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[Jan. 6th, 2007|08:19 pm] |
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It closes and closes On the tiniest tip of my tounge sits a memory.
A mere pinprick of smoke and skin,
and a sweet wetness that will stay with me always.
Every pinkish tastebud is our moment of grace,
our moment of tastes.
On the drooping black power lines there are black sneakers,
that spin in the most perfect circles for no one.
In a breezy lightness they spin, twirl, spin.
But I imagine you left them there,
in the coal night just for me.
An unadorned reminder of an irreconcilable difference,
an irresolvable distance.
Tonight I'll watch them twirl once more,
under a searingly bright moon
that paints the sky an artificial morning.
And it will be appropriately.terrible.
I wish,
I wish,
I wish,
to cut out my tounge.
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| (no subject) |
[Oct. 10th, 2006|06:36 pm] |
The Great Uneven
4:30 am, Monday morning. There is a hum. A persisting hum of electricity, of industry that stands alone while everyone sleeps, or restlessly toils in sleep's absence. Physical pain dictates that I bear witness to this transitionary period between the night and day, the hustle and bustle. Above me, above the hum, the sky is dotted with few stars. The rest, the continuing vastness, is overshadowed and creates illusions of human granduer. We are in a sense snowglobed and led to believe that the city, the industry, is all there is or ever will be. It's an infortunate trick really, to be so alienated from nature. To have our interaction with nature overwhelmed by the changing of street lights, the wheezing of cars, the clamoring of production...the hum. But it's a fantastic thing too. The cooperative work of humans as it translates into an astoundingly intricate universe of culture, technology, architecture...stimulus. I wish to strike a balance of sorts, to rid my daily life of the uneveness that keeps me teetering on an edge most of the time. Sometimes, when I walk to the Cala foods I raise my hands to the trees, the branches of which droop low enough so that I may touch the leaves and knead them between my fingers. I feel taller and it helps me to forget about the things I have virtually no control over. There are so many things that people unfairly can't control. But I know the terrain of the walk, where the cracks and faults in the pavement are, where my favorite victorians are in relation to one another. And this comforts me somewhat; to feel certainty in even the most minor of things helps to cut against the uneveness. |
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| (no subject) |
[Aug. 7th, 2006|04:51 pm] |
Towards September
Out my bedroom window, beyond the gossamer lilac curtains, the morning shows itself and takes shape through the trees, through buildings, through the very people that walk below me who go about the business of living. The light of day, its’ omnipresence makes me feel slightly anxious. It’s a feeling that manifests itself under the layers of my skin, past the coursing blood, beyond the interconnectedness of my veins, beneath the pink and gleaming muscle, in the marrow of my bones where it sits and pulsates. Sometimes getting out of bed seems like a compromise… no, more like an acquiescence to a responsibility to walk and interact amongst the thinking, working, breathing people of the world. And I remember the sounds and smells of October, when everything was vibrantly new and illuminated. I made connections and deductions fraught with so much intrapersonal meaning. Now it’s August, what can I say of August? Fat birds coo and plant their fat bird feet on the power lines that sway sometimes lazily, sometimes dangerously with the breeze. And this same breeze pools a portion the city’s trash and drops it precisely in front of the steps leading up to my house. A heap of processed urban detritus welcomes me home and reminds me that people, and the things they use and discard are here, there, and everywhere all the time. Presently, there exists a risk, a hurdle of sorts to jump over-which is to avoid being weighed down by how sad and fucked up people can be, how sad and fucked up I can be. I fight with a filthy and loathsome neediness for someone and something to satiate me. We all feel that, I think. All of us battle with it to varying extents. |
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| (no subject) |
[Aug. 2nd, 2006|11:50 pm] |
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Bleached Nostalgia
I can't get the smell of bleach off my hands or out of my mind. I was trying to bleach a paint stain out of a dress I want to sell when I carelessly spilled Clorox all over my hands. My skin reeked of it and I was reminded of Mila. She always smelled of bleach and freesia lotion. Mila was my nanny who lived with us for several years. My mother was always working and my sister was constantly with friends, so Mila was my faithful companion-my confidant. She really took care of me. She would brush my hair every night, made sure I ate, bathed. I remember she even patiently picked at my hair for two weeks when I had a horrible case of head lice, like the mother gorilla who tends to her young child. It was actually quite disgusting, but she did it because she really loved me. My favorite times with Mila were spent walking home from elementary school. We would hold hands as we strolled under the mulberry trees that lined the avenues, and I would tell her about my day, switching between English and meager Spanish. I loved the way our fingers looked as they were intertwined, our skin tones so different. Mine pale and sporadically dotted with freckles, and hers coffee brown and completely unblemished. Light next to dark; it was beautiful. And she was beautiful too. I struggle to remember her face, the specific shapes and details of her features unfortunately escape my recollection of her physical presence. I know she had a captivating quality about her, and if she wasnt stereotypically "beautiful", she possessed something far more attractive-an awareness of beauty, its' varying degrees, its' exaggerated importance, its' fated decay. I was the conscious focus of all her love and affection- I was like her daughter. I wonder now if she ever had any children of her own whose hair she brushed, or if she was ever married. I knew nothing of her outside the context of a life with my family. I wish I did. Mila was a constant presence in my life. She was always there, and then one day she wasn't. I don't know or can't remember the circumstances in which she left us. It has to of been over ten years since Ive last seen her and I can't help but thinking about where she is now and what kind of life she's leading. If I had the chance to see her again I would hold her hand, our skin colors side by side, and we would walk down the streets by my elementary school. We would talk and talk about how I grew up and struggled. And we would talk and talk about how she grew older and struggled. I spent way too long trying to scrub the bleach out of my hands and arrived at the store to sell my clothes only 15 minutes after closing. The uber-hip Buffalo Exchange employees shrugged and condescendingly smiled as I gathered the clothes I dropped on the street while trying to open the locked door to the store. My hands still smell like bleach.
Ooooohhh As long as we got each other..
I brought very little back with me from my trip home. I meant to take more clothes (that I don't need) from my closet and some old books. The best thing I managed to bring with me to San Francisco is a blown-up picture of my sister and me. I can't be more then seven or eight, which would make my sister fifteenish. Im half-smiling and my strawberry-blond head is slightly titled. Tamar's head is over my shoulder and nestled in my neck. She looks devious and her hair is in her face, covering one eye. It's so awesome and very 90s looking. The shot is a close-up of our faces so you can't see below the neck. But if you could I bet I would be holding a Polly Pocket, a troll doll, or an American Girl book (Molly was my favorite). Tamar would be wearing some sort of plaid monstrosity and gripping a tape-deck, which would be playing Cake or Sublime. We didn't get along very well then. She was a very mean teenage girl and I was a bratty little kid. But right then, in that moment, we were happy, loving sisters. I will keep this picture forever. It's funny because Hannah commented that I look like a familiar child-star "from some old TV show." And it's true because EVERYONE used to confuse me with the girl who played Chrissy Seaver on the Growing Pains. It was kind of ridiculous. I would get stopped at least once a week by a stranger who would excitedly blurt out some variation of "hey! are you that girl on that show!?" When I said no, they would just shrug and walk away, slightly disappointed. It did not bode well for my self-confidence to be the girl everyone mistook for someone sort-of famous. I was just Karen, not Chrissy Seaver of Growing Pains. I look nothing like anyone except myself these days. I like that much better. |
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| (no subject) |
[Jul. 23rd, 2006|09:16 am] |
San Francisco has been racked by an oppressive heat that blankets the city and all of its' inhabitants. Everything feels slower and much more deliberate. Like the sweat on my upper lip. It forms slowly, it forms deliberately, it tastes salty. The pores in my skin ooze salt and my fingers are swollen and pudgy. Swollen pudgy fingers type these sentences, which are fragmented along with my thoughts. I feel floppy and flushed with the day, which is drawn out like some mind-numbing argument. I am salty human mush ready to be served, ready to be saved. Oh yes, I am ready to be saved in the religious sense of the word. I'd like to have a religious experience with some air conditioning, maybe a cool breeze...or at least a lime flavored popsicle. But before this heat came a month or so of meaningful clarity, sometimes painful, oftentimes liberating.
