does it mean to be a revolutionary today and half finished transcript

Authenticity in Games & the Future - My title for the Jesse Schell lecture @ DICE 2010

6. Critical Thinking on the Web - This collection of online resources for critical thinking is top quality (based on the couple of links I've explored thus far).

5. Jeffrey Friedl's Exif Viewer - Check out EXIF information by entering img urls. (I wandered on to the viewer somehow... after looking at the ChatRoulette Map)

4. This article on Nanotechnology

3. Collaborative Futures

2. SoundCloud - I am having a lot of FUN with this!

1. Net Neutrality Debate - This has been a recent hot topic. I think these sources are good to look at when thinking about it.

Wikipedia entry on Net Neutrality

Wired article with actual text of proposal on scribd

Ars Technica article

Google's Take & Responses

Information on how WIFI works and how Wireless Application Protocol works

Bed Intruder Compilation: Why the Internet is so AWESOME

2010-08-04T02:32:00.016-04:00

The Internet in ALL its GLORY

I now present to you the best compilation of all the Youtube Videos that have sprung up.

My favorites are the auto-tune remix and the shamisen+beats version of the auto-tune remix.

ENJOY!!!!!!

Starting with....

Original interview of Antoine Dodson

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KJVwfJs8Eqo

Auto-tune remix

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hMtZfW2z9dw

Aftermath - Antoine's reactions to his internet fame. His sister must be pissed.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=924__gTH63g

Extended auto-tune remix

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mJpLiC2eSDc

Rap remix

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k4VJ2vPc5bU

Piano cover of auto-tune remix

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FSAYE3MJpb0

Acoustic version of auto-tune remix

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XFuc1xEx8Es

Ukulele version of auto-tune remix

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PxLPiY0b7Vk

Techno version of auto-tune remix

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4IZ-L36o9iM

Shamisen version of auto-tune remix

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=42E7lY1kYrM

shamisen+beats auto-tune remix

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DU-yt4Z_6ao

Country version of auto-tune remix

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Gd_7P9U99LE

Beatbox auto-tune version

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QYHhkX0DWuM

There are countless videos of people singing to the video of the auto-tune remix... but until I find a really good one... Feel free to share!!!

Another Constellation

2010-07-22T22:32:00.001-04:00

1. Debris Culture

The word "debris" comes from the french word "débris," which is, itself, "dé" + "bris."

of that which has been broken off

And the internet is full of it.

Anything uploaded or posted, and I hesitate to call it "information," becomes debris. To call it "information" feels slightly disingenuous. The word connotates utilization, instruction. The idea of the internet as an information superhighway makes me feel cheated, because it's not exactly that.

Most people would consider Wikipedia an information provider. And this consideration conveniently forgets that nothing on Wikipedia is formed, complete, finished. Anyone and everyone has an opportunity to change/add anything to any subject. Wikipedia does not contain information. It contains debris. Debris from the physical thing itself, the thing in the world. Debris might be informative but it is not information.

semantics, shemantics,
mind bending antics.
a rose.

by any other name is still

a rose. &. ke ke.

is information

always physical?

I don't want to arc. Rather, I'd like to point to the swirling debris that is the internet. Youtube. Facebook. Twitter. Reddit. Digg. Debris that can be broken down, referenced, recycled, reassembled, repackaged, commoditized, etc. etc.

* * *

2. Related

The above ramble, is obviously influenced by my reading of Convergence Culture by Henry Jenkins. It was an excellent read; especially after Adorno's sobering essays on the culture industry. It is a positive (and rightly so) outlook on the participatory and collaborative nature of new media and the consequences of the convergence of new and old media.

really made me want to read Pierre Lévy
& continue looking at the euze of Deleuze.

In the mean time, I've started on Illuminations: Essays and Reflections by Walter Benjamin (introduction by the ever-so-lovely Hannah Arendt).

Since I'm on Benjamin's essay, The Task of the Translator, I'll end with an excerpt from Stephane Mallarme's Crisis in Poetry, translated into English by Mary Ann Caws. (Note, it is tangentially related to my thoughts on "debris." I found it here. I would like to read the full essay though.)

