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Monday, May 10, 2004

the beginning:
strong, broken, unobviously so

the end;
fragile, complete, obviously so
sabato style

a character:
as fragile but unobviously so

the ending:
fragile, but obviously so

some people say that jazz and blues are the only american art forms.

the endless stream of self-criticism. those imaginative, delusional assumptions based sometimes on only the most fragile of occurences. a slight remark, an uncomfortable grimace, a hesitation.

"did he mean something by that?"
he meant that i was fat, didn't he.

"is he trying to say something?"


the magnification of all these, the twisting and turning and strecthing - the warping of reality fueled by something weird.

writing, literature as embodying these weird awkward phenomenon negative capturing the inner voice, harnessing it, dominating it, exposing it, writing about, exorcising it in the process.

courageously seeing it, relflecting it, and showing it off, all the time remaining u

there is no denying doubt and fear and self-criticism. there never will be, because they will always be there.
hotbed of commercialism that provides endless motivation

but like pablo rivera said to frida kahlo, "a true artist doesn't paint for money, he paints because he can't live without painting."

Wednesday, May 5, 2004

the ancient yogis said that the mind represents the future, the body the past, and the breath the present.


i sat in grainger tonight thinking about the six papers and two finals all due within the next 38 hours,  leaning back on my chair and feeling the soreness of legs that run miles and swim laps. then i remembered what the ancient yogis said and started to breathe.  


according to the yogis, remaining carefully aware of the breath, existing in the present moment, connects the mind and the body with the breath- neutralizing worries about the future and clearing away painful ruminations over the past.


 


 

Monday, May 3, 2004

chocoholism

the $1.25 king size peanut M&Ms got stuck in the vending machine right before work today.


tragedy.


the machine itself was quite wobbly, and after a few seconds of semi-furious pounding and swaying i was almost convinced i could eventually weasel my candy free. it cost one dollar and twenty five cents.


a few minutes later and still no luck, i resorted to pushing and pulling the machine in a softer, more rhythmic fashion in an attempt to deflect any attention-grabbing distractions brought about from the hopeless travail to free my sugary confections from their unjust enslavement.  i laughed a little.


a teaching assistant found me in my conundrum "what if you try this?" she said with a thick german accent while pretending a swift kicking motion against my boxy, formidable foe. i smiled a little and laughed some more.


so i went back home, (it's only five minutes away) fifteen minutes late for work now, for more change ($1.25). on the way back down the stairs i heard a dull clink, then nothing as a dime slipped through my fingers and dropped into the green oblivion of the scruffy, patchy lawn outside the building. walking back upstairs to the apartment, i told myself this was all going make the M&Ms taste so much better.


later at work i was voraciously wolfing them down (emotionally, really) while distributing the packages, letters, flyers, applications, junk-mail, academic journals, and magazines sent to the foreign language building.












Cover


this month's harvard magazine is running a cover story on the obesity epidemic in america. about how we eat too much junk food and live bloated, sedentary lifestyles. i gobbled M&Ms three at a time while contently leafing through page after page of the article.


 

Saturday, May 1, 2004

queen amygdala

Everyday Italian


chef giada de laurentiis really looks like natalie portman. today on her show on the food network she made lightly fried calamari and later sat around a table drinking italian beer with a bunch of guys at the end of the show.  


                      


can't wait to see nat's new movie, garden state coming out july 30th. i remember sitting at the computer screen seven years ago, 14 years old and ritualistically clicking through my stash of nat jpgs.


                       

Thursday, April 29, 2004

ever wonder where to go to get the news?


adbusters has the "real guide to the media landscape."

Wednesday, April 28, 2004

on meditation

from an articleon yoga journal about meditation:

"The analogy of baking is sometimes used to describe this process. First you combine the dry ingredients—flour, sugar, salt, baking soda, etc.—then you stir in the water or milk. The addition of the liquid binds the dry ingredients together. Once they are mixed, the dry and wet ingredients form a dough. Then it is just a matter of baking with the proper amount of heat before you have a loaf of bread.

In meditation the silence slowly mixes your various feelings, moods, and contradictory beliefs into a soft, pliable sense of presence, and the hours on the cushion produce the heat which generates insight. From this combination of conditions, there slowly emerges a person grounded in wholeness and understanding. It takes time for this heating process to work, but it doesn't matter if your mind is restless and constantly wandering, or your body is in pain, or you are filled with doubt; all these reactions are just fuel for your work on the cushion."

Tuesday, April 27, 2004

today in group dialogue class we were instructed to write controversial topics on small index cards. they were to be collected and randomly re-distributed throughout the class of nine students. thus they were to be read out individually in the hopes of spawning discussion, or even better, a dialogue within the class.

there were index cards on affirmative action, abortion and catholicism, and the political and linguistic global hegemony of the united states, among others.after about an hour and twenty minutes we seemed to have discussed most of the topics listed on the cards and the facilitator of the dialogue even asked if anybody holding a card didn't get to read it.

silent acquiescence followed within the chairs arranged in a circular fashion, and we moved on to another activity, assuming that all the cards had been read- except for mine, which read "male insecurity."

Sunday, April 25, 2004

lpa cookout

a placid lake reflected the newly leaved trees on the opposite bank. i passed the dutchie to the right-hand side, to ryan. we burned trees while hey-zeus the grill-master flamed hot dogs, hamburgers, and chicken. 


from city-data.com:


Races in Lake of the Woods, IL:




  • White Non-Hispanic (96.9%)
  • Black (0.8%)


  • Hispanic (0.8%)

the latino psychology association had a cook-out at lake in the woods in rantoul. we ate and drank and puffed and volleyballed. we made a 4-3-2 person pyramid. we had piggy-back races and four person high piggy-back statues. somehow the football landed in the water.


with a population of 3,026 in lake in the woods, il, the 12 of us latinos helped to increase our representative percentage to 1.1% of the total population there, if only for 4 hours.


across the bank, only seventy yards away were families and more green grass on downward sloping banks. they sat on lawn chairs, they fished in the water.


polite conversations around the bench of food. ricky's spinach salad with mardarin orange and strawberries. very sweet, very california. great, breezy weather. to me the sunset-bathed clouds looked like a giant upside-down pink muffiin, ivette said it was more like a mushroom from super mario bros.


