Yesterday night was fantastic.
I'm so transfixed by movies. I love them. So it's no wonder that I anxiously count down the days in February until the fateful awards ceremony of red carpets and golden statuettes. I follow it religiously.
I'd write more about it but I can't seem to muster the words. No description seems to fit the moment very well. There's just this culmination of white teeth, sweaty palms, glamour, talent and nostalgia all crammed into one theater. Simply watching it through the television leaves me dazzled. The amount of people crammed into that one theater never fails to amaze me. The artists, the musicians, the cameramen, the technicians, the writers, the actors---
All storytellers.
A profession that has lasted for centuries on end.
There's this generic idea of the movies involving popcorn, coca-cola, couples making out in the back of the theater and mothers having to constantly step outside to calm their screaming infants.
A waste of time and money. Especially now with movie tickets going for almost $9 a pop.
But popcorn is the last thing on my mind when I think of movies. And sometimes, money is back there too.
Because honestly, people pay good money to get a high on whatever. It doesn't even have to be illegal. But the point is that people are easily addicted to that strange sensation that they can't really explain and want to feel it over and over and over again in the hopes of being able to properly analyze it and know what it is.
People go broke trying to re-create these feelings and experiences when in reality all you need is the movie basement in the library.
How else can you conjure spinal shivers that come with a Shakespearean monologue?
The visual spectacles leaving your jaw weak and your eyelids peeled to the edge of their sockets?
The euphoria of an orchestra?
How can you substitute the madness,
the melancholy,
the ecstasy?
This emotional cacophony can be found through the silver screen.
Each little theatrical jewel is a portal to these potent emotions that we harbor somewhere deep in our brains and our hearts. It feels fantastic to have the work of someone else take your mind and soul and distort it, color it, turn it inside out, break it, and put it back together again.
I'd fix this, and I'd write more but I don't want to.
I can never finish thoughts. But that's all right, I guess.
Monday, February 27, 2012
Sunday, February 26, 2012
47.1
French cuisine:
Elegantly minimalist.
Exiguous yet satisfactory.
And each bite takes a minimum of 3 minutes to be properly enjoyed.
I want to write with the quality of French cuisine.
Elegantly minimalist.
Exiguous yet satisfactory.
And each bite takes a minimum of 3 minutes to be properly enjoyed.
I want to write with the quality of French cuisine.
47.0
I won't talk about the weather today even though it's one of my favorite things to talk about. Nope, the weather isn't a small talk topic for me. I like the weather because of the colors that come with it. I really like colors. Ever since reading The Book Thief I've been paying more and more attention to colors and the fact that everything in the world ever has a little palette of its own. It all makes me feel so synesthetic.
I've added considerable amounts of Chopin and Debussy to my life's soundtrack (Which, mind you, usually consists of nothing more than periodic shrieks and reprimands followed by the soft hum of a computer or fridge. And hugs. Lots of hugs). Talented people always give me goosebumps. It's kind of ridiculous. It's like an allergic reaction but not really.
Don't you love irrelevant analogies? I do.
I've added considerable amounts of Chopin and Debussy to my life's soundtrack (Which, mind you, usually consists of nothing more than periodic shrieks and reprimands followed by the soft hum of a computer or fridge. And hugs. Lots of hugs). Talented people always give me goosebumps. It's kind of ridiculous. It's like an allergic reaction but not really.
Don't you love irrelevant analogies? I do.
Saturday, February 25, 2012
46.0
scene: Granny's*.
I never had too big of a reason to be excited whenever we went to my granny's place. Which makes sense seeing as it's a downstairs apartment a little smaller than the main floor of my house (which is quite small itself).
Mom says we go there to enjoy each other's company.
Otherwise known as slouching on my grandparent's floral couches watching whatever it is the rabbit-ears of the TV happen to pick up.
Sometimes we sneak into the kitchen for an animal cracker or a glass of juice.
Sometimes I sit on their stoop and do my homework.
Most times I fall asleep.
I drove us there today. And my mom didn't freak out until my parking job which is considerable improvement.
We came in and each distributed our quota of hugs and kisses to my grandparents and my uncle and proceeded to take our spots on her couches.
The evening plateaued there.
While I watched Cosmo Kramer (the only one WORTH watching on Seinfeld), my granny ranted about her feet to my mom and my grandpa was... Well, I don't know what my grandpa was doing. However, it's highly likely that he was sitting in his corner of the living room the whole time.I just can never tell if he's sleeping or not. Even magnified behind his huge glass lenses his eyes are lost behind saggy eyelids. A token of his age and wear. He'd occasionally ask what we were watching and what Jerry and his gang were saying, but other than that he migrated from the kitchen back to his chair again.
