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I am living in Shin lyrics. This year so far has been the oddest mess of surprisingly messy, yet handleable tragedies, and it's not even may.
So far I have been kicked out, fired, dumped, blackmailed, ignored, and slandered, all while being homeless, losing my best friend, and waiting on baited breath for the financial aid that councilors frantically pushed me to the head of the line for once hearing my full story.
well it finally came, I got a new job and was apartment hunting when I break my foot. forcing me to drop all save one of my classes, move back in with my parents, and possibly quit my new job, albeit temporarily.
Oddly enough, thinking this all over once again, I've felt no different. All of this is just like the rest, no frustration, no fear, just near numbness. There was a brief moment of exhaustion when blackmailed, almost losing my new job before I started it, but other than that, I feel normal,
like this isn't damaging.
I feel inhuman. I shattered my foot and didn't shed a tear. That is much more worrying than anything else.
All Photography by Faith Martin of Real People Photography
Topshop vest, Ray Ban Aviators, Vintage shorts, United Arrows Jacket, American Apparel acid wash shirt, Frye boots, Don't Be A Hero Jewelry
Faith's Clothing by Urban Outfitters
I've been working on a few things, all massively distracting and keeping me away from the epic bloggers out there. But I'm about to free up a bit (well, in some ways) and hopefully I'll be able to return more regularly than once a month
An exerpt:
Seeing that, watching the first thing go right, all my adrenaline drained. I felt like there should have been a visible shadow of energy next to me, like if I could look quickly enough, I'd see it maliciously escaping. I could feel it leave me, like reaching that point was enough reason for my body to give out now that something, anything was secure. Could almost hear it say "we've got to pass out now, nothing else matters. You've reached the minimum and that's all I need to give out, don't really care what you think about it. I'll take any reason to let this go." Try and fight that. Try and reason with Exhaustion and tell it, "but I'm not finished yet." See how far you get.
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?
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.
You Might Find Yourself
Not a fun last couple of weeks, most of which has felt like what this guy must feel like, jumping off a building with the assurance that something is there to catch you.
I live up in the mountains near Tahoe and I've got the best seat in the house, Sierras lit up any time of day just to my left, but peace comes hard in the middle of an impossible availability I can't conquer. so instead I look left to see bright white snow while sweating in 90 degree weather and hope I can soon hear myself think.
no that's not a metaphor.
I'm just in between everything at the moment, peace and storm, free and trapped, and it's hard to concentrate on even the most precious things when that becomes life. I love this fashion I love this art I love this medium, but at the moment I feel like I'm neglecting it by being stuck.
But hopefully things will pick up eventually and maybe I'll stop feeling like the personification of a Langston Hughes poem, waiting hoping for the explosion, but for now, I'm just going to apologize for being a bad blogger and ask you all to bare with me for a little while longer. Please understand, I'll be back as soon as I can.
But I am a third generation Californian and maybe that's why I love the Grapevine with this breath-intake kind of love. It's somewhat unreal unless you know this state well, a mix of these norms with its outlying suburbs and then the distinctly imperfect with crags and seasons. Ridges can be barren save for these tiny insignificant green starbursts that may be able to bite, and then lushly dead with our namesake gold which seems stroke-able like a favored pet. Then there are the movie days. The perfection that no one expected to find so close to Los Angeles, an otherworldly vision of clouds greenhills wildflowers. How could such normal beauty exist in a manufactured Mecca of the False?
There certainly is that evolution gripping and tearing my home into this merchandise-centered filth that I'm beginning to not recognize, but I don’t see how this differs from you. Juicy Tracksuits may have started in Beverly Hills, but they’ll end on your street corner, maybe to be revived by another generation, thrifting for inspiration. Know that discounting whatever you think we are will in distance discount your own misconceptions.
Rail the fear of wind rain and that particular scent of a shook earth, but then I invite you to live a charred home simply because the Santa Anas decided to do what they do best that day. Fear that instead, pride intact.