". . . Each soul is a melody which must be picked up again, and the flute or the viola

of everyone exists for that.

Late in coming, it seems to me, is the true condition or the possibility not just of

expressing oneself but of modulating oneself as one chooses.

Languages are imperfect in that although there are many, the supreme one is lacking:

thinking is to write without accessories, or whispering, but since the immortal word is

still tacit, the diversity of tongues on the earth keeps everyone from uttering the word

which would be otherwise in one unique rendering, truth itself in its substance . . .

Only, we must realize, poetry would not exist; philosophically, verse makes up for

what languages lack, completely superior as it is."

Gawk @this & Mo' Haterade

2010-07-13T12:06:00.001-04:00

I've reached a lull; a loll, an almost ...lol

The past two weeks have been an up and down roller-coasting to a flat line. I have been reading more so than in the past year thanks to my new Sony ereader, catching up on more Adorno, Bukowski, Ashberry, & periodicals. But while I'm catching up on literature, I am amazed at the written crappage all over the internets.

Take, for example, Gawker. Go to their website. Do it now (in another tab). Read an article (or post) and ask yourself, what makes this writing good? Let's take a look at the first post, "Body by Jesus." Embedded in the post is a video. Then you proceed to a horrible posturing introduction leading into... surprise! a QUOTE from the source of the video in question. And finally, a one liner conclusion which isn't even funny. What is this crap? A fifty word post devoid of any synthesis; a two second time waster.

Every post is a posturing. "Look at this!" with an ironic eyebrow raise; "look at me, I'm witty! I'm pointing to this 'news'!" That's it. Don't think! We don't need to think anymore! Just point and approve or disapprove, like or dislike.

I understand that Gawker or any of Gawker Media's subsidiary sites aren't supposed to be representative of good writing. These are blog posts meant to incite, meant to generate page views and links. The written words themselves should have no deeper meaning. They are functional and should only be evaluated on as such; whether or not the words are effective at procuring attention for the content (usually a commodity).

**GASP!!**

But maybe this is the way that language actually is and we have only been mislead into thinking that language is more than use (with winks to Witt). Are we witnessing a commoditization of language or the disentanglement of language from nonsense?

Sigh. Does anyone outside of the ivory towers care?

In terms of good writing, I want to point to an excellent review titled The Believer written by Ian Buruma in The New York Review of Books on Christopher Hitchen's Hitch-22 that gave my ab muscles a good work out. It is an example of what I term effective haterade.

I would like to end this blog post with a poem from Charles Bukowski's Betting on the Muse, titled "the sheep." (page 124-125)

"the sheep

in centuries past

audiences at symphony concerts

were not afraid to act out their

displeasure at works which

offended

them.

in our time

I have either attended or

listened to

hundreds of concerts

and never have I heard an

audience

express even the mildest displeasure

with any

work.

have our musical artists improved

to such an

extent?

or is it the decay of courage,

the inability of the

mass mind to

reach its own

decisions?

not only in the world of

music

but in the other

world?

the next time you hear

a symphony concert

note

the obedient applause,

the death of the bluebird,

the shading of the sun;

the hooves of the horses from

hell

pounding on the barren

ground

of the human

spirit."

Look at the fifth stanza

and gawk.

Oh Highschool!

2010-06-30T18:47:00.000-04:00

This past weekend, I went back to Long Island for my little brother's graduation from my high school. It is incredible how many years have passed... almost a decade... since I was also standing on the very same bleachers; except my brother being the senior class salutatorian, was comfortably sheltered from the high noon sun in the speakers' tent.

The school has grown physically; adding two new wings and another floor over the past nine years. The character of its students and the community have remained the same though. As I sat with the parents and families, watching patiently, I thought about my time at the school.