My uncle took up all of the long couch. His feet were propped up on the opposite armrest. His activity was limited to sporadic guffaws at the glowing screen. One time he was feeling really energetic and managed to crack a couple of dirty jokes at a mattress commercial.
They weren't as funny as his commentary on PBS kids programs.
But that's my granny's house. Everything revolves around the TV there. I don't know what we'd do without it.
We might stop visiting them altogether.
Or we'd probably pick someone else's house to crash on Fridays.
*I was always curious about the fact that even though men are the ones associated with ownership and whatnot I would never think to refer to these places as "Grandpa's" or "dad and mom's." ... Just a thought.
I never had too big of a reason to be excited whenever we went to my granny's place. Which makes sense seeing as it's a downstairs apartment a little smaller than the main floor of my house (which is quite small itself).
Mom says we go there to enjoy each other's company.
Otherwise known as slouching on my grandparent's floral couches watching whatever it is the rabbit-ears of the TV happen to pick up.
Sometimes we sneak into the kitchen for an animal cracker or a glass of juice.
Sometimes I sit on their stoop and do my homework.
Most times I fall asleep.
I drove us there today. And my mom didn't freak out until my parking job which is considerable improvement.
We came in and each distributed our quota of hugs and kisses to my grandparents and my uncle and proceeded to take our spots on her couches.
The evening plateaued there.
While I watched Cosmo Kramer (the only one WORTH watching on Seinfeld), my granny ranted about her feet to my mom and my grandpa was... Well, I don't know what my grandpa was doing. However, it's highly likely that he was sitting in his corner of the living room the whole time.I just can never tell if he's sleeping or not. Even magnified behind his huge glass lenses his eyes are lost behind saggy eyelids. A token of his age and wear. He'd occasionally ask what we were watching and what Jerry and his gang were saying, but other than that he migrated from the kitchen back to his chair again.
My uncle took up all of the long couch. His feet were propped up on the opposite armrest. His activity was limited to sporadic guffaws at the glowing screen. One time he was feeling really energetic and managed to crack a couple of dirty jokes at a mattress commercial.
They weren't as funny as his commentary on PBS kids programs.
But that's my granny's house. Everything revolves around the TV there. I don't know what we'd do without it.
We might stop visiting them altogether.
Or we'd probably pick someone else's house to crash on Fridays.
*I was always curious about the fact that even though men are the ones associated with ownership and whatnot I would never think to refer to these places as "Grandpa's" or "dad and mom's." ... Just a thought.
Tuesday, February 21, 2012
45.0
Night time is nice. Early morning is nice too.
Mainly because it's the only time when sitting alone watching traffic doesn't seem idle at all. In fact, I think it should be encouraged. Not just watch traffic but watch anything. I recently walked up to my old neighborhood (literally 2 minutes away from my current dwelling location) and sat on the faded mural of wildflowers painted by the Orem Junior High class of 1990. It's on a reasonable hill, so I got a good view of the lake. It's quite nice when the sky is a perfect blend of peach and slate-blue. It was nicely accompanied by my mint-lemongrass tea in my owl mug.
Now that I think of it, that was a strange morning.
I woke up strangely early, and instead of eating my fridge or continuing my "Arrested Development" phase, I made myself a mug of tea, grabbed a coat and my bag and headed out. I had a strange feeling that something was going to happen. Maybe someone would be at my doorstep. Maybe I'd get a spontaneous visit from a friend. But I headed out and nothing happened. No one was there. The road was empty and the houses were quiet except for the soft murmur of furnaces.
It was a bit of a disappointment to my subconscious desire of being swept away by a phantom friend. Oh well. You get used to those disappointments after a while.
The sun hadn't fully risen by the time I was finished lake-watching either.
I woke up very early.
Mainly because it's the only time when sitting alone watching traffic doesn't seem idle at all. In fact, I think it should be encouraged. Not just watch traffic but watch anything. I recently walked up to my old neighborhood (literally 2 minutes away from my current dwelling location) and sat on the faded mural of wildflowers painted by the Orem Junior High class of 1990. It's on a reasonable hill, so I got a good view of the lake. It's quite nice when the sky is a perfect blend of peach and slate-blue. It was nicely accompanied by my mint-lemongrass tea in my owl mug.
Now that I think of it, that was a strange morning.