Below, a hodge-podge of events:
Nineteen, the last of the teens.
Ive recently tuned 19 years old. I spent my birthday in the Mendocino woodlands at Unitarian Family Camp with Michael. It is one of the most beautiful places I have ever encountered, and in a very different way from anywhere else. Families come there two weeks out of the summer to live communally amongst the redwoods, which are large, and numerous, and generally magnificent. Ive never seen so many trees in my life. I slept in a moss covered wood cabin with screen windows. I swam in a creek for the first time and loved it. Things grow and die all of the time, everywhere. Kids run around most of the day laughing and playing. They are just so wonderful and innocent in the most transitory, impermanent way. One day they will grow up to feel the pressing weight of emotional pain and confusion. One day they will come to understand real yearning. But for now they are perfect and untouchable in their child happiness. They are the stars in their pretend games, bending this magical surrounding to their will. I was reminded of how truly smart and inventive children can be. Overall, I had an overwhelmingly positive experience. Most of the people there are so warm, so genuine. A lot of the family campers have spent years there growing up and watching each other evolve into more complete individuals. Its so refreshing to witness and be apart of human interaction thats so caring and supportive. I felt so lucky and happy to be there. It was nothing short of amazing.
The Corner Men Folk
Outside of my house and across the street resides a permanent fixture dubbed the corner men folk. They are a gaggle of Latino men who hang out all day and night, drinking and talking (often arguing and cursing) and playing soccer. They are pretty pleasant except when they get too sassy with the physical compliments. I dont take well to hey baby or looking good beautiful. I shouldnt have to and neither should any other woman. That type of sexist bullshit must be actively cut against whenever it arises. Women should not be made to endure cat calling. Women are much more then an assemblage of aesthetically pleasing body parts. But anyway, amongst the corner men folk is a 40-something man named Bill who has seemed to take a particular liking to me. He is friendly and polite, and loves to talk about the freckles on my shoulders. He says that I should appreciate them because they are the beautiful spots where God kissed me before I was born. Its funny, my father used to say the same thing. I distinctly remember being 4 or 5 when he used to kiss my shoulders and my nose before bed and say, this is where God kissed you too. Bill always follows a tribute to my freckles with a round of so wheres the lucky man, wheres the boyfriend? Its all very corny and somewhat endearing. I appreciate that man. I wish good things for him.
We Be Sushi
I decided to sit down in a restaurant by myself the other night. I forgot how awesome it can be to sit and eat alone, not bound by the confines of conversation with the person sitting across from you, or next to you. I didnt have to focus or engage anyone for a change. I could just be there. The restaurant was small and narrow and I had a view into the kitchen where I saw waitresses and cooks mechanically go about the business of serving other people food. They had this rhythm going, like a practiced dance and it almost seemed to have a musical quality; something you could count or keep track of if you really tried. It was interesting to tune in on the chatter and musings of those around me, which were not surprisingly all very similar in their content. Of particular note was a conversation I overheard, or more like consciously listened to, between two women sitting at the table next to mine. One of the women did all the talking while the other listened intently, nodding or furrowing her eyebrows at the appropriate moments. The woman speaking kept nervously drumming her fingernails on the table. She had an elegant French manicure like my mother used to get and I felt really young just then, like I was sitting in the nail place reading hairstyle magazines as my mother got her fingers painted. French manicure woman was complaining about her boyfriend. How he didnt have a steady job, how he acts like a teenage boy sometimes, how he never listens, never remembers anything. I wondered if these things were true. I wondered if he ever read magazines in the nail place while she got her fingers painted. I had this nagging urge to tell her to be careful of trying to change people because they might try and change you back. Maybe her boyfriend was across town somewhere complaining how she was overly critical, or too serious. When she left the restaurant I sort of half-smiled at her. She half-smiled back.
The Pumpkin
Im driving home to southern California for a week. Im really looking forward to the change of pace, if only for a short while.
p.s.-I love you Rachel Havens. |
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| (no subject) |
[May. 19th, 2006|11:10 pm] |
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Insecurity is a funny thing. Sometimes it’s a sneaky creature, slowly and steadily chipping away at your confidence until you are a whittled-down human toothpick. Other times, it’s abrupt and abrasive, smashing you into tiny shards of irreparable person. Recently, I’ve been suffering from insecurity of the human-toothpick variety; a consistent and creeping feeling that bears down on me. It’s a shame really, as I have many things to be proud of; many things to be confident in. In assessing my first year here in San Francisco, I’m astounded by the things I’ve seen and experienced, and by the qualitative change I’ve undergone. It’s been exciting, illuminating, beautiful, terrifying, painful…drastic. I’ve had to flesh things out as I encounter them; synthesize my experiences into a new, forward-moving perspective. It’s no easy feat, moving forward I mean. It’s tempting to wallow and backslide. The fear of getting stuck in the circumstances of living is ever-present and nagging, but something to actively cut against at every opportunity. I struggle with moving forward sometimes, and from this struggle stems the insecurity I’ve been feeling lately. Insecurity about my physical appearance (common of many women, and impressed upon us by sexist social relations), organizational competency and political clarity, my personal relationships with others (specifically feeling like I’m not respected), and so on…I do realize that is all very personalistic and lame, but there you have it. Although despite this current venture of mine into the understandable yet irritating world of self-confidence issues, I do recognize that I am an exceptional person with many things to offer to the world. Most people are actually. Human beings are amazing in their capabilities to create and work together. It floors me every time I really think about it. It’s the alienation that gets in the way. Debilitating, stagnating alienation. |
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| (no subject) |
[May. 18th, 2006|05:19 pm] |
Standing Up to Repression and Fear: The Real War on Terror
10 SFSU students face discipline for counter-recruitment protest
By Karen Knoller
The San Francisco State University administration is stepping up its attack on student anti-war activists. The universitys office of judicial affairs has targeted 10 individuals in an attempt to intimidate, divide, and stifle student protests on campus. The 10 students have each received letters requesting confidential meetings to discuss and investigate a complaint filed by the Chief of Public Safety regarding a counter-recruitment protest the students participated in on April 14th.
