"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.