Wednesday, April 29, 2009

Som

Som

The tower was bent to the side atop the castle, like the hunched back of a tired old man. From the leaning balcony, transparent like the rest of the structure, she watched me through her silver telescope. The palace appeared to be made of glass, but once I had made my way past the thousand sticker bushes to the ironically welcoming yellow dirt path and entered through the sheer door with the golden knocker, I felt the cold of ice.

It seemed impossible that the building could remain intact on this the brightest day I had ever seen, the sky shining a sapphire blue and the sun pulsing like a living organ, but I knew that if I began to doubt, the structure would of necessity melt into a sad memory of could-have-beens. I could still see her from the ground floor as I looked upward to the tower, her glittering, diaphanous dress folded under her legs as she sat on the floor. She waved in a wild, two-handed motion, that I could only just make out, and I aped her silly gesture back.

The sun is barely awake when my radio alarm screams out some death metal noise from the alternative station: “Through my anatomy, dwells another being/Rooted in my cortex, a servant to its bidding.” The guitars and drums and voices screeching, wrenching me from sleep like a man pulled out of a bar to be folded into a trunk. I turn off the alarm and get out of bed.

The water of the shower hits me like a thousand 5mm bullets expelled from a shotgun two inches from my face, alternating between too cold or too hot, the pressure too hard, and the sound hits my ears even louder than the so-called music, soundtrack of my life. I force myself into my suit like a body bag and loop the 100% silk noose around my neck, slip my feet into shoes that pinch at the toes but make me look tall enough to be threatening. The coffee pot burps out the only thing between me and the five-story drop to the pavement, and I pour it down my throat as though it doesn’t taste like a corpse’s backwash. The drive to the office is like a ride across the River Styx, and I don’t have a coin for the ferryman. At work, I watch people ultimately more interesting than me act as boring as motionless twigs, like they know I’m watching and want to curse me out in the only way available. For lunch, I have a hot dog that was probably made out of shit collected at the dog park across the street. I watch early afternoon soap operas about some woman’s sister seducing their mother’s aunt’s girlfriend’s husband in Spanish with terribly-translated subtitles, because that’s the only kind of show Keiko, the big boss, will watch, which really makes me wonder how she got to be manager in the first place. More watching, boring as ever, making me wish that that guy’s pen really was a knife like the new guy kept claiming so that we had to sneak a closer look and practically had the cops called on us. The drive back full of road rage, random, balding, middle-aged men calling me an asshole and flipping me the bird, until finally I reach my apartment. A yogurt, because it’s easy and I don’t care, and some cop show that pretends it isn’t science fiction with a PC-selected cast. A run, because it’s finally late enough where I won’t be bothered, except by muggers, and another aching shower. And then, bed.

This is my life- a dog’s life- a bitch.

Finally, I fall asleep.

The height of the stairs was uneven and there was no railing, and the steps continued upward to almost eternity, as though they had once belonged to the Tower of Babel. They too were of ice, and I wondered how I could possibly reach the woman at the top, up all of these stairs, without slipping, to become a fiery stain in this colorless place. It was the sort of risk a person has to take, every voyage between lips and breasts a danger that must be faced, and I drew my sword, the gold and silver glimmering testament to honor earned through adventures braved and certain death overcome.

I stabbed the blade downward on the third step up and kept myself from falling to the ground by holding tightly onto the jewel-encrusted hilt, gems my mother had given to me before my first quest for protection, the sweetest protection found only in a mother’s infinite affection toward her youngest child. I drew myself upward to that third step and drove my heel sharply into the wall until the indent was deep enough to hold me steady, before withdrawing the sword and penetrating another step, as high up as I could safely reach. In a series of slow then sudden motions, I carried myself and my blade upward, the progress slight but irrefutable.

Throughout the endeavors, I could feel the glowing eyes of the woman as she waited, patient but concerned. I could nearly hear her gasping with each hazardous step I took and knew that I must succeed, for I was her only hope of salvation.
The cacophony of beeps is even worse than the fingernail-on-chalkboard music of the previous morning. I can’t find the snooze button quickly enough, so I pull the clock’s cord from the wall too quickly so that a few sparks fly like they always do when you’re impatient with appliances. It’s early, earlier than usual on account of an early meeting, possibly for layoffs, and with my luck lately, I’ll be the first one to get sacked.