 

ghettomusick

hip hop or rap, drum and bass, house- these sites all provide a steady, free high-quality feed and are ad, spyware, trojan horse, virus, spam-mail, pop-up, and bullshit-free.


smoothbeats.com. b-sides, live cuts of new, old hip-hop and rap artists. lots of old school hits. smooth, urban earfare.


bassdrive.com. solid-core dnb good for head-throbbing. many bpms. stimulating, straight-ahead grooves splashed with dashes of euro. mechanical.


netmusique.com. "smooth and downstylish house and tempo." also includes an urban jazzy feed. live djs continuously provide a steady, well-mixed stream of deep, soulful, and fresh crispy house.


put these on and practice those new dance moves in the privacy of your own bedroom before going out and embarrassing yourself on the floor.

Thursday, April 22, 2004

at the gym, fleshing out an acronym

IMPE:


 plugging into my emotional outlet

even men with erectile dysfunction are subject to cultural stereotypes

thinking about viagra?


 from viagra.com:


"Some men feel embarrassed about calling to make an appointment to talk about ED. This is because they don’t want to have to share their condition with the staff of their doctor’s office. But here’s a tip: Just call your doctor’s office and ask for a routine physical checkup. Then, when you’re there, you can bring up ED with your doctor."


 Here are a few more things you can do to help start the conversation with your doctor:


"Have you heard about the VIAGRA sports sponsorships, such as Major League Baseball, or Mark Martin’s Racing Team?"


"Have you seen the VIAGRA commercial with Major League Baseball Star Rafael Palmeiro?"


"Have you seen the VIAGRA commercial with Winston Cup Driver Mark Martin?"


 

Wednesday, April 21, 2004

the job outlook brightens for the class of '04, says an article on CNN Money:


ninja gaiden

ninja gaiden originally debuted as a two-player beat-'em-up in the arcades in 1988, then a year later on the nintendo entertainment system.


watching my roommate play it last night after he brought it home reminded me of being seven years old- playing ninja gaiden (or ikari warriors or excitebike or contra) being a ninja turtle and eating pizza.


remember atari lynx?



gamespot gave this remake a stellar review, at a time when the xbox can use as many stellar games as it can get. part of an underwhelming minority, i still believe that the xbox, and microsoft, has strong potential in an arena that generates enough cash to rival the movie industry.  


then:



 


now:


Ninja Gaidenscreenshot

 

blender magazine came up with a list of the fiftiest worst songs ever.  








Starship


"we built this city" by jefferson starship ranks in at number 1.


lol.

Tuesday, April 20, 2004

the draftsman, painter, etcher ... hustla

last weekend visited the art institute of chicago (and rembrandt) with two austrians, a swede, and a slovakian. the international illini led and organized the trip, geared towards any interested foreign students.  


it is rumoured that the artist bought his paintings at auctions in order to keep them at market value. he came from a wealthy family and was alive the same time shakespeare was. he's also good at maintaining eye-contact:



the 3-feet of Personal Space Theory is shrunk during exhibitions of world-renown Dutch painters, and sometimes more time is spent staring at napes and backs of heads than at the various paintings and etchings. maybe they saw something magical in some of the over 200 large collection of paintings, drawings, and etches. i tried to put on my best artsy-fartsy face, but might just have to wait until next time to really appreciate the work of this XVII century hustla.


chicago residents pay $12 and the exhibition runs through May 9.


 

This guy tries to make money by blogging:


zzzzazzdggg09.jpg


 


Jeff Jarvis, mentioned in a New York Times article on blogging to make money, has a list of ways on how to make money blogging. I would like him more if he stopped poo-pooing TV Turn-Off Week.



I dare you.

Sunday, April 18, 2004

there were three large wind chimes that rung low, giant notes from the house next door. she was waving us. "for a relaxing time, make it santorri time," and with a whiskey on the rocks, i joined alois and filip and bernhardt in the hot tub, unwinding underneath in the midnight darkness of a western chicago suburb. in the hot tub "it's about half of one hectare," her dad said the next morning.

from the pepcid ac infomational sheet - tips for managing heartburn:

* Eat slowly and do not eat big meals
* If you are overweight, lose weight.
* If you smoke, quit smoking.
* Raise the head of your bed.
* Wear loose fitting clothing around your stomach.

"Arbeit mach frei"

-german for work sets you free

Tuesday, April 13, 2004

walked into the red herring this afternoon wearing a leather jacket made out of a dead lamb.

Saturday, April 10, 2004

ivette

a dream where i was surprised to walk into her apt and find her and her bf dancing and twirling, dancing, side-stepping, looking like a cute couple out on the dark balcony. she seemed happy, at place, at home.
----------

earlier on the night, in real life, she was puking in the toilet at steak and shake. her and tanya were in there for a while, long enough for jeff and carl and i to order our meals, eat them, and pay for them.

carrying her up to her apt, laying her on the couch, grabbing a pillow for her and then tanya, "you know you have to leave right." kinda thought i should, but was really sure then. funny feelings walking down the stairs back to the car with jeff, especially after i heard her mention her ex-bfs name in the bathroom at S & S and how she was going to "beat his ass."

told jeff the story of random boob-flashing right outside the apt on the way home from studying with ricky on monday night. it was a consolation for my bruised ego, a misogynist crutch to prop up an increasinly burdening sense of self-importance.

