"Every burned book or house enlightens the world; every suppressed or expunged word reverberates through the earth from side to side."

The hands of my soul heed my thoughts and manipulate their extraction, making the writing process so painfully slow. The delay intensifies the result. So, take care until we meet again in my next set of words. My pen awaits thee, eager to create and destroy.

Photo credit: Robert Moses Joyce, Title quote: Ralph Waldo Emerson

Thoughts of a Moment

1. "Hipsters" spend a lot of money. To be one you have to like coffee because it's part of the code. But you can't just like any coffee; you have to like the expensive kind and/or subscribe to the "hip" ways of making it (i.e. French Presses only). Additionally, you must own a retro manual camera (the kind where you advance the film yourself) and carry around porcelain mugs because you're too hip for to-go mugs or wasteful cardboard cups. You spend more money on clothing because it looks dated, and then you have to pretend that you bought it at Goodwill so that it's accepted as "cool" and "thrifty." The hipster lifestyle is just the epitome of natural--the "grassroots approach" toward living, if you will. Being "natural" is just so expensive.

2. I can't stand obvious people with obvious taste. This is not to be confused with something that is commonly liked. It's okay to like something that a lot of people like, and rather silly not to like it because a lot of people like it. For example, a lot of people like Dave Matthews Band. It's okay to like Dave Matthews Band despite the fact that a lot of people like them. It's only annoying when someone's musical taste can be fit into a perfectly predictable square, a paradigm that can be derived based on the fact that he/she likes pussy cats, for example. Okay, so I'm officially horrible at articulating this point. But seriously, I can only recall one person in my head that I know despises DMB. Though, he's probably a hipster, and his opinion is likely branded on the bottom of an eco-friendly coffee cup whose proceeds benefit some orphanage in Guatemala. And no, I'm not judging him for it...outwardly, anyway.

3. People that only read the bestsellers is actually a better example than the previous Dave Matthews Band explanation. Like, don't you have your own interests? I have realized that I always ask for book recommendations and rarely follow them. People just don't know what I like; they just don't get me. I'm going to go off in a dark corner and brood but then think about how cool I really am. Woe is me. Woe is me. Woe is me. (Dramatic blog entries make me puke in rainbows, but I'm serious about only reading the bestsellers. Like, get a perspective).

4. Good thing Jews don't believe in hell. Hell, some don't even believe in God. A dissolute religion? No expectations? Remember: 613 commandments, only one day of atonement, and NO Christmas. The Chosen Ones- no recruitment necessary.

5. Too much pleasure lessens the measure of its intensity. If it means a lot, keep it infrequent. Also related to this idea: delayed gratification. It's actually much more gratifying.

Hey Jeff

I'm developing a text message relationship with my father. It's new, and I think he's still trying to get the hang of it. It's not that he doesn't know how to text message; he's plenty adept at talking to people and making his voice heard. It's quite cute though, he signs the bottom of each text message "Dad," as if each little vignette is a mini letter, or as if I didn't know it was him sending me the message. I know it's you, Dad! And this is me, your daughter, saying, "I heard you the first time."

I don't think he knows about my blog, so he's not reading this. If he is by chance reading this (highly unlikely, but whatevs, I have to cover my bases), hi Dad--fancy seeing you here! Did you catch how I mentioned you in my last post? I know, wild right?! I totally fell asleep drooling on the couch a-la-Jeff Waldman, except I wasn't watching the Phillies, I wasn't swearing at Kobe, and I wasn't in the middle of my nightly re-reading of this month's issue of Classic Trains. Oh, and I wasn't snoring either (thankfully I didn't inherit your air-puff exhale technique, so I'm still marriageable).

Although, I did inherit your legs. They serve me well, help me with sports, etc. But every time I eat a batch of cookies, I feel like I'm throwing out a big middle finger to your thighs. Thanks a LOT, Dad. But don't take it personally.

My patriotism construed via a once-jailed neo-soul/r&b star

I think this song is now mainly used for eighth grade graduation/promotion ceremonies. I remember when the video came out around 9/11. Still a nice song. Happy Fourth!