That day, students gathered at the schools career fair to protest the presence of military recruiters and the war in the Iraq that has viciously claimed the lives of over 2,400 U.S. soldiers and over 100,000 Iraqis. Their activities included questioning recruiters and talking to potential recruits, distributing anti-war literature, and chanting while holding up signs. The students were loud but peaceful. Soon after the chanting begun, ten protestors were suddenly, and without warning confronted by a wall of policemen who forcibly removed the students from the fair and cited them for disrupting university activity. The citation, sanctioned by university president Robert Corrigan, barred them from campus for two weeks and threatened the activists with immediate arrest and a fine if they returned within that period. Three of the students live on campus and were in effect made homeless as a result of the citation
It is important to note exactly what these students were protesting. SFSU allowed the military on campus, a discriminatory apparatus of war and exploitation that attempts to recruit students with false promises of job training, education, and benefits. They coerce young people to go senselessly kill and be killed in an imperialistic war for profit and the domination of resources. By allowing military recruiters on campus, the SFSU administration is complicit, and an active participant in the war machine.
As the war rages on, students on campuses all around the country are standing up and then getting smacked down by their university administrations who want to maintain business as usual as the U.S. military destroys and ravages Iraq while threatening to spread the war to Iran. Bodies are piling up as the military grows more and more desperate to fill its ranks with able college and high school students. The SFSU administration has made it a priority to help them in this sick endeavor. Their loyalties lie not with the students, but with the exploiters and war profiteers.
The protestors, who were subjected to outrageous repression by the campus police and administration, stood up and fought back. On April 17th, the students held a press conference in order to defend their actions and condemn the liberal frauds that clearly stand on the side of war and exploitation. The response from the community and the country, which flooded the presidents office with phone calls and e-mails in support of the activists, forced the administration to momentarily back down. Later that day all 10 of the students received word that they were allowed back on campus. But the fear of future disciplinary action still loomed. A petition and open letter of support and solidarity has been signed by over 1,000 people, including many prominent members of the anti-war movement like Cindy Sheehan and Dahr Jamail. The signatories also include Denis Halliday, former UN Assistant Secretary General who resigned in protest from his position as the UN's Humanitarian Coordinator for Iraq.
Chief of Public Safety Kim Wible released a response to the open letter of solidarity that includes a litany of blatant lies, in an attempt to discredit the students and quell the anger that came after the public was made aware of the universitys actions. She asserts that the students were asked by the director of the career fair as well as the commander of DPS to leave before they were confronted and accosted by the police. This is a lie. She plainly refutes any instances of police aggression. There are photographs of the event that depict otherwise. And finally, she has the audacity to claim that
"the University remains committed to the ideals of free speech." Chief Wible must be referring to the free speech students are allowed only in designated zones from the hours of 12-2pm. The hypocrisy of this university, that commemorates and celebrates the efforts of people like Malcolm X, Rosa Parks, and Cesar Chavez, is nothing short of astounding.
Now the administration is trying to discipline the students further, just when they think no one is paying attention. They are most certainly wrong in this assumption. We are all paying attention and will not stand idly by as these hypocrites and war-facilitators, who claim to foster an educational environment of free-speech and respect for student activism, tries to punish and divide these students in the bureaucratic shadows of a "conference." These thugs will attempt to marginalize and isolate these protestors, who are in fact representative and a part of the anti-war majority in this country and around the world. The students will not be intimidated, as they acted in unity and will fight back in unity. They will not sit down and apologize for protesting the sexist, racist, and homophobic military that attempts to funnel people into a brutal and ceaseless war for economic and political hegemony. In this current crisis, it is imperative that students be allowed to protest and voice their concern and outrage without fear of reprisal from police or school officials. The struggle for a better world, one not plagued by the horrors of war and ruthless competition for profit must continue.
Call, Email and Fax support to
Donna Cunningham Judicial Affairs Officer
Telephone: (415) 338-2032
E-mail: drcunn@sfsu.edu
Robert Corrigan President
Telephone: (415) 338-1381
E-mail: corrigan@sfsu.edu
Penny Saffold Vice President / Dean of Students
Telephone: (415) 338-2032
E-mail: psaffold@sfsu.edu
Fax: (415) 338.6327
Sign the petition:
http://www.petitiononline.com/sfsu10/petition.html |
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| (no subject) |
[May. 1st, 2006|11:29 pm] |
*Apple Antics
Tonight I lost my shit in the super-market. I was on my way home after dropping off Leigh at the Green House, driving slowly down South Van Ness after a long but inspiring day in the sun. I was feeling woozy and physically tense, a possible side-effect of the epinephrine shot I needed following the accidental ingestion of some sort of nut that I'm allergic to. The time must soon come when I learn not to indiscriminately shove food in my mouth like a monster-person when I'm very hungry. I think, in general, it would be wise to take a closer and more critical look at things. So down South Van Ness I drove, contemplating "State and Revolution" and feeling a pervading sense of melancholy. I decided that all I would need to temporarily smooth things over in my mind was a Fuji apple from the Cala Foods and a bottle of squirt, my new soft drink of choice. I will admit right away that I'm particularly picky about my fruit and vegetables. The selection of apples was disappointing to say the least. Every one was in my assessment, too bruised or discolored for enjoyment. I was upset. I was annoyed. Maybe, I thought, I might find brief pleasure and solace in the cool crispness and flavor of the red/yellow Fuji apple. That’s all I wanted or needed in the world at that moment. But no, I was denied even that small comfort; a pittance on the grand scale of human satiation and satisfaction. This is about the time I begin to loose my ever-loving mind (weird saying, especially when typed, or even thought about). In the middle of the produce section, amongst a variety of fruits and vegetables, I start to steadily cry. It is important to note that I was consumed by this overwhelming feeling of being done-wrong, of being cheated out of something that I want and deserve, which of course went far beyond the stupid apple at that point, but manifested itself in the Fuji brand nevertheless. In a fit of irrational rage and contempt, I decided it best to hurl the basket of about a dozen apples across the aisle and onto the floor. They went sprawling and bouncing in every direction, catching the attention of the security guard named Philbert, this according to his name tag. I just stood there for a long time in horror at myself before I became aware of his physical presence. He seemed to want an explanation for my violent, crazy outburst. I could offer him nothing as I had no clear thoughts to verbalize. Instead I dropped to my knees and scurried about in an effort to collect all the apples while making high-pitched noises of apology. I felt like a furry rat or gopher creature. I think the one lucid thing I managed to say was that I intended on paying for all the apples, which were now far more bruised and battered then before. Philbert said nothing further, but seemed sympathetic to the sad state of my withering sanity. I could see in his face that he’d probably witnessed far worse then my pathetic display. And pathetic it certainly was. By the time I had finished collecting the apples, I had attracted the interest of the other shoppers who were all lookey-looing in my direction. I don’t blame them, not one bit. I probably would have stared at the crazy girl who lost her mind in the Cala Foods too. I bet I would have. So now I have a bag of 12 pitiful apples to go along with my pitiful state of mind. I have yet to throw them away and I’m thinking I will try to use them for something in attempt to render resourcefulness and productivity to my market freak-out. Maybe I’ll find some way to mash them into apple juice that I’ll make Joel drink with me. But that would be silly too. |
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| (no subject) |
[Mar. 19th, 2006|08:22 pm] |
"And loneliness. I should say something of loneliness. The panic, the sweeping hysteria that comes not when you are without others, but when you are without yourself, adrift. I should describe the filthy province of mind, the blighted district inside, the place so crowded you cannot raise the lids of your eyes. Your shoulders are drawn and your head has fallen and your chest is bruised by the constant assault of your heart. No air, no air, nothing but your own sticky breath, panting wet and sticky. I want to convey the burden of despair, the ruin of compromise. Be brave, I should say, the way brave used to be--desperate to live and to love. I want her to prepare for the curse of perseverance. She may not know about resiliency. That she will last."-Anthropology of an American Girl
Last night I dreamt of Santa Fe, New Mexico and awoke this morning with the smell of sweet-smoky desert air clouding my consciousness. It left me as soon it came, making me doubt myself and the world. I struggled to get it back, whimpering aloud for the longing and loneliness that accompanies missing something you've never had. The closest I've been to Santa Fe is the glass orbs my mother brought home from her visit there. I used to lazily trace my fingers over the looping ribbons of color, across the surfaces of each sphere. They are positioned throughout the house so they might catch the rays of sunlight and project their color, the color of Santa Fe, onto the bare white walls. I hope one day to travel there and breathe in the air, and bring back beautiful glass orbs that I can use to harness the sunlight. Dear destiny, take me one day, to Santa Fe.