"being compassionate without being attached or feeling hatred."
-dalai lama

Friday, April 9, 2004

choose your own savior

from a jesus article on slate.msn.com:


"The most popular Jesus of the moment may be the Manly Messiah, a macho savior unbowed by pain or torment. The logo of the Lord's Gym franchises may be the best example: A ripped, muscular Jesus does push-ups while carrying a cross emblazoned with the phrase 'the sins of the world' across his back. You get the feeling that bearing the cross is akin to a soldier dropping and giving 20—it's unpleasant but not all that burdensome. This Jesus wouldn't fall three times on the road to Golgotha, and he certainly wouldn't need Simon of Cyrene to help carry the cross."

girlfight

thursday night - nargile - usual suspects. had heart to heart with ricky in the men's room. puffed on a hookah, drank mexican beer, hard liquor. ivette and ricky and jackie and her friend justin and ariceli and carla, then monica joining us at the table. also carla's boobs were there.

closing time and outside to a brawl. started first just girls swinging away, then seconds later contellations of mini-skirmishes arose surrounding them throughout the parking lot. sometimes the fights would merge, then they'd die down, then others would arise, involving participants from previous tiny-battles joining forces versus the new enemy squad. royal rumble, tag team, battle royal- it all seemed very WWF.

don't know why, didn't really care, mostly entertaining. swift kicks to the abdomen, punches, slaps to the face, faces rubbed in the ground like cigarettes in an ashtray and i swear someone gave someone else a noogie.

ricky got away with a relic of the war, an awful baseball cap and tried it on later on the way back to good ole 206. he said to ivette, "go ahead and pee right there."

back at 206 pretty bad episode of the simpsons where krusty finds his jew dad. i covertly dropped almonds down from the balcony on the heads' of the people at the party downstairs and thought about going to bed.

disturbing the peace

so i'm sitting here writing a paper in spanish but my thought process is being interrupted by two overwhelmingly loud and repetitive pair of bass notes. it's as if the frequency of the notes invades my entire cerebrum and flushes out any other possible potential neurotransmission.

so i have to finish this paper and i'm like wtf where is this coming from, it's not here in our apt. bass notes tend to travel lowly so i stand on my chair and touch the ceiling of my room. yeah. both hearing and feeling the music, i paused to try to figure out what song it was before leaping for the broomstick and pounding up above.

it was tonite, tonite by the smashing pumpkins, and the guy upstairs was singing along. i couldn't do it, i couldn't pound, so i sat it out back down on my chair and enjoying the rest of the song.

back to work.

Thursday, April 8, 2004

ryan and his gf diana were sitting in the dining room eating a meal with a smell that immediately made me hungry. they were talking about belated-lent, and what they would give up, "what should i give up?" he asked me as i scattered to and fro, gathering my belongings for work.

thought about it for a few minutes in between looking for my bookbag and checking my e-mail and writing a date down on my calendar. hope, i said, give up hope. and diana laughed and i smiled and left for work.

Tuesday, April 6, 2004

three cheers for the dish fairy

highlight of the day so far: someone did the dishes!

on blogging

from byron's blog in the congo:

"I am enamored with the whole phenomenon of people publishing their lives for all to read. It is very personal, but at the same time, distant. It is like sitting in a bar and seeing someone who just looks interesting and wanting to ask them a billion questions about their life, just because."

the stark calligraphy of the winter trees between the english building and lincoln hall is surrendering to a resurrection of the early spring flowers lining its branches. purplenesses upon whitenesses, and tiny green buds.

a japanese girl rolls by on a skateboard, flicking her hair back with a look that says, “I’m prettier,” and she passes by.

tying shoelaces on the edge of the bed looking over and east at the early afternoon, early spring sunshine pouring down her loose hair, her shoulders.

she saw my huge headphones (monitors, really) and said, "are you going to be flying a plane anytime soon?"

ad-aware found 60 different spyware programs on my computer

How happy is the blameless vestal's lot!
The world forgetting, by the world forgot.
Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind!
Each pray'r accepted, and each wish resign'd.
-- Alexander Pope, "Eloisa to Abelard"

article from theonion.com

Report: Caucasians Will Soon Be A Minority In Their Own Goddamn Country


PIKEVILLE, TN—According to Hormel-plant breakroom sources, if the Puerto Ricans and the Mexicans and the Orientals and the blacks don't stop having all those babies, whites will be a minority in their own goddamn country as early as 2010. "Someone looked at the census figures, and on account of how much faster they're multiplying, it's only a couple years before there's more of them than of us real Americans," foreman Ron Nelson announced Tuesday. "They're already making the kids learn Spanish at the high school." According to U.S. Census Bureau estimates, 80.7 percent of the current U.S. population is white.

what a long strange trip it's been

most of the cats that you meet on the streets think of true love
most of the time their sitting and crying at home
one of these days they know they gotta get going
out of the door and down on the street all alone

grateful dead - truckin

Friday, April 2, 2004

grateful living

on the quad, wright side, rolling down the street was a young man in a wheelchair. it was sunny out and he seemed to be having a hard time getting himself along. walking passed him i wondered if he needed a push, questioning whether or not he would feel offended by the offer.

as soon as the thought finished running through my mind the tall white person walking next to me asked the wheelchair dude "can i give you push? ... gotta give your arms a rest, you know."

he helped him along to the white bus that was waiting about a few dozen yards ahead, access ramp engaged and awaiting. i turned left and walked away to the foreign language building but not before lookking back one more time at the two of them getting by in the sunshine.