Make sure to take a special look at R. Kelly's dance-like head jiving during 4:37-4:40.

Truly a Day in the Life of Loca

Okay, so I'm going to attempt a normal blog post--the kind that I once wrote more frequently before I ran out of things to say. Beware, scarce reader, this post may be (and most likely already is) exceptionally boring. Here's what Thursday, June 30, 2011 looked like in the life of Loca.

1. This morning as the new light gently grazed a sleeping night sky and peeked through the windows above my bed, I woke up to a calm, but restful peace.

That's both cheesy and a lie. I really woke up when my Cairn Terrier, Prudence, shoved her snout into my bedroom door (for some reason it has difficulty latching), burst inside my room like the Kool-Aid Pitcher, and launched herself onto my bed for a nap. She conveniently positioned her ass across from my face and was quite pleased with herself. Ugh, every time I breathed it smelled like dog. Actually, it smelled like fish because for some reason Prudence smells like fish. Thankfully she's getting a bath tomorrow. As for the one section of my bed comforter that she slept on this morning (read: that she sleeps on every morning), I'll have to Febreeze it.

2. I made coffee and ate peanut butter cookies for breakfast. If peanut butter cookies are available to me in the morning, it's customary that I eat them.

3. I wrote a terrible poem. Didn't bother titling it. See below post.

4. Ate a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Crunchy peanut butter. Enough said.

5. Answered the door for the UPS guy who was delivering the booze that my parents ordered from the wineries we visited while in Sonoma. The UPS guy who appeared to be in his 20s as well took one glance at my In-N-Out T-shirt and scruffy pajama shorts and glasses and asked, "Are your parents home?"

Me: No. [picks up pen to sign his little portable screen without him really offering it]

UPS Guy: Are you 21? [I have finished signing by this point.]

Me: I'm 22.

UPS Guy: Are you? [Believes me but is surprised] I just have to ask because the person that signs has to be 21.

Me: [Looks up at him] I know, but don't worry. My parents have been wine club members since I was twelve, and I've gotten away with signing for the booze since I was fifteen. Have a great day!

6. I went for a run. It was 85 degrees and sunny. I am getting into shape again so today's run was honestly enjoyable the entire way. I typically run alone with the soundtrack of my iPod. Though when it gets tough for me (in other words, when I'm gasping for what I feel will be my last breath on Earth), I try to distract myself beyond the music by pretending that one of my friends is running next to me while timing me and encouraging me to keep going. Sometimes, I just imagine that we are running together to catch up on life and I visualize myself talking with them where both of us are immersed in this great conversation we're having. It may sound crazy, but having my friends run with me (in my head) has helped me run through some brutally cold winters and awfully sticky summers. I mean, it's always fun to spend time with friends, right? Who knows, maybe you, scarce reader, have even accompanied me on a run before! But today you didn't because I didn't need you. I didn't need anyone. I wasn't gasping for my last breath on Earth; instead, I felt like I was just on a nice jaunt through nature. Though, I bet I'll be seeing you tomorrow.

6. I went to the post office to mail a wedding response card. I, one guest, "happily accepted." It took me awhile to fill out the card and write a lonely "1" in the blank. It's an out of town wedding so it's expected that I wouldn't bring a guest, but I couldn't help thinking about how I will be a single entity boarding Noah's Ark. I am 22 years old and the world is already in pairs. I wrote on the response card, "I have no guest, please sit me by interesting people."

7. I walked stinky girl, Prudence. She didn't poop. I'm sure my parents will have a nice present waiting for them tomorrow morning.

8. I Watched Project Runway.

9. I drank some sparkling Pinot Noir and ate Sour Patch Watermelon as an appetizer for my pizza dinner.

10. I watched The Mentalist with my parents and fell asleep in front of the TV like a 50-almost-60-something Jeff Waldman would do. I swear it's an inherited trait. Damn it.

11. I'm typing this blog post on my laptop while lying in bed because I couldn't stare at that emo poem at the top of the page for much longer.

Note: I love numbering things. I do it when I get lazy and don't feel like working in transitions. I feel like numbering my essays in college would have saved me a lot of time too. Alas, another lesson learned too late.