While on the subject of dreams, I will say that my mind races and paces at night. Lately, I dream of sex and revolution, and awake feeling as though I’d never slept at all. It’s difficult to extract concrete meaning or logic from these brief episodes of naked bodies and sweat and release. Flash after flash, a sexual race borne of loneliness and steeped in urgency. It makes me anxious to recall and think about. And revolution. I dream of revolution too. A world working to meet human need without the racism, sexism, homophobia, poverty, and war that enslaves the majority of people. These dreams are exhilarating, and I find myself waking up excited to read theory and organize the next protest or political meeting. I look forward to the time that when Leticia says, “Leninism is the organizational expression of revolutionary Marxism”, that I truly comprehend exactly what she means by that. I look forward to being apart of the rebuilding of the anti-war movement, when 60% of the country being against the war means that hundreds of thousands of people will take to the streets to demand an end to the war, occupation, and the racism that fuels it. Yes, I look forward to all of these things.
In Solidarity and Struggle,
Karen |
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| Mazie and Beam |
[Jan. 29th, 2006|02:17 am] |
*Krengjai
I don’t know my body very well. I guess I’ve always been aware of it, but I don’t really know it. I know for sure that I have bad ankles. I’ve always had very bad ankles. They creak and crack like an old far away door in an old far away house, somewhere. I’m unsure of my shape, or what sizes or cuts are uniquely mine. I’ve never taken the time to try and figure these things out, and dressing myself has always been a guess and check process of sorts. Occasionally, a friend or lover will comment on the sloping of my back, or the shape of my butt, or my hands, my “delicate hands”. Sometimes I will see these things and sometimes I won’t. Usually I’ll just take their word for it. But do not mistake my bodily obliviousness for complete self-confidence, because they are most definitely not the same thing. I wouldn’t necessarily call myself unconfident, however I imagine there’s a special poise and intimacy that accompanies a thorough understanding of one’s own body. My good friends Mazie and Beam live amidst the twists and turns of Topanga Canyon. Their house, over-run by flowering plants and vines, lines the shallow mouth of a tepid creek. Inside, natural light dances and plays on the surface of a painted glass coffee table or the sculptures and statues that obtrusively line the walls. Mountains of books and records section the house into what Beam likes to call the “literature and music coves,” and fill the air with a sweet must. Mismatching furniture, in a myriad of shapes, sizes, colors, and upholsteries, lay scattered about the house. Out back, a carefully tended vegetable garden bears tomatoes, cucumbers, carrots, and varieties of squash. In the South-West corner of the yard stands an 80 foot tall white oak tree. It is nothing short of fantastic, that tree. Beam once told me that if left undisturbed, the life-span of a white oak is 500-600 years. He says it’s comforting to have something that old and wise around, something that’s been on this earth long before him and will probably be here long after. I used to lie under that tree, spending hours watching the clouds pass, or I’d try to count the leaves on the branches. I always lost count. I like to refer to their home as the Topanga Canyon House of Weird and Wonder. They live happily in the lull of bohemia and exhibitionism. They know their bodies very well. You can tell by the way they comfortably interact and carry themselves, their physicality welcoming and playful. Mazie has wonderfully large, round breasts that she supports with perfect posture, and curling copper hair down to her lower back. While you wouldn’t call her a “thin” woman, her stride is that of a delicate, lithe dancer. She has this feathery persistence about her that’s very difficult to ignore. She is beautiful, very beautiful. She loves Joan Baez and Beck and has a deep appreciation for lingerie. Beam can be described simply as sturdy, the human embodiment of a tall and wide tree trunk, just like the oak. He has sandy blond hair and a razor sharp jaw line. Light freckles form constellations on his face. Mazie likes to trace them lightly with her fingers. He’s even tempered and he chooses his words thoughtfully and carefully. A mile down the road from the house sits a small school where he teaches music to little children. I imagine he cultivated his patient demeanor by working with young kids. My favorite thing about Beam is his incessant use of the word “dang”. With him, it’s “dang” this and “dang” that, “dang” everything. He’s made it his personal mission to re-introduce “dang” back into the mainstream vernacular. I wish him luck in this endeavor. Mazie and Beam met and fell in love in Thailand under the moonlight of Patong Beach. Beam says there was just something about the way Mazie twirled her hair that compelled him to approach her, and Mazie says that it was the way Beam swayed his hips as he walked that made her take notice. I learned from a diary I found that they had “furious, oozing sex” for the rest of the week they spent in Phuket. Both Mazie and Beam were at a point in their lives in which they were “trying to find themselves”, which meant traveling in Europe and Asia for three months. They decided they might as well find themselves together and became traveling partners for the duration of their travels. They got along quite well and developed a relationship established on the fundamentals of sincere respect and admiration for one another. When it came time to return to the states, Beam decided he would leave his established life in New Hampshire to be with Mazie, where he’d never been even once, on the coast of California in Topanga where they live now. “It just seemed like the natural thing to do,” he’s said. And I guess it was because they have the most natural, honest partnership I have ever encountered. Today I received a package from them which included a lovely handwritten card as well as an emerald-green lacy bra, homemade vanilla perfume, CDs, a jade ring, and books I’ve been wanting to read. The card simply reads, “Thinking of you from The Canyon. All our love, Maizie and Beam.” I must say I miss those two terribly. I am consoled however by the prospect of a visit from them next month. It would be interesting to see them interact with my new friends, as it’s always intriguing to see people you care about from differing universes of your life commingle and bring with them their outstanding characters. Yes, that would be excellent. Okay, I’m going to go try on my bra on my body that I don’t know very well. Guess and check |
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| (no subject) |
[Dec. 14th, 2005|03:07 am] |
*The Weight and the Wait