Wednesday, March 31, 2004

ivette

today i kissed a very pretty girl on the top floor of a five story parking garage. first we looked down at the people passing-by, the people living in the apartments. the last car pulled out of the spot next to where we were standing. our meter ran out.

walking towards the stairs, bathed under orange parking lot lights i kissed lips and hair. then more lips, less hair. then again and again on the landing of almost each flight of stairs.

dark brown hair, silky hair. a good smell and imperfect kisses.

Tuesday, March 30, 2004

release

Romance or horror?

Sunday, March 28, 2004

at the gym

there were too many plates on the bench bar to figure out how much weight this guy was lifting today at impe. it was alot, definitely over 400 lbs. two stout, troll-like men flanked either side of the bar for emergency support, while three other beefy monster dudes hooted and hollered for inspirational support. they made my body jump as i lay in preparation for a set of my own.

they all spoke english, some of them were bald, most had pot bellies, but all could lift lots of weight. every now and then one of them going topless in order to dress into some sort of weight-lifting apparatus suit/body gear. they looked like aliens and attracted gawking on-lookers.

didn't know whether to feel appalled or impressed.

jumping the pistola

this is a personal translation of the impassioned reaction of a Spanish journalist immediately following the attacks in Madrid a few weeks ago. javier marias, a prominent writer for spain's premier periodical el pais, like most mardileƱos, intially assigned the homegrown terrorist group ETA as responsible for the attacks.

with more insinuations that ETA was not behind the attacks, he responds in his blog to this, his earlier reaction that is a bit emotional and a bit mistaken:

----
Early in the Morning
Each time that ETA assassinates - and it's almost always done early in the morning, the terrorists get up early, or maybe they don't sleep the night before-, there's a custom that, near midday, those responsible for the city councils step outside the door of their buildings, in the heat, cold or rain, and remain in silence for one or two minutes. Along with them are as many city dwellers that wish to join, normally those who live nearby. It's a very impressive thing, this silence that is at the same time mournful yet condemning, a collective silence, of people who interrupt their daily activities or chores and stand quietly in the middle of the street. If someone utters a shout or a curse against the assassins at that time, their voice is usually quieted because in those moments the true condemnation is to not say anything. And, in spite of the reiteration of this custom throughout so many years, the act has not lost strength, nor has it worn itself out, in comparison to so many other reactions that have become empty as a result of repetition.

Today from inside of my house I noticed this suspicious silence. I looked out of a balcony and from there I saw the mayor and all the town councilors, both of his party and of the opposition, standing quietly in front of the building. There were also more passers-by than usual, stopped passers-by. The flags were at half-mast. "Once again," I thought, "Who's it going to be?" without imagining that this question was meaningless because right now there are only anonymous deaths, and they number one-hundred and seventy eight while I write these lines, and there will be more still, as many of the assassinated have yet to finish dying. In three of four railroad stations in Madrid, thirteen bombs have exploded bright and early, when the commuter trains run full of people going to work, of students going to classes, of sleepy people that just woke up.

It is the bloodiest attack in all of Spain's history, the most massive, when two days remain for the general elections, those that we never miss - for the little that we like the current political parties - we who lived under Franco and yearned to be able to go to the ballot boxes sometime in life. That dictatorship ended. That of ETA remains almost like a prolongation of the other. It's obvious that that organization longs for Franco when before they were able to be seen as a "resistance." …

ETA does not tolerate the existence of a democracy, all of the imperfect that it could be. In the Basque region there hasn't been any type of oppression for more that twenty-five years, at least that which it imposed itself; there is an autonomous government and a widely competent parliament, including a Basque police force against which ETA also attacks once in a while. ETA is just a mafia. Their members and their sympathizers know that if they stop killing that wouldn't be anybody anymore, they wouldn't be "respectable" people anymore, that is to say scary and unscrupulous, in their towns and cities.

There could be a day that ETA dissolves. It is very possible that there will be an amnesty which releases all of its prisoners to the streets, like that which had already begun at the beginning of our democracy, returning freedom to all that were prisoners then, including those who had committed assassinations. ETA will have ended and I am sure that the citizens would consent to this amnesty; they would give it gladly, even if it might be with disgust. But not in our heart of heart, neither in our memory nor in our conscience. There in the land neither civic nor political, there, in the personal and intimate soil, we will never forgive them.

white girls

so a white guy, a mexican guy, a chinese guy, and an indian guy all walk into a bar.

guido's, 02 east main - the first white girl was melia. her mom named her after a best friend she made in hawaii. melia used to work at guido's before its trendy-sportsbar makeover, when it was known simply as 02 east main, "yeah i mean like it was just so ghetto. i like hip hop music and everything but it was just so ghetto."

"now it's like cool and the people here are awesome."

the second white girl with the easily forgettable name was wearing a pink dress. lounging nearby with her caucasian cohorts, we rubbed elbows next to each other while sitting at the bar. dumb chatting then eventually "what's your name?" martin. "mark? where you from?" the south side of chicago. "what are you?" omg... "yeah that's cool i like being real, keeping it real, you know ... cultural." later she said "hey pedro scoot over" as she returned back to her seat from the bathroom.

a fellow former ihop co-worker jillian made her entrance later on at the restaurant. princess jillian. she paraded back and forth easily over a dozen times, greeting the cooks and manager, making her rounds, ignoring several greetings from yours truly as she swivelled by only inches away. then, at 3am, her majesty deigns to phone one of her loyal subjects, "hi, were you sleeping? yeah, well ... today's my birthday."

todavia borracho

27 year-old white girl with freckles blanketing her bony back. felt familiar, looked for constellations.

rahul said she looked 35. she was thin and had a pink dress and explained to me the insignificance of a ringless left-handed ring finger, of course not before reminding me of the respect due to a woman otherwise.

a woman otherwise. at guido's, 02 east main. bartender was a total fucking actress. bravo, bravo, exit to ihop, to yet even more actresses.

after cholesterol and saturated fats, home to Jason X on the tube. (the shittiest movie ever) bloated, tomorrow a pilgrimage to impe, but today-

tonight, thinking now about a tough and gorgeous girl, a morrocan.