Proof that rhyme schemes beget emo poetry follows.

They say,

“With time everything heals.”
But although the years are wise,
Pain is not a creature that yields.

No, inside you he lies
in states either dormant or activated,
and during hibernation
he waited to be resuscitated by
new situations that emulated
old punctures and bruises
that once abraded your soul.
Though ephemeral they seemed at the time
within you pain has wrought his permanent hole.

Everything seemed fine,
but hurt is never truly abated.
It is only faded
into the background
of a vestigial vacuum
expanding, though still unfound,
until it rises again
as a phantom that impales you from within,
and you feel your old cosmic friend,
Pain,
here with his syringe.

“Be gone, I say,”
you recite in the words of a toddler at play.
And there you lay
temporarily protected by sleep
and your own naïveté.

Though, as you awaken the next day
there he creeps
and bores his boorish presence,
contributing to the internal fray
that withers your essence
as he makes his place to stay.

And you thought the hurt was gone?
Foolish—
it was only at bay,
and disappeared it had not.
It was there.
It is still here.
It always was.
You just forgot.

A Very Self-Indulgent Post

This post has been in the making for awhile now, at least in my head. It's a conglomeration of iPhone photos which seem to be my preferred medium lately, ha.

Jellybeans

Something great just happened: I opened my second desk drawer and found the tube of jellybeans I stashed away two days ago. I fear that I will enjoy this profound pleasure only once, as I'll likely finish the remainder of the tube while scribbling down my latest musings into my puke green journal. There will then be nothing left for me to rediscover. Even if I hid the jellybeans from myself again, I would likely remember where I put them this time.

It's almost as though that tube of jellybeans, or better yet, the eye-dilating and mouthwatering response that I conjured while rediscovering them has already converted into a memory. Perhaps you experience this same feeling when you see your crush (Ew, sorry for the use of the oversexed Cosmo word, "crush"). And depending upon your carnivorous propensities, or perhaps, hornyness, you just want to keep staring and building up what is to come or even what it might be by visually consuming the refracted light and natural shapes presented in front of you until it is just a reality, broken down and digested. Don't consume without tasting. Eat your jellybeans and have them too.

Don't convert reality into memories too quickly. Even when you think something is too good to stay, prematurely truncating the actual experience into a memory makes it seem less real. I have yet to even consume the rest of the jellybeans, and I already miss them.

P.S. Don't judge me by the color of my journal. It's not the color of my thoughts.

The End of an Era

Sitting in my one-bedroom apartment
bright in all its whiteness,
the burgeoning summer sun bursts
through the windows in slats of victory
and the worldly photos on the walls
gaze at me and revitalize
the past year of my life,
an experience that now
all seems a dream—
a totally distant,
wildly unreal,
entirely unforgettable
dream.

Tracking back to
four years ago,
I was a drowsy
and disheveled
girl making an ending
for the sake of starting
a new beginning.

Though,
even in the midst
of the picturesque finales
and sunny futures
that I created for myself,
my past was
a ubiquitous entity—

He had my secrets,
and taunted me with them
in the third person
like an auctioneer trying
to sell a story,
my story,
for someone else’s
consumption—

“Fifteen dollars for the tale about how J spread herself thin…”

“GOING ONCE…”

“…she cried in the privacy of her apartment on her couch…”

“GOING TWICE…”

“when pushing a brick to clear the rubble of her self-deprecating thoughts, she realized she had waited for nine month to hear back a simple, noncommittal ‘maybe’…”

“And SOLD to the gentleman wearing the blood-red necktie!”

The past’s presence
in my mind had me
mulling over trivialities
and morphing them
into monstrosities
to the point where
everything was just

insanity.

Yet,
the avaricious past,
despite its bilious color,
is brilliant—
cunning,
in fact.

His mockery,
or my perception of it,
taught me
to lavish in
obscurity,
look for the light,
and propel
myself
forward
further

into the dark night—
Blackbird fly.

Right now
in this moment,
I am finishing
the end of yet another era,
not just to put a cap on it
and call it caput,
but to close it ever so gracefully
with the clean click of a lock
as the door slides shut
on an epoch lived
not for mere survival
but with artistic vision.