San Ouentin California is beautiful despite itself. The road leading up to the prison lines the bay, catching your eye with its' calm, shimmery brilliance. On both sides, expensive homes flank the road. They are beautiful too I suppose. It would be easy to forget, just for a moment, what you're walking towards. It seems eerie and almost inappropriate that an institution soaked to its' core by oppression and ugliness would be proceeded by such natural beauty. Such a persistent beauty. They might sit side by side in physical proximity, but they definitely do not coexist. They are worlds away from each other. They clash. At the entry gate, a large white sign bears the state seal. And below that it reads: "DEPARTMENT OF CORRECTIONS, California State Prison, San Quentin". I've seen this sign twice. I hate this sign. Both times I was protesting the execution of Stanley "Tookie" Williams. I was protesting the death penalty, the sharpest tip of a racist sword. Last night the state of California murdered a man. They silenced a beautiful voice. I feel as though I'm mourning the loss of a dear friend. A friend and advocate for peace and non-violence. To me and many others, it was vividly clear why Stan should have been spared the wrath of such a disgusting institution. He was the call to change, the mobolizer and organizer of urban poor who have been made to feel like worthless animals by this oppressive system. It was he who reached masses of people all over the world, motivating black men and women to rise above the poverty, racism and violence that chokes them like a leash. Nearly 3,000 people stood outside the gates of San Quentin in solidarity with Stan, and in protest of his unjust execution. Yet it only took a few people in a death chamber to administer the poison that ended his life. I will never forget the shaking experience of that night. The signs, the candles, the anger, tears, the uncontainable display of fiery humanity is something that will stay with me for as long as I live. We were all there together, hoping against hope that the powers that be would realize the barbaric insanity of killing a man like Stan. They did not. At a couple of minutes past 12:00, a red star-like light came on in the distance. He was in the chamber now. Many cheered and chanted for Stan, for his life as a peace-maker and facilitor of change. Others stood silently. I cried....It took a long time, much longer then expected. But by the half-hour the light shown green and he was gone. I was told that Barbara Becnel left the chamber shouting, "the state of California just executed an innocent man!" Good. I hope her voice shook the walls of the prison and beyond, reaching everyone instrumental in his death. It is difficult not to feel flattened by such a debilitating blow. Such is the reality of those who decide to face and fight whole-heartedly against societal injustice. Sometimes the weight of it all seems too much to bear. But I will bear it and so will everyone else who supported Stan and his message. I imagine that Stan would be the first one to say that the issue is much larger then his individual case. That it is important to keep fighting with re-invigorated spirit and strength against the death penalty. Any real social victory in this country was won by a collective movement of people whose voices were too loud to ignore. We were certainly loud this time and we'll be louder the next time. The next execution is scheduled for the end of January. It looks like I'll be seeing that sign for a third time. That fucking sign. Hopefully one day, I'll never have to see it again.
Rest In Peace Stanley "Tookie" Williams.
*Blackbird singing in the dead of night..."
The poetic words of Stanley Williams, excerpted from "Blue Rage Black Redemption".
"I was beginning to understand that my experiences with the dysfunctional status quo of the prison culture - as well as drug addiction, poverty, gangsterism, racism, and other roadblocks - had become the excuses that defined my life. But no longer would my life, my being, be dictated by blind ignorance. Nor would I ever again allow the excuse of circumstance to dictate who I should be. It was daily studying and questioning that prompted my soul searching. I began to develop a sense of critical reasoning from which sprang the first stirrings of conscience. This was the moment when redemption infused itself into my life." |
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| (no subject) |
[Nov. 16th, 2005|12:34 am] |
*Isms
It’s been rather difficult for me to come to terms with devoting myself to a movement that so forcefully criticizes Israel. If anything, that one issue plagues me more then any other. I feel torn. In perpetual conflict with a past, with a nationality that has partially shaped me; and a present that unveils blatant injustice and angering oppression. As a socialist (a very new one) and, you know, a human being, I stand in solidarity with all oppressed peoples. I recognize that the idea of a country whose primary objective is to promote or serve a specific ethnicity is racist. I believe that everyone, irrespective of nationality, religion, race, or gender, has the human right to live equally and in peace with one another. Further, I support the right and necessity to actively resist and fight against subjugation. With that said, the reality of Israel as an oppressor is very hard for me to stomach. It is especially difficult to take in the diatribes, the voices that shake with vehement anger and contempt for a country I loved, still love. It’s strange because I am just as much an American as I am an Israeli. I could go on all day about what’s wrong with the United States and how disgustingly imperialistic this country is, yet be “proud” and comfortable with being American. I’ve grown up here, I’m rooted here. Yet I can’t do the same for Israel. I think it’s because I’ve idealized that place-a country so far away from so many things. For me Israel is a childhood spent in the park, my grandparents, the beach, cucumber and tomato salad with lemon juice…love, laughter, my innocence. Now that’s changed. I havn’t spoken to my father in over a month because I’m afraid we wont be able to have a conversation in which I can avoid calling him out as the racist he is. After all I’ve been through, I don’t think I can tolerate the jokes and snide remarks. I just can’t. And I think that the next time we speak I will say something to the effect of: “Aba, I love you. What I do not love, what I HATE is your blatantly racist attitude. While I understand that your views will most likely remain narrow and bigoted for the rest of your life, please know that I will not engage in conversation that fosters and propels your racism. In this respect, we are forever at an impasse.” Or I could say, “Aba, you have shitty, racist politics. You might want to take care of that because I’m definitely not down.” What kills me though is that he’ll most likely raise my brother to harbor the same fear and contempt he carries. That really fucking kills me.
*Return to The Pumpkin
I return "home" for Thanksgiving in less then a week. I use quotation marks to convey uncertainty. To express anxiety about a place that stays the same while I change into something not quite compatible with the life I led for 18 years. Yes, I am eager to see the house I've missed for nearly 3 months. Yes, I am excited to drive my jeep up and down streets I know like a bodily reflex. It is strange and amusing however to consider the current physical distance between my mother and I. She and I have been a team, a unit, a pair for as long as I can remember. I am the one who, every night, turns off the lights and TV, puts away the book resting on chest after she's fallen asleep. She is the one who puts away the dishes I leave out, straightens the shoe rack I topple over most afternoons after school. Now the lights and TV stay on. Now the dishes are stored away and the shoe rack stays orderly and assembled. When I think of "home", I think of these things. I think of her. The day to day patterns and rituals that develop only over long periods of time are home. She is my home. And now I am without these things. Adrift in unsettling but exciting newness. I am not settled, not yet. I need to be ok with being uncomfortable. Yes, that needs to be ok. It will be nice to see the rest of my family however. I know they can't wait to size me up; see what San Francisco has done to me. The other night my grandfather, a fantastic 76 year old man by the name of Morton Greenspoon, informed me that he recently joined the ACLU. His motive: "I'm just following your lead kiddo." This makes me insanely happy. It's nice to know that I've positively influenced a man I sincerely respect and admire. It really validates some of the work I'm doing and I look forward to giving him a gigantic hug when I get home. He is awesome. Grandpas are awesome.
