"this is what love is for, to be out of place, gorgeous and alone, face to face"

I sent this photo to Le Love a while back, but seeing it again this morning going through the much neglected blog roll, and I now feel it's hardly romantic. instead, it's exactly the opposite.

talking to a friend the other day and I realized that so many of us are like these two, blind but tangible, hardly paying attention to what is real but instead so focused on trying to feel the other, calculating our moves. so few actually have the courage to stand up and be real.

in postmodernism the other day, we discussed porn and it's influence. and not just the hard core action that generally comes to mind when mentioned, but any kind of two-demensional substitute for emotional and physical relationships. from Deep Throat down to Pride and Prejudice, it seems like no one wants to take the harder path to actually experience these things for ourselves, so we further our 2d worlds in literature, films, online, and lessen the natural interaction it's all based upon. become in turn more and more calculated in life, seeing the smooth examples in media that always work out towards these epicly constructed endings, becoming then less honest and more like the flat conterparts we've created.

I'm as guilty as any, it's in my nature to hold back, be the ultimate diplomat in hopes to get everything right. can't imagine that this helps anything. but then again that's all I know, so how could I not imagine that the opposite is the solution. everyone has that image of turning a corner that produces the epic scene they've been waiting for, but how real is that idea even.

honesty is seen to be so steady, but in reality I believe it's the most volatile, just because we are. no Truth, but many dynamic truths. the majority of life is that imagined poetic journey to find whatever it is we're looking for, so we live confused thinking that there's a corner to turn a little way down, just one more tank of gas, one more blind date, when we shouldn't be expecting those dramatic film-worthy endings we've been trained to want.

I want to see somebody give me natural hope, not the kind that wraps us up in choruses and perfect lighting, but real. tangible. guided by the beauty we see everyday rather than the manufactured promises from everywhere else. can we find that balance?

"too young to fall asleep, too cynical to speak"

but sleep and speak I did.

upstairs with the gentlemen, too much ketchup, talk of manly Calvin Klein model-looking guys riding small bikes, walked under concrete bridges, hit on by drunk 50-year-old ponytailed men, witnessed amp first aid attempts, posed on the couch, laugh imitation, lighters as bottle openers, feathered fedoras + polyester art, blurred accidental photographic people hybrids, spied on loiterers from loitering above, is it white cheddar or junkyard?, men wearing women's jeans, resentfully too-full trash cans, contributed to communal art, and pranks involving mics at attention to someone how went to sleep far too early.

must blog more. must have money to have time to blog. which makes money. shit.

speaking of which, does anyone have and adsense tips for me? I'm trying to specialize these babies so that they are relevant. pissed me off so hard when they popped up political views --some that I can't even begin to understand why people actually believe in-- last november right before the election. forchissake.

so any adsense help would be lovely. I'd really love to be able to feed my starving student self without being an advertisment whore for things I don't believe in. is that too much to ask?

"and I've heard the sound from my cousin's bed, the hiss of the train at the railway head, always the summers are slipping away"

these hills are still golden to match the weather, but I once again have further responsibilities instead of the air-conditioned lumbering eunni that occupies me when available to not be so responsible-- forgetting the taste of the freeingly-oppressive heat outside and what it makes you want.

the intro lecture to Postmodernist Fiction tonight has promised me and my similarly lit-obsessed friend jaime mental amounts of mind-blowing literary analysis complete with equal amounts Pynchon and Simpsons. she and I obviously think more alike than assumed, as we met in our last lit and registered for this without knowing the other did. plus, we were the only people who openly laughed at his jokes about IKEA and the suburbs.

postmodernist thoughts back to the car and even the suggestion of hinting at discussing Fight Club a few lectures from now and i already feel ashamed of my cluttered life. Luckily, not about the latest score.

epicly, in what I remember to be an unstoppable slow-motion, I ruined my old powerbook g4 last november, making it now a desktop that cannot be unplugged which is upset with you --angry fans heard across a room with the tv going-- if you do much more than look at it. working and summer classes mostly prevented me from spending money with distraction in the first place, but that 16-year-old willpower to save lunch money rather than eat did finish the needed non-spending to afford the new macbook I nearly hyperventilated over last wednesday, just as the foodless lunch periods did the powerbook back in high-school.

so my cluttered life, though needed desperate decluttering in the eyes of its owner, seems to only grow with to-do's and files to sort with these intentions to purge and grunge. only sections of life seem like me.

like the moccasined student, unwashed/thrifted shorts chains cardigan and large thermal sweatshirt over skin that's numbing in 70 degrees of summer night, can't get to the car fast enough straight out of Chemistry attempting an understandable image of unrobbable confidence despite being frozen, but helped by the beaten tan leather messenger bag, practical ponytail half that now falls to pieces, and small laptop inside it's older sister's too large case, depicting her idea of her that maybe others consider too.

I understand that. I see me there. cluttered with practicality and art-- my too requirements.

"and yes, she's a system and the plan, so devising. let's go!"

finally got some summer in there. Kirsten (I Can't Make You Love Me) and I ran around like fools the other day. She stole my shorts. I drank her iced passion tea. We traded shoes we already own in mismatched sizes when the correct sizes were back at home in each others' closest. no damage done to k's converse, but my sandals are now a little too big.

finally got my camera remote in the mail, so actual regular blogging will now actually, er, happen. about time, right?

"Res ipsa loquitur. Let the good times roll. " -Hunter S. Tompson

terribly impractical for my triple digit summers here with the patent leather and thick scarf. in fact, the necklace and rings would even be too stuffy, not to mention the makeup

trying desperately to find some Thompson-esque summer activities, but so far just inconveniently scheduled classes and work hours, dead car batteries, and crumbling copies of Gravity's Rainbow or any other literary convention breaker I've tried to read lately.

must. become. more. exciting.

anyone got a Harley and bottle of Jack Daniels they want to loan me?

"in the sun, in the sun I feel as one"

summer, when I am actually experiencing it and not classes or work, makes me feel like a little kid again, running around and doing anything to keep my energy from building and reaching those inhuman heights so many kids specialize in, especially when coped up in a fine restaurant.

the above is my dream bike which I can imagine myself wearing in properly with years of childish exploits only justified by the epicness that is this bike. the whole world my sun roof and every person in it a new challenge to race, new reason to keep going at top gear.

just I wont crash it into the deep end pool like my best-friend's brother jimmy (jimmers) did. jessi and I laughed for a while, then my dad had to go fish it out.

also, I want a skateboard again. and a half pipe. or a cul-de-sac.

outfit only mildly unrelated.