Blackbird fly—
I see myself
in three months time,
I am on the brink
of a fresh school year,
untouched and untainted
but positioned in the posterior of success.
Blackbird flies into the light of this dark black night.

Removing my head from the clouds
and putting pencil back to paper,
I am going in for the kill.

The cutting past
has me welcoming
the darkness.

I am the Blackbird
singing in the dead of night

who has just been waiting
for this moment
to arise.

There's no way I can stop writing, it's a form of insanity.

Yesterday I had myself a little adventure and went to the Barnes & Noble (this sentence is to be read in a hick voice). I tried reading the first page of Room, a novel told from the perspective of a five-year-old, but could not move past the infantile voice. Never before had I considered myself a kid-hater, but blithely bypassing the insightful narrative of a kindergartner perhaps confirms it. Perhaps. Still, I hear Room is worth reading, and I'd honestly like to give the fictional kid protagonist a chance to wow me with his world view, but I just finished Bukowski's Women. And, after reading a novel laden with pus, crude words signifying genitalia, and (stupid) women, I need a break from the poet laureate of sour alleys and racetracks; I need a break from the atypical. I want some white froth in my life, and I want it to come in a normal voice without sexual innuendos. I have never craved normalcy.

Title quote from Henry Chinaski, protagonist of Women and Charles Bukowski's alter-ego.

You can’t wait for inspiration. You have to go after it with a club.

I've realized something. The longer I go without writing, the harder it is for me to put pen to paper again, to recognize opportunities when they present themselves to me (that is, recognizing when I can exploit a given situation into writing), to open up my blog and type something in here that I feel is "worth posting." There's a difference between a piece of writing being "worth posting" and "worthy." Most of the stuff that ends up in my virtual niche I feel is "worth posting," but whether or not it's "worthy" the jury has yet to determine.

As I'm typing this entry I'm hating it. I feel like I have nothing much to say. Simultaneously, I realize that that's ridiculous. I think writer's block is a farce, and I haven't been writing simply because I haven't been trying. Art (and I'm not saying that my writing is art, but a degree in creative writing is a fine arts degree, so there) is in the pursuit. Hence, Jack London's quote is the title for this bumbling entry. My apologies for its rather pontifical manner. Actually, no apologies for this entry; that's lame.

A Place for Poetry?

Law school doesn't seem like a place for poetry. And, it doesn't seem very "beautiful" either. This reminds me of one time when some chick told me, "Jackie, remind me never to let myself do anything that's not beautiful." Of course, I cast her request aside as another one of those preachy new age declarations about "balance" and "inner peace." Maybe that's why I'm going to law school. Also, ugly things tend to make rather nice poetry, ironic as it may seem.

So really, the reason to do hard things in life is for the story they produce. That's the reason that lots of people do hard things, anyway. I don't frequently orally verbalize my "hard things" stories to people. Though, I do write them down, as they are memories worth recording and keeping.

Oh, to be oneself amidst the throes of "originality"...

AAS 120

My friends Paul, Hayley, and Allison from my Intro to Asian American Pop Culture class all collaborated during lecture today to draw me this. It's really quite special--so many different pictures. I could just keep staring at it for hours which will serve me well come next lecture. Fifty minutes never seems so long. Thank goodness for iPhones (for satiating writing addictions and notating the professor's bombastic phrasing) and artsy friends.

RT #8: Things I could do instead of going to law school

1. State Department or CIA. Wow them with my awesome Spanish skills and promise to learn Arabic for them too. Also promise them that I can become a lawyer if and only if they pay for my education.

2. Flee to New York City and work at an unpaid internship for a publishing company while commuting from New Jersey and working nights at a strip club, er, restaurant.

3. Open a chewing gum museum in Singapore.

Notes on this Note

- I had to start numbering my "random thoughts" in my iPhone (they are now dated as well). Every time I edit them the phone changes the date of the note. Annoying! Thus, another method of cataloging them was necessary.

- I still want to go to law school. However, the chewing gum museum sounds mighty appealing. It would be a special place in Singapore for all those dissident gum-chewers whose oral fixations are simply unsanctioned. Also, I think the bank would really love this idea, maybe even more than the idea of me going to law school, as it would most likely cost less.