Friday, March 26, 2004

keyless kinch, the fearful jesuit

yesterday at penny's on diversey with a foreign beer and a pretty girl. only lied once, maybe twice.


 


afterwards walking tour of lincoln park and the sometimes ballsy architecture of the neighborhood houses. the jesuit statue priest on the de paul quad was offering advice (drugs?) to other stoned students.


 


still in gringolandia after the adieu, yerba mate at a tea shop, then piper's alley for eternal sunshine of the spotless mind. 


 


on the walk back to the train $3 pints of Harp's Lager at a murphy's-esque pub. not as think as you drunk i am, writing alone in the corner by the light of the neon bar signs. cue popular REM song.


 


enter 40-year old former drummer currently valet parker Paul. "fuckin' fags," he said and "let's not fucking talk about religion, ok?"


 

back down south finally on the long and lonely red line. no dice for a bus ride home at 3, 4ish. so a yo-yo back up 15 miles on the el for a beefy, greasy breakfast at clarke's on belmont. no home keys, called mom, hi goodmorning, i'm comming home. at 6am. roll poignant ozzy osbourne tune.

Wednesday, March 24, 2004

This man will clearly explain to you the possibilities of controlled memory erasure.

"There's some irony here, while films like Memento and Eternal Sunshine fret over the perils of memory erasure, we should really be worrying about the opposite - What happens when you remember too much?"

short and

last night drank german beer. can't pronounce the name. spongebob was on the tele at barfly.

got home and read an e-mail from ivette. she says i'm a very creative monkey.

sweet!

I am in search of reality.

Something stable and unchanging. Something that everyone can see without needing contacts, eyeglasses, or corneal-shape-shifting eye surgery. (When is LASIK sugery NOT for me?)

Saturday, March 20, 2004

last night

sleeping for 14 hours after being awake for 32.

woke up once at 2am and read my ims and refused to feel bad and fell back asleep.

pre-drinking, smoking at 206. to nargile in a cab. ricky and ryan and me and ivette and tonya and ryan meeting becky and someone and someone else. trila? shawna? dunno. hookahs, beers, an atm, and more beer. cab ride back home, then to ricky's to watch shrek. (shrek, wtf?)

sitting in a corner somewhere @ ricky's with bong in tow. suddenly and inexplicably fleeing the apt. run forrest run. growing exponentially more lost somewhere in deep urbana. after an hour of direction-less perambulation, finally signs of life, street lights, sidewalks, and carle hospital. back home @ 206, alcoholic search for beer, excavating the boxes of 12-packs on the balcony - no beer. sitting at the computer getting all bitchy talking to ricky. lost cell phone. lost weed. the sun starts to rise.

admit to ryan that i stole and smoked his weed at 9am with bweetz. then it's 2:48pm, suddenly remembering having to work in 12 minutes. "too much partying?" asked my boss. sheepishly going about my business. back at home said goodbye to ryan (he's going north to chicago) jeff, (west to los angeles) and rahul (east to north carolina).

"i'm all aloooone, there's no one here, besides meeee."
-donkey from shrek

Monday, March 15, 2004

dream

someone stole my motorbike that i stole, but we beat their ass and stole it back, again. mom kicked chris out of the house for doing drugs. there was a jamaican parade down 112th street. uncle frank was coming to pick me up to help him do some work.

Tuesday, March 9, 2004

recapitulation

I wanted to give my spanish literature professor a hug today after he handed back my DOUBLE A+s. ("+" + "+" = "#"?)

Hell yeah.

School, work, meetings, then Kam's last night with the underage sorority girl asking Ricky and I to buy her beer.

Dinner sometime before Kam's: Cocktail shrimp sauteed with red onions and minced garlic. Valencia rice reddened with tomato sauce, sprinkled with cumin, and fermented with one (1) bay leaf. Oh and a protein shake for that swoll.

Sunday, March 7, 2004

sweet home

Went back home to Chicago this weekend. Drove up there with Rosie who says she doesn't have much fun at rock concerts. Boo.

Mom looked alive and well. Little brother Chris is auditioning for the Stokes with the never-ending brown spirals of hair on his head. Dinner Friday night with the grandparents, the original gangstas, the OGs.

Eri turned 22 ("22" backwards) Saturday night. I drank $2 margaritas and chatted occasionally with the Cuban bartender girl in between bouts of banter with Eri. People at the raegae bar in lincoln park looked nervous at first, but most of us were dancing by the time Ryan and his rockstar brother Luke showed up a couple hours later.

Ryan's gf Diana is going to Greece for the Games this summer. She told us in the car on the way back to Champaign. Meeting today at 4 cancelled. Shit I forgot about Iyengar at 4:15. Oh well.

Now I must busy myself with the convoluted language of scientific journal articles. But first i'll put on some pants.

Wednesday, March 3, 2004

reunion

Ok so I was keyboardless for a few days. I guess the four three-year old generic AAs in my wireless keyboard (which btw, I never move from the desk) finally gave out. I popped four new ones in and wondered what it would be like to be able to type on my computer again. The keyboard didn't work. I restarted the comptuer, and still the keyboard wouldn't work. Wondering if wireless keyboards in general had this problem, I restarted the computer again, yet again to no avail.

I thought maybe if I take it farther away from the RF reciever, it'll work. It didn't. How about closer? Nope.