I must have been such a strange kid... but kids are all strange, no? Unlike the rest of my peers, I was a relative new comer to the community. I never felt right, never felt like I fit in, socially or economically. It wasn't as if my peers did not tolerate my strangeness. In all fairness, we were amicable. Amongst the rest of the school population, I stood out because I wasn't into celebrities, tv, or the same music that most of the students listened to and I was slightly nerdier. Amongst my peers in my honors/ap classes, I never felt that I was dorky or nerdy enough. I didn't participate in the race for the best grades or test marks or honors. My classmates all grew up together, with their house parties and sweet 16s whereas I spent a lot of energy dealing with family problems. Sometimes I look back and resent their suburban psyches; the political apathy, the consumerism, the "which kid has it made, deservingly and undeservingly, why and why not" gossip... And sometimes I look back and marvel at what an opinionated asshole weirdo I must have seemed like to everyone else because I was so vehemently passionate about stating my differences.

Sorry for the shitty caricature but that was me - unsolicited and in your face opinions.

Thankfully, my little brother did not follow in my footsteps and kept his nose focused on academics. It is a good thing he will have life-long friends from high school.

I have at most one very close friend and lots of random friend-acquaintances from the community. It's a comforting thought to know that I have changed, and so has most people from then, for the better. And some times I wonder if friendships will rekindle when I go back for the tenth anniversary reunion next year. Will I find solidarity and community? HA HA HA Um... otherwise I will enjoy drinking that haterade, secretly laughing at which bastards got obese, who turned into losers, and which bitches got ugly from age and pregnancy, and multiple marriages.... you know, the typical juice that people find at high school reunions.

Cauldron

2010-06-24T18:38:00.000-04:00

It is hot here in NYC. It's not as hot as I currently make it seem like, but that's because our AC is off due to apartment power outage concerns.

This week has been a boring one. I've been thinking about the May article in Poetry Magazine entitled This Land Is Our Land by David Biespiel. Basically, Biespiel laments the disengagement of modern poetry writers from the outside world. I would like to agree with him but after glancing responses on Poetry Magazine's website, I'm feeling conflicted.

I think I agree with Biespiel because I am disengaged from a community of writers and poets. Perhaps if I were to network, I'd come to learn more about other poets' non-poetical pursuits. I feel conflicted on this. Whenever I have attended poetry readings in NYC, I'm 90% of the time alone. While I'm not a shy person, I'm not exactly the most social either. I generally do not reach out to other poetry reading attendees. I suspect the reason I don't do this is because I must be terribly fearful of acquainting myself with other poets.

It is really silly of me. I know. But I'm intimidated by the theories and knowledge that I imagine other poets to have more than me; that I won't measure up some how; that I won't be able to speak eloquently on this or that poets' work; or they'll think my writing is non-poety. I'm a weirdo okay? And I'm afraid of rejection because, well... I'm a hater myself.

When it comes to writing, I like words. I like the certain visual shape, rhythm, mental image of the word. I like dwelling on a certain word all week because I'm charmed.

For example, "vinegared." When I first saw the word this past weekend in a poem, I read it as "Vine" and "Gared." And it amused me when I figured out that it was vinegared.

It amuses me so much I want to put into a poem. Soon.
I'm also amused by the word "liege" - as in the li-aege waffle. Ever since I had the liege waffle, the word makes me salivate. I want to put this word into a poem. I've been meaning to. But how can I do so without the word "waffle?" and have the word Liege create the same delicious feeling? Or maybe I will add "waffle" because "waffle" is also a very charming word.

But what about the ideas of the poem? Often I would like to express an intense feeling; something sharp, almost jarring. Something interesting. Provocative. But its difficult to be provocative now.

I'm pretty certain degreed poets and published poets use nicer words to describe their process. I'm afraid I won't connect. Well, one day. I guess.

I digress.

On another note. I have to say I really like Poetry Foundations iphone application. And it makes me wonder why there aren't more apps like it. I would also like to see real time collaboration applications for poets; omegle for poets, wave for poets? On the phone? So many ideas.

Return

2010-06-22T15:14:00.000-04:00

I am ashamed. The last entry was dated May 2009. One year and one month ago.

Good news though, what has been written in the past year have remained in my diary and laptop. Anyways, I'm here now.

I sh!t you not.

I started 2010 with a herniated L1-S1 disk.