Ethereal Grit

RT: "Ethereal grit" was a phrase I used in class today to describe a poem. Who the hell do I think I am anyway?

And yes, iPhone, when I type the word "hell," I mean it. So you can stop auto-correcting it to "he'll." Sad to say, but I really am that gauche.

J'ai une question pour toi.

Is it better to be really good at one thing and not-so-good at another or to just be mediocre in both areas?

When obligatory nostalgia suddenly becomes voluntary...

RT: Five weeks until graduation, really? Today was a sunny day signaling spring's steady approach and appropriately marking the very beginning of the end.

I got an email today from the Chancellor about taking a "senior survey" so that the University could make improvements on its undergraduate programs. The end of the email made me super nostalgic:

I sincerely hope your years at the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign have been happy and productive. I am certain that you will find they have provided you with a solid foundation upon which to build a career in business, education, government, and anything else you attempt. Enjoy your final weeks on campus, and please stay in touch with us after graduation.

The finality of it all is daunting. U of I has been my coach and confidant for the last four years, and now it's time to proceed to the next level. It's like attending college was this yearly game I played where I scored points in the form of letter grades, and "real life" wouldn't even enter the picture until round five.

I'm ready for round five. I guess I just didn't think it would arrive so soon, unexpectedly, on a sunny day during the onset of spring.

iPhone Notes

I love the "Notes" feature on iPhone.

I find myself writing down all my tonterías in it. Tonterías, in this case, are those thoughts that you don't deem worthy of paper (because they're really just that stupid or because you don't want a physical record of them), but that, for some reason, you can't seem to let float away from your brain. This is how the "Notes" feature on my iPhone serves me. So thank you, Apple makers, for fostering my writing addiction and thereby contributing to my (in)sanity.

Like I've said, my iPhone notes are not Shakespeare quality, especially since the best ones are usually crafted on four hours of sleep and a pot of coffee whilst I'm suffering from a migraine during my ridiculous Asian American Pop Culture class. Though, every now and then I stumble on a strand of truth, a piece of writing that when I look at again later, I don't hate. Isn't it crazy when that happens?

Here's one of them. (RT stands for "random thought." I label my notes that way for my own reference, you know, since there simply wouldn't be any other way to differentiate the whimsical musings of my consciousness from the mundane constituents of a mid-week grocery list: cereal, beer, water [iff: on sale] )

RT: Cooking always makes me feel better, even when I don't want to do it. Simple tasks like boiling noodles and adding garlic, and onion, and tomato--it's just a nice thing that I can do for myself.

And now I sound like one of those blog writers that lives on the Internet (you know, the ones that have virtual puppies shitting out virtual poop and whose "housework" entails organizing their "closets" of photographs by date and time.) It's hard to always be documenting your life so that you can showcase it on the Internet. It's like a disease: "User 'fairyboots' suffers from 'commodifaction of existence.' " Articulating it this way makes it so unappealing, right? It's like living life with the purpose of finding material for a blog. Eh, no thanks. Though I suppose that if a blog is what gives you inspiration, maybe it's okay. We all need something like that. Still, viewing life through a camera lens seems to prevent one from really living it.

Today I Studied...

...a lot.

But seriously! I even drew that mustache while I was still in the library. I just decided to wait until I got home to take the photo.

Saturday Night Candle Lounging

Typical.

New Year's Eve

My New Year's Eve silliness is on record compliments of Alena's camera, suavely handled by the lovely Laura Jane who is laughing in the background.

This face is embarrassing. Luckily, I'm not cool enough (this is unfortunate) for it to matter really.

A rather dreary post with some scintillating flecks of interest

My creative writing class met today for the first time in about a week and half. Our instructor had cancelled three of our classes because her father fell ill to pneumonia, and he died on Monday night. Apparently, the funeral is planned for Thursday back in Indiana where her family lives, but our instructor told us that she needed to be back in class today to keep things moving forward. Needless to say, we had a somber class, and one of the student poems that we read was serendipitously about what that student had done the night before his mother's funeral eleven months beforehand. Weird connection there, right?