I sat in my chair daydreaming for a while, figuring how long it would take to copy individual letters from various websites or documents and paste them together to form the most urgent of my messages in the most simplistic manner possible. I thought that I might as well leave the Character Map window forever open and also would have to constrict my range of AIM expressiveness to it's dozen or so various emoticons.

them: hi
me: :o)
them: so what's up
them: ...
them: keyboard busted?
me: ;o)

I'm not dumb enough to have put in the batteries backwards, I thought. But just for kicks I began to open the battery panel, thinking, nah I'll just have to buy a new one online or something. I can do it tomorrow at the computer lab. I'm such a consumerist pig. How much would it be, $50-60? I'll have to ship it to work cause the mailbox downstairs is too small.

I was wrong about the batteries.

Tuesday, March 2, 2004

4 years and this is what i've learned

How To Write A College Paper:


1. Realize that you have no life.


2. If you still think that you have a life, go to step 1.


3. Stare at the blinking cursor however long you need to.


4. Google the Mars Rovers.


5. Wonder why you are still on this planet.


 


6. Now write.

beef jerky: you can eat it with your dog.

When you first buy a baseball mitt, it's really too stiff and cumbersome to use effectively, so you go through this long process of breaking it in. One such process includes placing a baseball in the mitt, spraying the entire mitt with specially formulated mitt-breaking-in juice, tieing the mitt shut with a rag or t-shirt, and letting the fibers in the mitt break down and loosen up. After a few days you had a significantly more flexible mitt that's one step closer to being ready for gameplay.

I notice that whenever someone does or says something nice for me I react awkwardly, stiffly like an unbroken-in baseball mitt.

I guess one of the things that I miss the most about high school were the abundance of windows. Every class, every lunchroom, it seemed, was cordoned by 2 inch think walls of transparency. Of air and light and hope and possibility. Of daydreams and reality and escape and Chicago.

Monday, February 23, 2004

loneliness as really buying into the illusion of separation.


but how do you dissolve the "illusion" of separation that is at the root of all suffering.


how to acknowledge that you are still connected to that thing that seems far away, even though it may be a challenge to really feel it.


like sitting up with your legs straight in front of you, reaching over and down to touch your toes. it's tough, but you can really feel it.


thus applying the same technique in the cognitive/emotional realm. sort of realizing that the object/person you yearn for, though it seems very far away, is still connected to you, even if you can't really feel it.


yet.

the big easy

reggae man. teeth and booty. the waffle nazi. ron's vietnamese love. falling asleep in a cab that's falling asleep. micheal and the wodka. the "shi"-star. turkeys, a pleasant shade of blue.

we get there by feet. strip, suck, and fuck. the dead brown fox.

she makes a list. +,-. sobbing through a sunday morning sunrise.

desire: to possess, control.

Sunday, February 15, 2004

what to do what to do

Desire-release according to Geri Larken:

1. Realize that for every breath out, the body breathes back in.
2. Notice all the different colors in your teacup.
3. Hear the sound of chickens outside.
4. Call a friend.
4. Pull out an old journal to remember a former boyfriend.
5. Try a lovingkindness meditation.
6. Chant for everyone else caught in the bittersweet cycles of desire.

Saturday, February 14, 2004

cathartsis

emotions as art; arising as a complex entity rooted in the psychological panorama of human experience.  the intricate and formative combination of reactions selected from the universal pool of human experience is that which lends an authentic sense of individuality, uniqueness, to the expression of emotion. each person expressing their appropriate complex pattern individually.


expression of emotion as art; perplexing, seemingly formless at times, affective. as art; dissectable, discernible, structured. the revelatory aspect, not creationism of emotion: the complex architecture behind emotion draws from the pre-existing substrates of the human psyche. retracing the footprints of the expression of emotion, as art, as revealing the unknown.

Tuesday, February 10, 2004

the word "facetious" not only has all five vowels in it, but has them all in order!!

Monday, February 9, 2004

the transformation of anger

anger arising from disappointment that arises from failed expectation, an expectation that arises from the creations of desire, a desire that arises from a longing. longing arising from a yearning, a reaching and grasping that arises from the idea that that which I long for is somehow apart from who I am.

so say that i'm not separate from anything.

now what.

discipline as insanity

discipline as requiring something more than an explanantion that lies within the bounds of reasoning. constant probing, asking why, failing to reveal satisfactory answers (reasons) explaining why things are done consistently, accurately.

the process of being disciplined seems methodical and altruistic- might a greater prerequisite instead be the selfless abandonment of reason. (blindly fumbling forward, anarchy of thought)

is discipline the bashful yet sincere acknowledgement that really there is no answer for why things done are did, things done with regularlity and great precision but ultimately with no purpose.

Sunday, February 8, 2004

Staying strong.

Realizing that feeling like a pussy is sometimes at first a prerequisite for staying strong. Could it always be?

Fearlessly tackling scary obligations and responsibilities. Blindly moving forward, without any attempts to attribute causality. No Woe is me.

"Will not become mired in a slough of existential despond."

"Once you have crossed the river, leave the canoe behind and continue on the way."

"The way that can be named is not the eternal way."

Monday, January 26, 2004

Beginning of week number two of the new semester. Things going steadily well, with organization and commitment to academics, exercise, sleeping and eating well.

Swimming entrance test coming this Friday, not sure if it is a do-or-die type thing.

New classes, new faces, feeling older, like most Seniors probably do. Social life back online, roommates back in town. Sonia and her cooking (and her loneliness and all-too-familiar visage of muted anxiety.)

Sometimes wondering if school is a distraction from the heartbreaking realities of everyday life or absorption into the grandiosity and delicacy of human thought and it's multiple functions within and throughout the rest of my body.

heh.