Around February, I began to believe that it was hopeless. I would be crippled for life, unable to dance again or sneeze or cough without pain. After a month and half of physical therapy, continuing to go to the gym, taking some pilates classes, I've returned to 90% normal in the past two months. You have no idea what a humbling experience this has been. Maybe you do. On the positive side of this whole ordeal, I've lost all the weight I put on in the last year or so. :::awkward self-cheering:::

Half of 2010 has come & gone. I live in Manhattan with my lover & I have been job searching. I hope to have a work home soon. Deep inside, I honestly believe that I will find the right place to be, even if it takes a bit longer than I anticipated. Why on earth did I leave my previous position in the worst job market evAR? Because I want to. Because I can. It's about time I move on to something bigger and I'm confident that I have the skills and abilities to do it. I hope the nay sayers drink their haterade and haterage when I land it.

Still, I see my peers from school and do feel that pang of envy for what I interpret as stability or success in their lives. "I grow old. I grow old. / I shall wear the bottom of my trousers rolled." ::smile:: What is success anyways? I am happy, I am youthful, and I am loved. That is all.

I want to leave this thought, and perhaps I will elaborate in the next entry, that I discovered re-reading Minima Moralia by Adorno; passage #25 in which I found libidinous solace during this job hunt. I understand that what I'm taking from the passage is not wholly what he intended to express. My reading of it expresses my feelings towards my experience job hunting so far; having filled out already countless applications for positions.

"...Anything that is not reified, cannot be counted and measured, ceases to exist. Not satisfied with this, however, reification spreads to its own opposite, the life that cannot be directly actualized; anything that lives on merely as thought and recollection. For this a special rubric has been invented. It is called 'background' and appears on the questionnaire as an appendix, after sex, age, and profession. To complete its violation, life is dragged along on the triumphal automobile of united statisticians, and even the past is no longer safe from the present, whose remembrance of it consigns it a second time to oblivion."

Its #&$*#^ May 2009 and I'm here.

2009-05-13T23:13:00.001-04:00

I used to keep my xanga page and post every day to every couple days. I posted with excessive regularity and posted details that I wished I didn't. I posted my excitement of living.

Lets see, where am I...like OMG I'm still in NYC and yes I will post details that in a couple years I wish I didn't. Old habits die never.

The past months have yielded continuous frustration with everyone around me. Sometimes I feel especially lonely in my inability to tolerate lack of wit, or, more unpleasantly, dumb people. I wonder.. no, I know, I will always be surrounded by halfwits. Even back at school, during THOSE years. This lover (kid) I'm living with, sometimes he seems like one of them... only for me to later realize, he is a mirror, reflecting my own ignorance and intolerance back.

Its hard to eat dirt. Its hard to realize who you really are, even harder to forgive yourself for being it. I think its one of the most important lesson anyone can ever learn and cope with.

Hi hater

2008-09-05T00:51:00.000-04:00

If someone asked me what I was thinking in moving to new york city. I'd say a number of things. All in the tone of supreme dissatisfaction. And if I were close to them, I'd perhaps disclose a secret; that secret having the tone of hope, of perhaps some sort of salvation from myself, from my life.

The past couple of weeks at work has been stressful. Why? you ask. Lots of work, ofcourse!

So many things have been happening. A repetition. When will I get it right? If not the "other"? But no doubt its nice and exciting, warm and fuzzy, pleasurable and measurable. I know it will land me in trouble.

I can't believe its September already, the end of the first week. I'm in my new Chinatown apartment, in my cubbyhole of a room. Maybe this is the way it will be, every 5 months it will repeat. I will sing the same sad song in the end and be ultimately bored, and obsessed.

I walked around the block earlier tonight. Chinatown closes down way too early. I wear newly bought oversized two dollar pink plastic slippers and speak in chinese with the cashier/waiter at 69. He guesses my age to be around 19. I laugh. I was much sturdier then. Less sick in the brain, lighter in the heart. He was nice. There were some people out for late night snacks. I feel as if the world of china is closing in on me. My mom warns me not to tell people about my extended family. Absurd. Yes. I pass by a Chinese school and think I might want to volunteer some of my time.