Anyway, our instructor told us about how her whole family was gathered around her father's bed, singing to him as he died. There are so many people that die alone it seems; at least her dad was surrounded by everyone he loved telling him that it was okay to go. I looked around the classroom and so many of us were discreetly blinking back tears as we listened and watched our instructor weep throughout. This probably would seem unprofessional to a lot of people, the fact that she told us about this personal issue in class, but it was okay. In fact, it was endearing to see someone's vulnerability and be able to be there for the person, even if it was just listening in silent group form, to what she had to say. No one really said anything back, we just stared uncomfortably with glassy eyes.

On another note...

I had to write ten "vivid" memories for the class. I wrote the whole thing in various sittings because it was hard for me to recall memories that I felt were actually worth description. And then some of them, as you'll probably see, really aren't worth describing at all. Oh well, there are plenty of books in the world that really should have never been written either, so it all evens out in the end, right? We just have to remember that bad art comes from the heart too!

All my memories are "real" as in they are not fabricated, but it's safe to assume that some are more real than others. I mean, I wouldn't actually want to see all my memories sans my mind's creative embellishment. Anywho, here are a few of them...

one

I tutored English to seven-year-old brats in Barcelona and one girl asked me in Catalan,
“Hola, Jackie. Una cosa… Podem jugar fora?”
“No, we can’t play outside. It’s too cold,” I responded in English.
“Pero la Gisela m’ha dit que si!” She argued back.
“Gisela told you that you could play outside? Really?”
“Bueno, segurament ens va dir que si…”
“So, you haven’t really asked her yet, have you?”

I swear; kids are the same in every country.

two

“Jackie, what are you thinking about right now?”
“I’m just looking at your eyes.”
“And what do you see in them?”
I cannot tell a lie. I cannot tell a lie. I cannot tell a lie. I cannot tell a lie. I cannot tell a lie.
Nothing. At all.
“I don’t know.” I lied.

three

In preschool I told my friend Teresa that if she came over to swim, she could “have” my swimsuit. By using the word “have” I meant “borrow,” not that it would have mattered to me because I hated the swimsuit I had promised to lend her anyway. I went home that day and told my mom that I “gave” Teresa the swimsuit. Really, I meant that I “would lend” her it. Furious, my mom scoured the house for the stupid suit, me crying the entire time. When she found it, she forcefully corrected me, “Teresa does not have the swimsuit! It’s right here!” I looked down in confusion. Did I not tell her that I “gave” the swimsuit to Teresa? She just did not understand.

four

I am never consciously hungry when I run. Though, when I was seventeen I recall embarking on a pithy two-mile run where I felt ravenous the entire time. With each step I took, it was as though the hunger pangs ascended a notch higher into my throat where they uncomfortably jostled within. I felt like my body was eating itself. Only a mile into what was intended to be an easy run, I was overwhelmed with fatigue. The effort it required for me to move my 88-pound body matched the effort one would exert when pushing a brick using only the pinky finger. I stopped running, collapsed onto the trail, and cried. For the first time I saw that my “discipline” was debilitating.

five

In the botanical gardens behind the University of Barcelona, a 40-year-old creeper sat down next to me, introducing himself as Josep. He complimented my hair, feigned interest in the book I was reading, and requested my number. At first I invented a number but then had to give him my real one when he tried calling my phone on the spot. I made an excuse to leave, and as is Spanish custom, Josep leaned in to give me an air kiss on each cheek. Though, when I saw his fat dry smackers going in for the kill I hastily turned my head to right. He ended up with a mouthful of my hair and, still not giving up, continued to call me for three months afterward.

At a loss for an interesting title, so this will have to suffice.

Also: Fairytale and Sheila Ki Jawani (she's too sexy for you).

Thanks Emma ;)

Flowers and other natural shit that's synthetically managed

1 Girona, Spain 2 Arid Los Angeles during the summer. 3 Zaragoza, Spain 4 Backyard garden rails 5 Nemo has cloned himself dozens of times and is being held captive in an aquarium in San Sebastian 6 Girona, Spain

The naïveté of a rising first grader

You have a boy’s name.