Sunday, January 25, 2004

On Beans

JBOTELLOLYNCH: I have a ryme (sp) for that
ok marty ok: ?
JBOTELLOLYNCH: beans
JBOTELLOLYNCH: beans
JBOTELLOLYNCH: american beans
JBOTELLOLYNCH: the more you eat them
JBOTELLOLYNCH: the more you like um
JBOTELLOLYNCH: the more you like um
JBOTELLOLYNCH: the more you fart
JBOTELLOLYNCH: so please eat beans at every meal???
ok marty ok: ......
JBOTELLOLYNCH: oh well
ok marty ok: that was horrible mom

Tuesday, January 20, 2004

Busted

Next door to our apartment building live over three dozen sorority girls in a three story sorority house. Last year especially the positioning of our balcony window afforded us the pleasant fortune of being able to casually glimpse across the balcony into a room where there lived two young ladies. Freely, daily they would undress and dress and then sometimes undress themselves again in full view of their window, located five yards directly across our balcony.
Showers were generally followed by generous full-body applications of lotion.

That was last year, and, with the changing of rooms in the sorority, this year has been different. Up until yesterday, all year long all we ever saw of the room across the balcony were the imbrications of blinds fastened shut. With a tiny bit of hope I wondered if the beginning of a new semester would bring about any changes.

Tonight, around bedtime, I stood topless in my Woody Woodpecker pajama pants looking across the balcony at another topless person. She bent over to wrap her wet hair over her head and unloosened the towel wrapped around her waist. Dumbstruck, I gawked, and gawked just a second too long. She looked up and over at the paralyzed moron staring back at her and quickly scrambled to fasten her blinds shut.

They've been shut ever since then.

Sunday, January 18, 2004

James Bonding somewhere, grassy knoll.

Spying on the Chi O's next door. They spy back. Oops.

Jamming with Chris.

Thursday, January 15, 2004

tom petty says it best

Walking home today from work at 4:58 on the Quad I looked up at the sky. Far off to the southwest sprung a farm of pink patches that scattered their way along and across the underside of fluffy cumulous clouds. The sun was setting off somewhere over there near IMPE and the January black crowes assumed their daily aeronautic dance before bedtime, the sound of their caws competing only with the ringing of the bells at Altgeld Hall. I counted all the rings, (1,2,3,4,5pm) for a quick reality check, but the supernatural contrast of pink against grey blue and the cawing crows, the overall sense of completion, of being homeward bound; all this still had me wondering if I wasn't living in a dream world.

Today was Angela's last day at work:

"She's a good girl, loves her mama.
Loves Jesus, and ... her boyfriend too."

Friday, January 9, 2004

The rectangle shaft of sunlight laid across the ground in a slight angle before it made its way to the intersection of the wall and floor. From then on, it scaled it's way up along the blue-painted upright edifice. There it laid pasted as I stared across at her in the bed, the rectangle shaft of sunlight framing her bare torso.

She lay on her side with her head propped up by her left arm, smiling at me through golden brown rivulets of hair coursing down across her face. I contemplated the indentation that her left elbow made in the bed, the safe harbour of her hips that anchored a rested right palm.

I smiled back from across the room briefly before suddenly leaping into action. Pouncing down atop her I exulted my war-cry of victory. Crouching over my victim on all fours allowed to peer inside eyes that momentarily expressed a relection of my own jubilee. Her foot on my stomach sent me wheeling off into the air, however, landing on my back to the right of the bed onto the floor. The sunlight rounded over the top of my thighs now before scaling up along the wall as I laid there grinning dumbly at the ceiling above.

Tuesday, January 6, 2004

this is a dream, this is only a dream

Mario and I were babysitting baby twins for a middle aged, upper-middle class couple. We swang them back and forth on swings, near and far, occasionally each of the twins colliding with each other in their seats due to uneven lines of projection, "Aww how cute."

We carried the babies back to their tiny rocking chairs. I felt a little awkward at first holding the baby, focusing more on fastening them securely in my arms than in loving, gentle cradling. By the time we got to the chairs I looked down to see that the body of my baby had mysteriously slid out from underneath my arms and all I was left with was a brain. The brain was the size of a marble.

I tried to stay calm and bend over and place the brain in the chair and hoped nobody would notice. And if somebody did notice then it wasn't all hopeless they could reconstruct the rest of the baby from the brain. Science these days boy gotta love it. Couldn't they? The slimy brain stubbornly clung to the end of my right hand sleeve and in an attempt to unfasten it, it unrolled out into the shape of a noodle of Pad Se Eu from a Thai food restaurant.

Unstuck, I gently placed the brain in the crevice of the tiny seat. Horrified I realized the brain was missing a few pieces. Looking around and beneath the chair I found a piece. I heard the parents slowly approaching behind me and prepared to explain the situation to them.

"Oh it's alright, here," they said, as they grabbed what looked like a handheld Dirt Devil and began to suck up all the bits and chunks of the incomplete brain, including the sizable portion in the crevice of the seat. I was horrified, "Now watch," they said, and after ten seconds of a whirring noise within the vacuum, out plopped from one of its compartments a fully formed, marble sized cerebrum.

They lived in the mountains, these parents. The father said that he would soon need me for a brave expedition out to the remotest reaches of the planet. Relieved from the brain incident and now excited with adventure, I looked out to the snowy mountains covered with virgin white snow and said to the mother, "I hope he sends me to Antartica."

An empty IMPE in an empty Chambana finished with a set of tricep curls and, pacing thoughtfully, thinking, "Bjork song on the radio when I first came in, she reminds me of soft beautiful things. She recorded her last album alone in a dark room with her baby in her belly. Thin white girls with babies in their bellies. Ceserean, no doubt, the babies, that is. Gyneth Paltrow knocked up. Chris Martin you lucky fucker. My brother's name is Chris, my name is Martin. Tee-hee, Chris Martin. Get it? Tee, I forgive you and your Coldplay."