Enough.

Nothing but a "bleh"

2008-08-21T00:20:00.000-04:00

Monday night I start feeling a little funny when I got home.
By 11pm I was getting chills and body aches. I know I'm burning up. I totally thought I was hit by another round of the flu.
5:00-5:30am ish Tuesday morning
I wake up with a splitting migraine and I noticed that my ankles and small legs were numb. They weren't paralyzed but they were very difficult and PAINFUL to move. Like when your legs are asleep sort of and you try to move them.

I was so freaked out. But it was so early there were no one to call. I was also in tears because of my intense discomfort.

7:30am My legs were still feeling numb and pained. I called mom. She yells at me for not going to the doctors. I did not feel well enough to go to the doctors... you know, pick out a doctor, then calling to make an appointment. Nor did I feel adequately sick enough to go to the ER: well enough to get to the elevator, go downstairs, get into a cab, OR rich enough to call an ambulance.
So I go back to sleep hoping that my legs would be fine when I wake up.

So all day I'm in and out of sleep. I do believe around 1 or 2pm (????) I forced myself to get some fruits to eat. It was a struggle to go outside.

I wake up at 7 or 8pm. I can feel my legs except my midsection was in mad pain. I thought my kidneys were going to explode or something. Finally around 11pm my pain felt bad enough and I felt I had been burning up for an adequate length of time to go to the ER.

I was seen surprisingly fast at the ER. Probably because I was running a fever, complaining of severe lower back pain, feeling nauseous, and the story about my lower legs being numb. I was examined by a couple different nurses and two doctors. All were very nice.

The woman whom I roomed with, was not. She was this old lady (kind of senile) whose entire back and ass crack was revealed to me everytime she tried to move. She moved a lot. Her son sat by the door looking irritated. She left with ducolax and some suppositories.

I gave the doctors an urine sample. They gave me a dose of percocet (oxycondone + tylenol). They perfected a couple of exams on me. They they hooked me up to an IV. That was nice. It felt good. Then they added a morphine drip. I was still in pain. After a while the pain dulled a bit but I was sooooo nauseous. They did a cat scan. The results were unclear, some severe kidney infection? Really bad UTI (which I'm pretty used to by now because every time I've gotten sick with a bad cold or flu, my immune system gives out and I get an UTI)? Which doesn't really seem to be the case since I was sneezing or coughing or had a runny nose. Anyways a whole lot of my blood has been rushed for tests and I'm hoping to hear back soon. They added a second dose of the morphine drip later which helped tremendously. I'm now loaded on antibiotics and percocet pills.

Funniest thing. I was discharged from the ER around 7am. I stumble towards the nearest breakfast place I could find because I was SOOOOO hungry. I order two eggs, bacon, potatoes, toast, and orange juice. I was so out of it from the morphine and percocet.

I took four bites before I started feeling like I was going to vomit. So I look to the nearest waiter and asked for a plastic bag. He looked a bit confused but understood when he noticed I was trying to hold down the spit up. Right as he turned to get a bag, there in front of everyone I barfed everything on the floor in a neat circular orange pile. When the waiter came over to give me the bag, he saw the art then looked at me in surprise. I was sooo hungry that I just ate right away anyways. I apologized, took the bag and hoped I wouldn't puke again. Whatever, they should be used to vomit since they are located across the street from the hospital ER.

It was fun being on the morphine and percocet. I felt all jelly. The antibiotics make me puke (as I discovered earlier tonight before dinner). It is rare for me to actually puke. So its been surprising for me to be able to do so and then bounce back so quickly. Its been nothing but a "bleh."

I'll be alright. I have to followup at the doctors Friday. This is a shitty entry probably because im about to pass out from the pain medication. WHATEVER.

All I care about are the medals

2008-08-13T22:51:00.000-04:00

Its true. That's all I care about. Go China. "JIA YOU!"

I don't think he will read this; which is fine and consistent since none of my exes ever read what I write. In fact, I'd be surprised if anyone read this bastion of self-absorption. I've decided. I will start blogging about my life again so that I can look back upon this narrative and perfect my storytelling skills for others.