I don’t need to ask you if I’ve ever told you that

because I know you know I know.

And you thought it too.

You used to complain about it to me when we were seven,

telling me that you wished your parents had named you

Alexandra, as they had originally planned.

You bitched about it

all the way up until we were maybe fourteen

when you started playing guitar,

stopped showering,

(not totally, but seriously)

started hating the world,

and, for once…

loving yourself.

That was when you decided it was okay

to be a chick with a guy’s name.

Maybe it was even cool.

For the official record,

and by official, I mean in my opinion:

Of course it was cool.

Anyway, your boy name,

back in the day,

led me to think that you were,

in fact, a boy.

No, you didn’t look like one.

Not in the least.

But, you were a new student

starting summer school

the year before we both entered the first grade,

and you were absent the first two days of class.

Nobody knew who the hell you were,

so excuse my six-year-old naïveté

for assuming that the empty desk beside me

belonged to a grimy boy that ate his boogers for fun

and saved the remaining snot for glue.

I knew too many of this type,

and, quite frankly, had had enough of them.

As far as I was concerned,

you were some boy I didn’t want to know,

and just like that,

I flippantly wrote you off.

Imagine my astonishment

when you finally decided

to show up for the third day of class

with a summer scarf tied around your neck

to match the flowered dress

that was undoubtedly a sample garment from

your Dad’s clothing company.

Your mom had curled your hair

for your first day

and as Mrs. Phillips

introduced you to us,

“Everyone, this is Taylor.

She is a new student,”

you smiled meekly.

I stared at you.

Oh my gosh, it exists.

And, it’s a girl.

I was beside myself.

Nonetheless, you sat beside me.

**Disclaimer: Any suggestions that the above may make toward fact should be considered largely coincidental. I may or may not have a friend named Taylor. However, for her own protection, whether fictionalized or real, I am writing this disclaimer. Please also consider poetic license, errr, more plainly stated in a French accent, "zeh bending of zeh truze."

Turn Off the Lights

I somehow always choose the best ones when I turn off all the lights and pick blindly. I wonder if the world is trying to tell me something...

...or maybe I'm just reading too much into it.

It wouldn't be the first time.

I’ve never seen what my brain looked like on crack

I can only guess what it looks like on poetry.

If crocodiles mated with white cockatoos

and then vomited their offspring

in a fresh glaze of sulfuric slime

that writhed on the floor

gasping for air as a means of grappling

with its newfound reality here on Earth—

That’s how I imagine my brain on poetry.

A distorted mass of neurons,

all reactions,

that tries to cope with

the inevitable realities that the written word

prescribes—

even when the word lies.

For what is written as falsehood

may shed some light

on what is known as fact

and escaping reality

may be just as trying

as facing it.

My precious little bundle of wriggling neurons

is now thoughtless—

hopeless, in fact.

So dear friends,

it looks like I have a crack problem.

En serio, a veces no puedo dejar de pensar de qué coñazo es la vida.

Being Reflective. It's the New Year, right?

With my step father, DK as I call him, being a surgeon, I hear medical stories all the time. In fact, some of the cases he performs end up becoming our dinner table conversation. Here are some examples for your orientation.

"So today I did a radical prostatectomy on a prisoner who was airlifted to the hospital..."

"Today I removed fishing wire from the penis of an 11 -year-old."

"William is now and will be forevermore known as one-ball Billy."

My mom and I have heard so many stories over the years that one would think by now we would be somewhat desensitized to the medical terminology and able to overlook the realities that such an inflated vocabulary might entail... But, this is not the case of course.

These past few days have been kind of sad. The medical stories I have been hearing have not been about the routine blasting of kidney stones or the normal prodding of the bladder. They have been more serious and more personal. For instance, the husband of DK's nurse had a stroke on Christmas Eve and has been in the hospital since. Then, today he had a second stroke rendering him blind. DK said his nurse looks thin and ravaged...with reason.

A little bit later this evening, DK got a call from the O.R. telling him that one of his patients, who they thought was on the road to recovery, was experiencing unstoppable internal bleeding. DK's phone call with the hospital was as follows:

"Oh my God. What? We sent him into recovery after having checked that he was dry of blood."