"Shiver" The first song of Coldplay's first album begins to play right then through the lone pitiful speakerhorn hanging 20 feet above me in a room with the shitty acoustics of a racquetball court.

Without showering I migrate from IMPE to Cafe Luna for lunch. Grilled salmon sand:which was topped with alfalfa sprouts and alio cucumber sauce and small heart shaped leaves of green romaine lettuce sprinkled with slivers of swiss cheese all over a warm, toasted buttery slice of sourdough bread. Accompanied, no less, by seven to eight gentle morsels of seasoned sweet potatoes, lined up directly below four purple grapes, still clinging onto their little branches. Amputating, no- liberating the grapes for their stems with smacking lips I watched the bubbly foam atop my Spaten beer sink. All throughout ingestion process treated to the entirety of Coldplay's second album, A Rush of Blood to The Head. Coincidentally, mind you.

I felt like the waitress spoke to me like as if she knew I hadn't had a conversation with another person in days, "That's right," I thought to myself in breaths between casual banter about coffee and the Intervasion Christian Fellowship, "It's been days."

Directly from Cafe Luna, to Walgreens for contact solution and dishwasher detergent. Pausing, telepathically opening the automatic sliding door, stepping in over slush and into the opening chords of In My Place, a catchy Coldplay song with an even catchier guitar riff, playing over the cable broadcasted radio station.

Coldplay is the Band of the Year, today I found out, according to the cover of a Spin magazine. After Luna, before going home, there in the magazine section of the Illini Union Bookstore I saw what I had been hearing all day long: Mr. Martin & his overwhelming blues.

Sunday, January 4, 2004

field of dreams

Driving with Ryan and Jeff in his SUV, going to some party, but first to a liquor store. O'hare area late at night or some otherwise wide open, empty suburban area. Liquor store in a strip mall.

Ryan's cell phone works but he keeps on asking to use mine. By the third time he does, I look at my diminished battery indicator level and ask him why he doesn't use his. "I don't want to use up all my battery," he says.

Jeff hops back in with the liquor are we are off to socialize. Almost a few seconds after we pull out of the parking lot he asks, "Does anyone want a beer?" and starts to drink .... and drive.

I decline and look up into the sky at a huge, very sharp and very clear projection of the lower sixty percent of the continent of Africa. The detail of the image is remarkable and without questioning who or what was able to project it onto the sky twenty to thirty feet above and behind us I try to direct the guys attention. "Yo, guys check it out! It's Africa, look, look," wagging my pointing finger. They look but are surprisingly unsurprised.

I guess Ryan and I and maybe even Jeff are in a band because next to Ryan in the back seat and even further back in the rear seat lies assorted guitar and amplifier equipment. Either were gear monkeys for another band or in one ourselves on the way to a show.

We continue driving and I think again about the image of Africa. The image zooms out, and I begin to see more of the continent and its surrounding areas. It must be a satellite image I tell myself as it zooms over more parts of the earth, almost randomly. As I see with a new depth and clarity the crevices and folds and overhangs and mountains of the various regions of the earth I sense the artistry of its creation. Continental drift grinding two continents together creating huge mountain ranges, or otherwise sliding them apart and leaving whole huge ocean trenches spawning an unfathomable array or marine life. I know there's something majestic about it, and I questions not it status of being pure art, the geography of this planet, uncorrupted by desire for material achievement or connection with an audience. It's beautiful and finally my thoughts quieten and soften and drool over the whirlwind tour de images projected above.

We pull into the restaurant where we are to meet our partners in binge drinking. Dark, quiet, almost too fancy for our apparel, and we are seated, someone and I next to two girls. To my left is a shy, dark, and petite figure. I smile cordially and peruse the menu. Almost instantly I being to comment, trying to establish some communication level. She sensed the slight aire of desperation in my attempt, and gradually became overwhelmed by it, as it only increased as my meaningless banter continued to unfold. Instead of asking me to slide up and out of my seat to exit her's, she daintily climbs on top of the dining table, hops down and away.

"She'll be back," I tell myself.

Saturday, January 3, 2004

different styles of religion as different styles of martial arts.

[kung fu and catholicism and karate and judaism]

is god the common denominating factor in all different styles of religion. different religious defined more by their variance from each other than from their inherent uniqueness? Woudn't each inherent uniqueness by inevitably what causes variance between different religions?

Friday, January 2, 2004

OK so I'm trying this whole writing without looking back thing like you mentioned.

It kind of reminds me of my dreams you know, how I like to write them down and don't really reread them. I don't know why I write them down, especially if I don't reread them, I don't know what to do with all of those records. Oh well, just keep on writing, keep on forging ahead.

image worship

"What's the matter?"

"Well it's the words you know. Its the words themselves. Of course I could stammer on for ages trying to recapture and then project what it is that I see in her but to me, when I hear them coming out of my mouth or see them there on the screen they just seem a bit too subjective. too inadequate."

"What do you expect is going to happen when you try to reproduce something irreplicable?"

"But it's there you know, I can see I can hear it, I remember it in my dreams, I know it's there but I just can't represent it.

This writing comes from anguish you know, it really does. My yoga instructor is showing me how to let go of all of that, maybe I should just stop."

"Well hey come on, it's a form of expression isn't it? A kind of release right? That has to help doesn't it? So maybe it comes from anguish, from your anxiety; if it's a true representative of it. Just because you write something doesn't mean you have to hold on to it, you can still let it go."

"You think so, really?"

"Look, try this. Try writing, just keep on writing, but don't look back. Keep writing, see what happens."