The last couple of days have been unnerving. I'm bleeding all over myself, my emotions out of control. Today was better. I felt less like death or that I was hallucinating my life some how. The dark felt interminable yesterday. Time slowed to this slurpiness, something like those big churning trucks noisily pouring liquid concrete onto the street. I started asking myself if I was losing my mind, if I whipped up my own "herstory." AHAHAH. I make the worst jokes.

Even though I've perfected my craigslist searching skills, me and XY have not found a satisfactory apartment to move into. We saw a place in Long Island City yesterday evening. When we got there, the building owner and ad placer did not answer his phone until a kind tenant in the building asked us who we were waiting for. She was so nice. She was so nice that I actually feel a little bad about having to liken her physical appearance to that of a Japanese horror movie protagonist/demon woman. Skinny, pale, and uncanny facial features mostly exacerbated by asymmetry. Her entire left side of face looked like it was trying to come together somehow. She was nice. When we told her we were waiting for the adplacer named J, she offered to make a call through her landline. I asked her if she would do us the favor of actually knocking on his door. XY lightly jested, noting my unconcealed disgust, "But... she is nice and a woman."

She smiled, disappearing into the door behind the door, and two minutes later, XY's cell rang. The building smelt of its pre-war age. There were two apartments available, one unit on the first floor and one on the second. Building owner J reminded me of my current "landlord." Lean, appearing confident while concealed; in total small vendor business man mode. You know exactly what I'm talking about. NYC is full of them. Like cockroaches, they scurry on about in tight spaces, never fully content, but content themselves in the petty glories of making cash here and there. I throw out scattered questions and stupid comments: "Hows the waterflow?", "Thats nice.", "Good price", "Great investment on your part." etc. I was trying to save our disatisfaction from fully revealing itself. The tired light coming through the kitchen windows of each unit weren't enough for that.

Back to the search. *Sigh*

I'm struggling to say more. Something something something about moving a fifth time in 2008. Something something something about the nonexistent poetry chapbook I'm working on. Something about it being a story of failing myself. HA HA HA.

No, I look forward to the future. Toward interesting times and people. Simply because thats the way it has always been.

I don't miss him. The connection has been cauterized. I blame him. I want to blame him. I replay the Saturday night we walked around the beautiful cobblestone streets and talked about our future. The sharp sensation of alienation as he willed any emotion away, appearing as practical as possible, becoming himself tomorrow ten worlds away from me; in that projection of the limited self, he became his own empty pride. And I held the questions of commitment between my teeth; "Can you?" "Can I?" "Will we make this work?" Shadows shifted, I saw him common as he was; all the pieces came together. I will always love the possibilities. I could never love a man who can not overcome himself.

The mind plays forward. I was crying silently in his car on the way back to his shared apartment. He was oblivious; probably feeling sorry for not saying more comforting things to me. So completely and utterly oblivious to the fact that I was in mourning. I continued nursing the answer in my hand even as he reached his hand over the brake to hold mine. I hated myself.

I wanted a nice vacation. I made it one. I came back to NYC and tried to revive my appreciation for our amazing ability to banter with each other for long durations over the phone. Except I couldn't do it for more than another three weeks. His voice and words, once sweet and boyish, lost their charm. All I could hear were ocean waves lapping over each other and the white heat of the sun.

Oct. 14th, 2005:

Let the leaves fall,
and brush,
all the words into the sea,
for I know, I know,
he'll never give to me.

So lets be quiet,
and hush,
these feelings all away,
for I know, I know,
death's for but a day.

Then let me sail,
and rush,
like waves into the shore,
for I know, I know,really nothing anymore.

I once wrote this: :I still stand by it

2008-02-13T23:04:00.000-05:00

I've been very amorous as of late. Such a whirlwind!
I've never fallen softly, I wonder what I will think when lucidity returns.