*monos = single/only and gamos = marriage
I have to say, I’m no longer of the opinion that monogamy is a relationship axiom, a given that we should all subscribe to. The more I consider it I’m further convinced that human beings are NOT naturally monogamous. Most people define fidelity has committing yourself sexually to only one person. I would argue however that fidelity entails having enough respect to be forthcoming and honest about your needs and desires. Sex and commitment do not go hand in hand as far as I’m concerned. With that said, I would not contend that monogamy is necessarily a destructive force, steering all relationships toward frustration or unhappiness; but rather something to be well-considered. Bottom line: Monogamy is a contrived social construct, not a deal-breaker for all romantic relationships.
*Poem!
T.S. Elliot, let us be best friends.
1. The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo
Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero,
Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo.
LET us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats 5
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question … 10
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes, 15
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap, 20
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.
And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes; 25
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate; 30
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.
In the room the women come and go 35
Talking of Michelangelo.
And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair— 40
[They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”]
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—
[They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”]
Do I dare 45
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.
For I have known them all already, known them all:—
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons, 50
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?
And I have known the eyes already, known them all— 55
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways? 60
And how should I presume?
And I have known the arms already, known them all—
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
[But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]
It is perfume from a dress 65
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?
. . . . .
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets 70
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?…
I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
. . . . .
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully! 75
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep … tired … or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis? 80
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald] brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker, 85
And in short, I was afraid.
And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while, 90
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”— 95
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: “That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all.”
And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while, 100
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen: 105
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
“That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all.”
. . . . . 110
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use, 115
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool. |
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| (no subject) |
[Oct. 25th, 2005|10:18 pm] |
*Human Cohesion Looses its' Reason
It is dangerous to stare at yourself for too long. Looking in the mirror today, I slightly lost my grip. Suddenly, I was no longer a cohesive individual, but merely an assemblage of parts. Limbs, lips, ears, eyes, a nose-all separate and uncooperative. Just shapes, not good or bad. And then nothing but a pervading sense of sadness. I had reduced myself to a heap of disjointed uselessness. But then my mother called to tell me she was having the walls of my bathroom painted and would like to know what color I prefer, robin’s egg blue or pale yellow. I told her I had no preference, I trust her judgment. That was all good and fine, she would go with the blue. But she had to go, filing due in court by the end of day. She loves and misses me-thinks about me at night before she goes to sleep. Click, conversation over. And then the pieces of my face came back together. My mother wanting my opinion about silly things reminds me that I am me, Karen. Daughter of Claudia, someone who loves me for everything that I am and am not. I appreciate her and all mothers for their all-encompassing soothing qualities. Mothers are magnificent beings. What lesson should I derive from these moments of weirdness in which I became unglued? At the very least, I should avoid taking myself too seriously. Maybe avoid unnecessary gazes into the mirror as well.
* Sex and Stuff
I am a very sexual person. We all are to varying extents. I very much enjoy sex and physical tension and things of the like. But lately I’ve been feeling stifled and frustrated in this area of my life. I’m not sure what to do about this yet. Further, I’m not positive there is anything to do. In the meantime, I fill this carnal void with friends, and books, and stimulating conversation. My ridiculous lusting continues however.
Oh, the stuff part. I've been shoplifting a lot. Clothing and food is insultingly overpriced. Thus, it seems appropriate to occasionally to take things without forking over money that I should rightly keep in my pocket. I geuss I see myself as a balancing agent. Promoting equilibrium in an otherwise outrageous market. I've even gone so far as to say I'm combating capatilism. Although this argument has been invalidated many times by my peers. It's still cool to say though. "Fighting Capitalism one stolen, overpriced shirt at a time!" Ha.
* Worm of the Book
Although I have taken on endless amounts of reading, I’m attempting to re-read Anthropology of an American Girl. In short, I love this book. It is sharp and gleaming, like a blade. In your life, there are novels that grab at the core of your being and never let go. The ability of man (and by man, I mean man and woman) to keenly observe then articulate human experience is an invaluable gift. This passage, a favorite among many, makes my body and soul ache.
"Against the bedroom window is the Hudson river. It is shallow like a decal or a holiday transparency. I can't see past the glass, only in it. I see my arms and face, white from blue moonlight or blue from white moonlight. My arms look like dead arms, clipped to my shoulders by pins, dangling. I stare into indigo deadness as my image detaches from my silhouette, stepping away.
She touches her cheek. My arm remains hanging. She pivots, winding one-quarter around, though I am still. Her hands draw behind her back and rest airily on the rise beneath it, which is square, which is round, she is a girl. I know this girl, I think. She may be the one I'd once been. In my throat I taste the extract of her desire, in the slope of my waist to the billow of my hip I see the same petition for seduction. She is driven. I was driven.
I wish to speak, to say something. But things that are legible to the senses are often captive to language, such as the dizzying faraway feeling you get from the way daylight pools on the kitchen floor, mesmerizing you in the midst of sudden misfortune, making you think of the frailty of life--and the beauty. Or the shimmery persistence of a perfume that lingers in the air, filling you with longing when you pass through. Possibly it is the fragrance a teacher wore, or your mother. No words can describe what it means to lose someone you love, or tell you what it is to grieve.
And loneliness. I should say something of loneliness. The panic, the sweeping hysteria that comes not when you are without others, but when you are without yourself, adrift. I should describe the filthy province of mind, the blighted district inside, the place so crowded you cannot raise the lids of your eyes. Your shoulders are drawn and your head has fallen and your chest is bruised by the constant assault of your heart. No air, no air, nothing but your own sticky breath, panting wet and sticky. I want to convey the burden of despair, the ruin of compromise. Be brave, I should say, the way brave used to be--desperate to live and to love. I want her to prepare for the curse of perseverance. She may not know about resiliency. That she will last."
*“Music is the vernacular of the human soul.” -Geoffrey Latham
The Cure’s “Pictures of You” is a great song. For me, it incites feelings of being 15 and dealing with everything that accompanies that absurd period in life. It makes me feel wondferfully juvenile.
“I’ve been looking so long at these pictures of
you that I almost believe that they're real I’ve
been living so long with my pictures of you that
I almost believe that the pictures are all I can
feel
remembering you standing quiet in the rain as
I ran to your heart to be near and we kissed as
the sky fell in holding you close how I always
held close in your fear remembering you
running soft through the night you were bigger
and brighter and whiter than the snow and
screamed at the make-believe screamed at the
sky and you finally found all your courage to
let it all go
remembering you fallen into my arms crying
for the death of your heart you were stone
white so delicate lost in the cold you were
always so lost in the dark remembering you
how you used to be slow drowned you were
angels so much more than everything oh hold
for the last time then slip away quietly open
my eyes but I never see anything
if only I had thought of the right words I could
have held on to your heart if only I’d thought of
the right words I wouldn't be breaking apart all
my pictures of you
Looking So long at these pictures of you but I
never hold on to your heart looking so long for
the words to be true but always just breaking
apart my pictures of you
there was nothing in the world that I ever
wanted more than to feel you deep in my heart
there was nothing in the world that I ever
wanted more than to never feel the breaking
apart all my pictures of you” |
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| (no subject) |
[Oct. 18th, 2005|06:47 pm] |
*I am the Queen of Awkward, bow down to my social ineptitude
Lately my ever-present, but appropriately subdued goofiness has been getting a little out of hand. In the past week or so, I can point to several instances in which I ruined a perfectly normal conversation or telephone message with my verbal vomit. Anyone who knows me well, or no, even anyone who has happened to have a couple of conversations with me can testify to this quirky little attribute of mine. It really gets in the way sometimes. For the most part I can shake it off, but from time to time I do feel really inadequate. I guess I just have to accept that I will, from time to time, completely trip and fall over awkwardness. And that's ok. I think.