DK then hung up the phone and stared at the wall, "Shit."

It's so unnerving to hear these things. You're probably thinking, "Well duh, Jackie." But really, the life of a surgeon is not necessarily what you might see in an episode of E.R. That is, there are more patients that survive than die, and the atmosphere of the operating room is not frantic. The doctors, nurses, and techs KNOW what they're doing. They listen to Dave Matthews and cut away at body organs, carrying out what is for them a completely routine operation. So, when you witness how the routine suddenly morphs into something atypical and you see the alarmed eyes of a trained physician as he swears under his breath, it can be quite unsettling.

Aside from the events at the hospital, I logged onto Facebook a few hours ago to find out that one of the professors I had in Barcelona died on Jan. 5, 2011. We all find out from time to time that someone we knew has died. Maybe we knew them well and maybe we didn't. I can't say that I knew Professor Cardona very well on a personal level, but I have nice memories of him, his wife, and his 10am Spanish Contemporary History class. After seeing that he died, I found myself a bit teary-eyed. He was so nice! I remember talking with him after class one day and telling him that I had planned a trip to Paris for Christmas. He then grabbed out of my hands the graded essay exam that I had written for his class and found a blank spot on the paper where he began scribbling down his favorite places in Paris. In the midst of doing so, Professor Cardona paused and looked up at me, insisting that I make friends with a French boy for all of 5 minutes (anymore time than that was simply unnecessary) so that we could take a romantic picture together overlooking the Siene River. He handed me back the paper and said, "Ya verás, París es increíble."

Professor Cardona was also the first and only professor in my entire college career to give me a B. It irritated me at the time to think that one B+ would tarnish my perfect record of A's. I remember talking to him about it afterward--not about the grade, but about my essays. My overall grade didn't change, and I was of course disgruntled about the inevitable drop in my GPA, but I knew that my professor really cared about whether I actually understood what he was trying to convey. That made it okay for me. It's certainly valuable when you find that rare professor who is more interested in talking with you instead of over you.

Anyway, as I was mentally considering the sad news I had heard about DK's nurse's husband, DK's patient, and the recent death of my professor, I began to think about how Facebook, despite being a representational facade of what goes on in real life, is still (at least loosely) based upon what is going on in actual time. Maybe we should deem Facebook to be a work of fiction that is "based on a true story" because really, you shouldn't believe everything you see on Facebook!

Maybe Professor Cardona really isn't dead...

But even so, questioning the verisimilitude of Facebook entirely would be admitting that at least part of what it has to offer us is truth. It's a paradox similar to the one that Hemingway states in A Moveable Feast, "If the reader prefers, this book may be regarded as fiction. But there is always the chance that such a book of fiction may throw some light on what has been written as fact." Remembering this quote, I stared blankly at my Facebook mini-feed mentally sorting through my sad news and all these random thoughts, "Weird that such sad events have occurred so sequentially... how much of the truth is actually captured through Facebook? " Then, my Facebook news-feed automatically refreshed itself to show a new update...

One of my high school teachers just gave birth to a baby girl.

Look! I'm alive!

Hello reader! How art thou?

Long time no post. It's been a solid four months since I've posted anything at all. I don't like to think that I've neglected my beloved blog, and you probably thought Loca's Thang was a thang of the past, no? I can't blame you.

Though these past four months have been quite eventful, I can't say they've been particularly interesting. But hey, stuff has happened, and the new year has arrived. Hello 2011! Sorry I'm five days late in greeting you. Then again, I could be four months late or in complete denial that you've arrived at all. I must mention the fact that I have a nifty birthday this year. I'll be 22 on 1/11/11! And 11(2) = 22. Two twos is double eleven. Wow, see how well I can add?! I got an A in the math course I took this past semester. I think this darn well proves that it was a much deserved grade.

Hmm, I have so much I could say right now that I really don't know what I should say. I'll just make a list of random events/frivolities/photos that have emerged into being within the last four months.

1. Okay, now what?

2. I'll do this later.

Maybe I'll post again in a few minutes when inspiration dawns on me.