I once wrote this (its not very good but I find it amusing and fitting):

Life's sweet, supple,
He kisses my lips with a bite; not a man for you,
An escape, a salve for throbbing aches,
As he rolls his hand
Around the meat on the undersides
Of long neglected paths. He is not a gardener,
He wears nothing but his skin, nothing but
A thick musk to mingle among the bed of roses,
A tongue to sway purple petals,
To rinse the dew that gathers
In throwing arches. Enough of heaven,
I want earth. They laugh as if
I am a silly bird. How can this not be real?
How can the ascending waves,
Caused by the intimate violence of his cupped palm
Roving in my chalice
Be not real? Our crashing bodies,
Desires' soft injuries; what? What could be
More real than this?

©hRj2006
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I don't want it to end. But it will.
I know how these things go because I've been there before.

Doubt

2008-02-08T17:37:00.000-05:00

Last night I had a fright. A block from my apartment, I suddenly lost my sense of balance while on the way home. I thought I was going to collapse in the middle of the street and be mugged/raped/taken to the emergency room (because then I'll have to pay huge bill because I have no medical insurance). This has NEVER happened to me before.

A friend suggested that it might be due to a panic attack (which earlier in the night I had). I think I'm stressed out or just plain going crazy. This happens to me every once in a while... my emotions get out of hand and I think I'm going crazy. Do people normally suspect themselves of clinical insanity? I know people generally question how "normal" they are.

Yesterday I also met up with a close friend whom I haven't seen in forever. We were best buds in highschool. Seeing her and catching up totally destroyed my ability to appreciate other people later during the night. It's just that we have such an energy together; she's always up to some kooky shit... everything is a story (but ofcourse not without risk). I would love to divulge details but I shouldn't and can't. Some later time I will find a way.

Sugar

2008-02-07T03:30:00.000-05:00

Happy Lunar New Year!

Eat something round. Eat some noodles for long life. Wear gold bitches.

I'm addicted to the gym and now spending exorbitant amounts of time on my fake facebook husband. I wish more people are as amused by it as I am. Come on, Tang Dynasty emperor? Hilarity! I guess its less funny for those people who honestly thought that first I got engaged to Mr. T and now I'm married.... well most people don't know Chinese history that well. Am I crazy to be playing this kind of joke? Here's the plotline: I want him to start hitting on my girl friends and trying to persuade them to be his newest concubines. He already put a servant to death for disrespecting my bridesmaid at the wedding.

Yes I've been job searching, doing better than before (before I was just saying I've been job searching, doing better than before). This is real. I've honestly been sending out coverletters and resumes.

This past weekend was AWP (which my current roommate and his friends who flew in from Alabama was involved in). I didn't register early enough and the tickets were sold out. I went to see Li-Young Lee and an emerging poet named Jennifer Kwon Dobbs read at the Asian American Writers Workshop and then went to some other Asian American poets' reading at NYU.

I loved Li-Young Lee. He was simply wonderful! I was never really interested in poets themselves as much as their poetry. I read his works during college and spent a month obssessively in love with his book, The City in Which I Love You. As much as I loved his poems, it never once occurred to me that I should know more than his poetry. Weird huh? So when I talked to him I felt great embarrassment when he said that he lived in Chicago. after learning that I just moved from there. That was such a dipshit moment. Well now that I've met him, I love him more: he means every word he writes and the quirk is fitting. Seriously even my idol Alice Notley... I have her essays, her poetry books, and I don't know shit about her except that she was married to Ted Berrigan and has a son (whose poetry took me a bit to get but then I learned to enjoy it).

I tried to be friends with Jennifer. I think I scared her.

When I went to the second reading at NYU, I don't know... I liked a couple of lines, two poems, and the rest of the time I felt bored. Bob Hicok (who I have yet to explore, who my friend is really into) pointed out something that might help explain my boredom. In an interview (http://www.caffeinedestiny.com/hicok.html) he said, "What is most commonly said about Slam poetry - that it's not as good on the page as it is live - is true for most though not all of the work. What people don't notice, or admit, is that the opposite is true. Much of the poetry that gets published is no good on the stage. Or, has little force on the stage." That probably explained it. Maybe if I saw those poems on the page I'd feel more engaged.