*Public transportation: The Great Equalizer
Living in San Francisco, I've come to realize the sheer human beauty of public transportation. It forces people of differing race, gender, economic class, and life experience to sit shoulder to shoulder on the red and black, plastic/metal chairs of the MUNI, or the musty, time-warped blue fabric seats of the BART. We are all equal there; connected in the brief time we sit together-invading each other’s guarded and sometimes ambivalent space. In fact, I was riding the muni when I decided that Socialism was for me. Looking at all these different people, I, for the first time envisioned and wrapped my mind around an existence in which we all live happily and equally. If anything, the people watching is phenomenal. I've always liked to sit and watch others. And that certainly comes from my grandfather. My fondest childhood memories are of summers spent in Israel with him, people watching. We would take pastries and iced coffee to the park and sit, and watch. He would point out a mother and her young son. The little boy runs away from the bench they occupied unexpectedly, while his mother's attention was briefly directed elsewhere. She soon noticed her son's absence and took off in a panic looking for him. Here, my grandfather speaks for the first time. He says, "Look, see her eyes? See how she rushes? She is scared for her son." I look, I see, I nod and continue to watch. She finds him minutes later hiding behind a tree. He's laughing, he thinks it's a game. From a distance we watch this all play out, like a movie. The mother is angry now, she starts to chastise her son for running off. The little boy starts to cry. And again, my grandfather interjects: "See Karen, he dosn't understand that leaving his mother was the wrong decision. And she yells at him because she was scared and worried about her son." Of course I know all of this, but he wants me to really see and understand how that interaction plays out, how human relationships express themselves. He points to facial expression, tone of voice, word choice. And we would go on for hours, just watching and analyzing. I now understand he wanted to instill the value of perceptiveness. He belabored the importance and usefulness of observation and detail at every opportunity. I loved those days. I felt like he was letting me in on monumental secrets and mysteries of life. Those summers were certainly fantastic and magical. And while he passed away years ago, I still long to sit in the park with him and watch the daily going-on's of others. So now when I ride the muni or bart, I just wallow in nostalgia thinking how he would love to sit next to me and whisper about the terse tone of the woman on her cell phone or the furtive brow belonging to the man with a briefcase. He and I are inextricably linked in that way.
+ Last week I saw the most beautiful man I've probably ever encountered on the muni. He trancsened normal personhood. He was human art. This otherworldly man had the darkest skin I have ever seen; the closest to ebony I think that skin pigment can ever come. His features were large and symmetrical, seemingly independent from his face when taken in indiviually. The contrast between the whites of his bulbous, slightly protruding eyes and the blackness of his skin was stunning behold. I wanted to touch his face and tell him he was beautful. But Katie correctly reminded me that, "that would totally freak him out." So in the spirit of not seeming like a "let me invade your physical space" psycho, I refrained. Although I do hope this man knows how magnificent he is.
*"All that you see or seem, is but a dream within a dream"-Edgar Allan Poe
I've been having really odd, thought provoking dreams lately. I'm freaked out by one recurring dream in particular, involving someone I know and interact with everyday. In my dream, he and I are at a party with all of our friends drinking, laughing, and having an all around great time. At some point I become ridiculously inebriated and must rest. So, I go into another room to presumably do this. The room is dark and empty, except for a warm glow beneath the door and the sheetless mattress in the middle, which I am now lying on. I start to drift off to sleep when someone enters the room. Although my back faces the door, I can tell it's him. He lies down beside me, positioning his body to fit and mold with mine. He rests his head on the back of my neck and whispers into my ear, "I love you. You are everything." I guess I really like hearing this because I turn around and kiss him. I feel comfortable and warm, and safe. It was all very vivid and realistic. And for the tiniest moment, I wake up and think it all really happened. But then I realize that none of it is true and I'm left thoroughly freaked out by the whole scenario. So now whenever I see this person, I feel slightly uncomfortable. Although it is ridiculous to be weirded out about something that never actually happened. I need to get over it.
*Poetical San Francisco
Today, I came across this poem about a man's devotion to San Francisco. I like it.
The Cool, Grey City of Love
(SAN FRANCISCO)
By GEORGE STERLING
Tho I die on a distant strand,
And they give me a grave in that land,
Yet carry me back to my own city!
Carry me back to her grace and pity!
For I think I could not rest
Afar from her mighty breast.
She is fairer than others are
Whom they sing the beauty of.
Her heart is a song and a star--
My cool, grey city of love.
Tho they tear the rose from her brow,
To her is ever my vow;
Ever to her I give my duty--
First in rapture and first in beauty,
Wayward, passionate, brave,
Glad of the life God gave.
The sea-winds are her kiss,
And the sea-gull is her dove.
Cleanly and strong she is--
My cool, grey city of love.
The winds of the Future wait
At the iron walls of her Gate,
And the western ocean breaks in thunder,
And the western stars go slowly under,
And her gaze is ever West
In the dream of her young unrest.
Her sea is a voice that calls,
And her star a voice above,
And her wind a voice on her walls--
My cool, grey city of love.
Tho they stay her feet at the dance,
In her is the far romance.
Under the rain of winter falling,
Vine and rose will await recalling.
Tho the dark be cold and blind,
Yet her sea-fog's touch is kind,
And her mightier caress
Is joy and the pain thereof;
And great is thy tenderness,
O cool, grey city of love! |
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[Oct. 6th, 2005|12:38 am] |
well...there you go
*San Francisco, how I love thee
I'm having an amazing time in this city and I'm finally beginning to feel like it's mine. We've got it all here in SF; the beautiful, the ugly, the intelligent...the utterly bizarre. Music festivals in Golden Gate Park, great Italian food in North Beach, cheap trinkets from China town, The United Nations Plaza in the Civic Center and on and on. It's so colorful here. The buildings are amazing...unlike the gated, psuedo-medditeranian mess of white, maze, beige and brown that makes up Calabasas. Although I must say I miss "The Pumpkin" from time to time. It's not the actual city that I long for, but the familiarity that accompanies growing up in one place. Knowing the ins and outs of the avenues, driving without thinking...walking into shops and recognizing the faces behind the counter. I would like to think that one day I'll have a complete handle on this city, but until then I'm having an amazing time getting lost.