I woke up strangely early, and instead of eating my fridge or continuing my "Arrested Development" phase, I made myself a mug of tea, grabbed a coat and my bag and headed out. I had a strange feeling that something was going to happen. Maybe someone would be at my doorstep. Maybe I'd get a spontaneous visit from a friend. But I headed out and nothing happened. No one was there. The road was empty and the houses were quiet except for the soft murmur of furnaces.
It was a bit of a disappointment to my subconscious desire of being swept away by a phantom friend. Oh well. You get used to those disappointments after a while.
The sun hadn't fully risen by the time I was finished lake-watching either.
I woke up very early.
Monday, February 20, 2012
44.0
After a crepe lunch accompanied with congenial conversation I found myself being transported from town to town and plaza to plaza on a teenage whim. To the beat of Senegalese rap and profane cackles emitting from the passenger seat, I spent the whole day in movement. Constantly looking out the window to the blurring "suburb-scape" or perpetually walking around the perimeter of any and every hole in the wall that made so much as a blip on our radar.
We spoke too loudly.
We ignored the admonishing signs (laminated or not) and came into contact with as many breakables as we could.
We saw Steinbeck for $1.50.
The whites of my eyes almost leaked from the sockets.
My hands were matte with household dust collected from the old woolen sweaters placed on musty racks.
Sometimes we didn't speak too much.
But it was fine. We let the veteran couches do the talking for us. Having them imply their biographies to us through their stained threading.
When we were finished the clouds had eaten the sun. Once home I got my things through the door only to put on my sneakers and head out again about half a mile up the road to an overlooked haven.
I fell in love just a little bit.
Walking home with 12 rich and warm ounces coating my stomach, we talked about a variety of things using the same 3 or 4 words over and over again. It gets our point across, however reprehensible our method may be.
And now I'm here.
Trying to record this rare pleasantry I've experienced in the past 10 or 11 hours. I'm not very good at recording anything. I even suck at taking photographs. But something is better than nothing.
We spoke too loudly.
We ignored the admonishing signs (laminated or not) and came into contact with as many breakables as we could.
We saw Steinbeck for $1.50.
The whites of my eyes almost leaked from the sockets.
My hands were matte with household dust collected from the old woolen sweaters placed on musty racks.
Sometimes we didn't speak too much.
But it was fine. We let the veteran couches do the talking for us. Having them imply their biographies to us through their stained threading.
When we were finished the clouds had eaten the sun. Once home I got my things through the door only to put on my sneakers and head out again about half a mile up the road to an overlooked haven.
I fell in love just a little bit.
Walking home with 12 rich and warm ounces coating my stomach, we talked about a variety of things using the same 3 or 4 words over and over again. It gets our point across, however reprehensible our method may be.
And now I'm here.
Trying to record this rare pleasantry I've experienced in the past 10 or 11 hours. I'm not very good at recording anything. I even suck at taking photographs. But something is better than nothing.
Thursday, February 16, 2012
43.0
Why am I thinking so much?
I really don't have to, you know. I really don't.
So why do I?
It's times like these when I wish I wouldn't care. I wish I could be satisfied with mediocrity. But alas, I can't. I'm cursed. I can never do anything because I'm so wary and selective.
I envy people who have the power to be rid of a burden with a shrug of their shoulders. I envy people who carry themselves with all the security and assurance in the world. I envy those who have that "the devil may care" disposition.
I wish I had that.
But I don't.
I guess I better get back to work, huh?
I really don't have to, you know. I really don't.
So why do I?
It's times like these when I wish I wouldn't care. I wish I could be satisfied with mediocrity. But alas, I can't. I'm cursed. I can never do anything because I'm so wary and selective.
I envy people who have the power to be rid of a burden with a shrug of their shoulders. I envy people who carry themselves with all the security and assurance in the world. I envy those who have that "the devil may care" disposition.
I wish I had that.
But I don't.
I guess I better get back to work, huh?
Monday, February 13, 2012
42.0
I got my first real F today.
It felt strange.
For a minute I felt my face flare crimson with shame. I felt my eyes, irritated by the red marks, well up with tears. I didn't dare open my mouth. I wasn't sure of what would come out.
Yeah, that's right.
For a minute I was in 4th grade again.
But nervous chuckles mitigate some of the tension. And soon, I didn't have to look at the dreadful stains of graphite anymore.
And then I remembered:
I've grown up in the past 6 years.
I have too much dignity to cry over the agricultural revolution.
It felt strange.
For a minute I felt my face flare crimson with shame. I felt my eyes, irritated by the red marks, well up with tears. I didn't dare open my mouth. I wasn't sure of what would come out.
Yeah, that's right.