I felt really scared at this reading. Like. Intense pressure to go up or say hi and compliment everyone. I mean you can't just go up and say hi, you have say hi and compliment or you can't buy just one person's chapbook or they can't see that you didn't buy theirs. It's fucking complicated. Like... if I get good at writing poetry, this is the group I'll be in. Don't get me wrong, I'm extremely proud of being myself and care deeply about AA political issues.... solidarity is semi-important. But I couldn't do it. I don't like everyone's poetry. And then because I'm not MFA type, how fucking valid is my criticism or preferences (they're valid to ME (and we all know my opinion is final opinion) but I don't live inside myself or try not to)?

Anyways I was really glad though to meet Marlon E because I knew him from 11th grade from watching Two Tongues perform, and then being at the Typical Cats concert, and then through my Chicago slam poetry friends. He had a good vibe about him. I hope if I go to their monthly saloon that I don't offend anyone. My facial expression betrays me in split second lapses of control.

Oooh I love my tumblr blog but its a secret and all written in Chinese. TEEHEE. I'm definitely improving everyday.

Changes

2008-01-13T07:35:00.000-05:00

I joined a GYM.
I like my new roommate.
I got plenty of exercise this weekend.

I'm a very lucky person.

Dilation

2007-12-31T02:06:00.000-05:00

The past couple of days have been a furious blur. I know its the medication thats been affecting my short term memory - tons of brain farts. I'm slowly adjusting to the dosage and the side effects aren't as strong.

My writing juices have stopped. There's too many crazy things happening in my life that I haven't been able to reflect or turn away. Its difficult to write on something so real, so absurd, that I'm very confused as to what exactly is going on.

Tomorrow is the first day of 2008. I hope that shortly after the turn, I'll be able to finally understand what I've been seeing.

How About This?

2007-12-21T09:45:00.000-05:00

The island will always be the same. Year after year, I return here.
In this house, this strange home to some of my past.

In January I am moving to Manhattan in search of (in a sense) a new life. I know the general practice is to first apply for jobs and interviews BEFORE moving. But I want to risk it. I want to really feel that sense of urgency in a city of possibilities.

Kierkegaard has got to be one of the quirkiest, most imaginative and wonderful philosphers. Same goes for Nietzsche. I'm currently reading Either/Or and cannot help but stop at certain passages to chuckle or muse in delight. I'm still on "Either." Its going to take me some time to really wade through it. I wish I had my copy of Adorno's Concepts and Categories to compare. =)

I've been re-reading Noelle Kocot's Poem for the End of Time.
I'm trying to figure out why I love this lengthy poem so much (33 pages, I can't even count the number of stanzas right now).

The poem gives me the same weird feeling that I get from reading a more structured poem such as a sestina or a ghazel (sp.?). There's a lot of repetition: clear in its visual and aural intentions.
The poem repeats most often these two phrases (I'm so mad I can't replicate the exact spacing of the lines, someone teach me how to format on blogger):

"My neighborhood my neighborhood my neighborhood
Up in flames my neighborhood"
and different variations of "On apocalypse waves of scalene dreams"

If I knew how to get the spacing on blogger, you would see "my neighborhood" in "waves."

Since I'm reading "Either" I am reminded of A's thoughts on music, its sensual immediacy. Not anything specific, but just to think of the poem as music, a song. How full bodied it is.

My first encounter with the poem was at Kocot's reading in Chicago. She read the poem in its entirety. I was surprised how at first I wasn't very interested in the poem and how it slowly grabbed my attention and how I ended up in awe of its beauty. 1. the sound. all that repetition.
2. sense. 3. image.

Here's an example of the powerful effect that Kocot has when combining 2 and 3. She breaks away from the more song like and

"I woke to the dread of my driver’s test, and to a deer with tremendous/ antlers looking in at me from the patio. I did not know not to touch the /glass. I did not know:

That the animal could shatter the glass and tear through the house/
That the glass could shatter and tear my throat in scalene waves of/
apocalypse dreams"

This passage is so intense. I'm not sure what she meant by it. I know as a reader, that it connects with me. Being back in Long Island. This strange home.

[im no lit critic. forgive me for the messiness.]