*Political Lobotomy
I've thrown my entire heart, soul, and energy into activism and the anti-war movement. It's a funny thing to have something take hold of you in such a way that you can no longer qualify your existence without it. Even though I imagined myself to be on the forefront of liberal and progressive thought, I'm now realizing I lived in this snow-globed existence. I was the speckled snow flakes and tiny pieces of glitter that vigorously swirled around an encasement, but then settled. Then I moved to San Francisco. Not only have I been shaken up, but I've been shattered into infinitesimal, irreparable pieces. And it's the best thing that has ever happened to me. It's amazing how easy it is to get involved and make a difference when you find a place and people that support and encourage social change. Our standards are so disgustingly low. When did it become "radical" to unapologetically oppose sexism, racism, and homophobia? Why is it so outrageous to work towards a world without war? Growing up, we've been indoctrinated with and endless stream of bullshit that stratifies and polarizes that world's social problems, when really they are all interconnected and more importantly, realistically surmountable. Realizing all of this was (and still is from time to time) really depressing and overwhelming. Although for the most part I'm beyond excited to work for something meaningful and hopefully make some progress. There's still so much I have yet to understand, but that's ok too. I have a shit load of reading to do to say the least.
*Oh the lows I will sink to all in the name of activism
October 26th and 27th, San Francisco State University will host a Career Expo in which major employers come to the university to potentially recruit students. Usually among them is the US military. Last semester, the school drew media attention when around 200 students protested the military's' presence, forcing them to leave the fair early. It was an amazing victory, however the school unfairly sanctioned Students Against War (the organization I'm in) for some bullshit, bureaucratic technicality (bringing a bull horn into the student center to be exact), and now we're on probation. But everyone is aware that their real motives were to crush free speech and student activism . Obviously, they did not, and will not succeed. So as I'm sure you can imagine, the school is very hesitant to release the information about possible military presence at this years event. In order to plan an organized and successful protest, the specifics as to what branches of the military might be there and on which date is imperative to procure. And with no one willing to give any straight answers, I decided to use a little innocent trickery to get the information we so desperately needed. So, I looked up the the Career Expo's Coordinator, a Mr. Alan Fisk. I would visit him during his office hours, and unbeknownst to him, bait the information out of him. I concocted the following scenerio-I'm the young, unfocused freshmen in search of a career path. I heard about the the career fair and decided to look for more information online. While I'm very interested in the event, I was disappointed to discover that the specifics as to who would be there on the 26th and 27th were not mentioned. I would tell Alan that I felt it important to come talk to him, as I would like to tailor my focus, make it a meaningful and productive experience by walking into the expo with some sort of idea as to who and what I should be looking for. I would appeal to his sense of guidance. I approached his office prepared to confront "the enemy". To my surprise, not only was he unnervingly nice, but the man had no arms. Not that it should of made a difference, but I felt really awful about blatantly deceiving a man who has clearly been dealt a shitty lot in life. Nevertheless, I proceeded with my original plan. I could imediately tell that he was excited to see me. It was obvious that no one really makes use of his office hours and I was giving him to opportunity to actually do his job. At first I let him blather on about career aptitude tests, feigning interest and enthusiasm only because he was...because he was limbically challenged. But I had to quit wasting his and my time and get to the point. So I did my little song and dance, carefully choosing my words in hopes that he would take the bait. Thankfully, Mr. Fisk, "Career Counselor" countered with the perfect question. "Well, what are your interests?" I reply, "well, while I don't have a lot of money, I would really like to somehow incorporate travel and public service into a career." He didn't get it at first and went on to talk about study abroad programs and volunteer work. If I was going to get what I wanted I would have to be a little more specific without seeming suspicious, which meant I would have to completely lie through my teeth. So I improvised and went for it. Me: "Well, the reason I love the idea of travel so much is because my dad was in the airforce, he traveled the world. My father is my role-model and I guess I want to emulate him in some way...make him proud." Obviously, my father was never in the airforce, but I said what I had to. Here it comes...Alan Fisk: "Hmmm, the airforce wont be there, however the Marine Corps will be recruiting the second day of the fair." SCORE! The magic words. I smiled, thanked him for his advice and guidance, and left his office. Basically, I am a shameless liar. Although I continue to maintain that it was all in the name of activism and counter-recruitment work. I guess we shall see If I'm in store for some sort of Karmic smack-down for lying to this unsuspecting, genuinely nice man.
*two completely unrelated but equally important topics: orange soda and sex
I feel like I should be concerned about how much I've been thinking about sex. It's odd yet interesting that while I re-evaluate my stance on many social and political issues, I inevitably think about sex, sexuality and relationships. I've surrouned myself with some amazingly intelligent people who incidentally have some pretty interesting views about let's say...monogomy. Specifically the assertion that you can have a deep and meaningful relationship with someone without promising yourself to them sexually. Now while I can't say I totally agree with this, it does get me thinking. Suddenly people that, by most standards, would considered to be off limits are suddenly...maybe...not? I don't even know if it makes sense. But now I feel like I'm lusting after everyone, which makes me feel ridiculous. All of the sudden these seemingly concrete, yet completely contrived social rules are up for debate. I have yet to sort out my feelings about this. But, I'm working on it.
Oh... the orange soda part..
I am indeed a fan of orange soda. I've always liked it, and growing up you would always find a six pack of slice or cactus cooler (it's pineapple-orange, but still) in my pantry. While the the Dining Center's cuisine qualifies on several levels as disgusting, I was secretly excited to discover they served orange soda in addition to the run-of-the-mill (weird saying, especially when typed) fountain drinks. While I obviously like orange soda, I found myself opting for the more popular and common beverage choices, such as coke or lemonade. Then the other day I realized it, Orange Soda is for some reason an embarassing drink. I don't why, but whenver I drink orange soda in public, I'm afraid that I'm being judged. I geuss I've somehow associated it with being a kid, which I geuss I in turn link to imaturity. Is that it? Do I think people will view me as imature? Well, I've come to the conclusion it's ridiculous to be self-concious about soda. How can I ever call myself a confident woman if I'm insecure about my love of the great and refreshing taste of slice, or the once popular Cactus Cooler. Although I would suggest that the makers of Cactus Cooler re-think their can design as it is quite goofy. Thus, I've resolved to, from now on, enjoy oragne soda without shame.
Love you, Miss you,
Karen |
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| college |
[Aug. 18th, 2005|01:27 am] |
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...and so it begins... |
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| Burn |
[Aug. 3rd, 2005|01:51 am] |
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Shit, I get burned the ONE day I go to the beach after holding out all summer. I look like a splotchy goof. Goofy, sun-burned Karen. |
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| (no subject) |
[Jul. 29th, 2005|01:28 am] |
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Tomorrow I have to endure another trip to Bed, Bath, and fucking Beyond. I really thought shopping for college would be fun and exciting, but now I'm finding it to be annoying and tiresome. Walking into that store, 20 % off coupon in hand, I have to make all these decisions about shit I'd rather not care about. And just hearing my mother ask me questions like, "Honey, what color shower caddy do you prefer?," makes me want to tare my hair out or break something. I leave in exactly 3 weeks and I hate having bed sheets and shower sandals on my mind. |
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| (no subject) |
[Jul. 24th, 2005|10:49 pm] |
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I think I would like to write a book one day, even if it's shitty...which is very possible, if not likely. |
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