For a minute I was in 4th grade again.
But nervous chuckles mitigate some of the tension. And soon, I didn't have to look at the dreadful stains of graphite anymore.
And then I remembered:
I've grown up in the past 6 years.
I have too much dignity to cry over the agricultural revolution.
41.0
I just realized that I'm not good at this.
Or that I'm tired of it.
Either way, I'm going to stop writing the way that I have been.
It nauseates me and summons migraines.
I care too much. What's wrong with me?
Can't I just wear blue and black on my palms and be fine with it?
I know I used to.
I used to be funny, too.
God, I'm turning into my father.
Well this is ironic. Quite theatrical as well.
But don't get me wrong. I don't part-time as a closet diva contrary to popular belief. And by popular belief I'm referring to the judgement of my multiple moods upon each other.
Yeah, I can be a mess. But don't worry, I save it for my desk.
I guess this is where things get real and much closer to the actual level of eloquence I'm lucky enough to scrounge up.
Well, there you have it.
Take me or leave me!
Or that I'm tired of it.
Either way, I'm going to stop writing the way that I have been.
It nauseates me and summons migraines.
I care too much. What's wrong with me?
Can't I just wear blue and black on my palms and be fine with it?
I know I used to.
I used to be funny, too.
God, I'm turning into my father.
Well this is ironic. Quite theatrical as well.
But don't get me wrong. I don't part-time as a closet diva contrary to popular belief. And by popular belief I'm referring to the judgement of my multiple moods upon each other.
Yeah, I can be a mess. But don't worry, I save it for my desk.
I guess this is where things get real and much closer to the actual level of eloquence I'm lucky enough to scrounge up.
Well, there you have it.
Take me or leave me!
Friday, February 10, 2012
40.0
I am ruined.
By the Kleenex,
The sight of an LED screen.
By the coffee I poured in my mug
And spilled into the sky,
While my eyelids disappeared.
Quick to be kindled by
Streams of electric consciousness,
I am wanton to shut
Down my world-in-a-box.
For as soon as I do,
I’m left anhedonic.
Ineffably idle
In the presence of
An astronomical to-do list
Stuck to my fridge by
a lonely lighthouse magnet
old as the expired yogurt inside
Bought by the incorrigible soul
I thought I left behind.
By the Kleenex,
The sight of an LED screen.
By the coffee I poured in my mug
And spilled into the sky,
While my eyelids disappeared.
Quick to be kindled by
Streams of electric consciousness,
I am wanton to shut
Down my world-in-a-box.
For as soon as I do,
I’m left anhedonic.
Ineffably idle
In the presence of
An astronomical to-do list
Stuck to my fridge by
a lonely lighthouse magnet
old as the expired yogurt inside
Bought by the incorrigible soul
I thought I left behind.
Wednesday, February 8, 2012
39.0
Hibiscus juice
and Tamarind paste
slices of ginger
saffron colored lace
and the trails of dirt
specked with beer glass
and aluminum
Sunk into the ground
by bare feet
and sandals.
Amidst the chime of the vendors,
the unintelligible haggles,
the hands patting dough
for the dormant stoves
men in visors and sunglasses
women in khaki Bermudas.
Tourist pastels
mingle with coppers and golds,
with the fragrance
the flavor
the rhythm
the heat.
A motley market
in the late afternoon.
and Tamarind paste
slices of ginger
saffron colored lace
and the trails of dirt
specked with beer glass
and aluminum
Sunk into the ground
by bare feet
and sandals.
Amidst the chime of the vendors,
the unintelligible haggles,
the hands patting dough
for the dormant stoves
men in visors and sunglasses
women in khaki Bermudas.
Tourist pastels
mingle with coppers and golds,
with the fragrance
the flavor
the rhythm
the heat.
A motley market
in the late afternoon.
Wednesday, February 1, 2012
38.0
My granny's pretty great.
She always smells like baby lotion and clean linens. Her speech is made of cloves that are coated in honey. And though her eyes may be too fatigued to read the small print of a contract, they never fail to read the subtle marks of expression on my grandfather's heavily marked face.
Though the trigger to her tears is sensitive, her sadness never suffers a drought. And I think it's safe to say that her heart is bulging out from her rib cage.
She always smells like baby lotion and clean linens. Her speech is made of cloves that are coated in honey. And though her eyes may be too fatigued to read the small print of a contract, they never fail to read the subtle marks of expression on my grandfather's heavily marked face.
Though the trigger to her tears is sensitive, her sadness never suffers a drought. And I think it's safe to say that her heart is bulging out from her rib cage.
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