I take a shower so cold the first few seconds feel like plunging into a lake mid-February, the chill cutting into my chest like a cleaver, but it’s the easiest way to wake up South of drinking ten cups of coffee. When I step out of the shower, I stand still on the floor mat for two, three minutes and let the cold air cling to me before drying off. A different suit because that’s what they expect at the office, everyone breaking their bank to give the company a good image, and this one smelling of old age and death on account of me buying it cheap at an estate sale. The tie my ma sent me for getting this job, her optimistic and thinking it’ll be a good move for me, even though it’s the kind of work I can do in my sleep. I down the first cup of coffee while standing in the kitchen like it’s something stronger and pour a second into a travel mug because it’s getting late and there’s nothing worse than being late to your own execution. I’d expected the road to be clear this early but the freeway is a sea of red lights like Satan’s eyes, with exhaust fumes threatening us all with carbon monoxide poisoning. I reach the office just on time, the last to arrive, and listen to Keiko dribble on for an hour and a half about cutting costs as though I used any equipment outside of my own eyes and hands. The new guy looks nervous, fidgety, like he knows he’ll be the first to go when we can’t find any way to save money. The rest of the day he talks to me like I’m his therapist or something, talking on about his fiancée and his rent and how he can only have a weekend off for his honeymoon, and I’m pretty sure I’m not looking interested but he says I’m easy to talk to anyway. At some point, I have a bag of chips from the vending machine, but I mostly work straight through the day because I can’t afford to be laid off. The commute back is slow because it’s raining and, though it rains most of the time here, people don’t know how to drive in the rain and hydroplane into inconvenient delays. When I get home, it’s already late, so I eat a banana, do a few weights and go to bed.

At last, I came to the top of the stairway, sweat beading on my face and hands, and catching the light in tiny prisms carried by the ice. My sword had grown cold from the ice and I rubbed my hands together a few times and blew tiny clouds of warmth into them. Now all that stood between the woman and I was a thick block of ice that served as a door. The woman leaned into the block and her starry blue eyes looked through the distorted window into my face, her mouth moving to make words lost in the small void. The gold of her dress appeared to be alight, with so many sequins reflecting the light of the now-setting sun.

“Stand back,” I called to her, though I was certain she would be unable to hear me. I took my sword between my fists like an oversized knife and pierced the block of ice as deeply as I was able, before removing it again with the greatest amount of effort, and repeating the actions anew. The wall was thick but I knew that if I continued my endeavor and followed it to its conclusion, I would soon be rewarded with the presence of this magnificent woman with the enthralling eyes.

It’s sheer luck that wake’s me up, the devil’s luck, early enough to make it to work on time. Idiot that I am, I forgot to plug the alarm back into the wall after my tantrum yesterday. I don’t have time to shower, put a dab of cologne that smell’s like my Uncle Joey after he was embalmed on my neck, and grab three packets of instant coffee. On the road, I consume the packets, pouring them into my mouth and chewing the powder into joe, driving as fast as I can manage with every other idiot slowing down to gawk at some poor jerk with a flat, on his cell phone, probably to Triple A because no one knows anything about cars anymore that isn’t paid to. A few minutes late, I go into the office to find the new guy crying in the break room, not the sniffling, might-be-allergies kind but the kind where he might be laughing except he doesn’t look happy, with snot running down his chin and his face suffocating red. He tells me he’s been laid off and a lot of other things that I don’t really listen to on account of being late and not really caring, but for some reason this guy thinks we’re buddies or something. I go clock in and when I come back, this guy’s still talking like I never left. I give him a whap on the shoulder because, what the hell else am I supposed to do?, and he says can I meet him for lunch. A guy really does have a knife in the lobby today, so I have to go take it away from him and get the cops involved, which leaves me with enough paperwork to keep me busy all month, but I still have a hotdog with the new guy because he’s still in the break room when it’s time for lunch. And he’s there again when I clock out at the end of the day, so I give him a ride home, only traffic’s a bitch so I end up with this guy for another two hours and he wants me to meet his fiancée when we finally do get there like we’ve bonded and become something and she insists I stay for dinner, which consists mostly of fat in its purest form. I tell the guy that I know a guy if he needs help with a job, because I don’t know how else to get out of there and these people talk as if there wasn’t enough CO2 in the world, and he hugs me. Honest to god. And then she hugs me and he gets teary again and it’s all a lot like that Spanish soap Keiko watches everyday at lunch. Finally I get out of there and make it home. I take a shower like a hundred bees stinging me into pain, then numbness, and the feeling of their arms goes away. Carefully, I plug the alarm back in and thank god it works, set it to go off on the alternative station, and hope that something half-decent wakes me up.

The woman stood back with her hands clutched tightly to her breast as I broke my way through the final inches that separated us, the ice splintering aside in a silvery dust. A smile the glistened pearls welcomed me into her empty room, the balcony I had seen her waiting at for so long, just beyond us, opening into the clear night with a thousand pulsing stars and the full, bright moon. The woman laughed and took my hand, kissing it beneath her perfect lips, pressing tightly and ending with a small exhale of sweet breath.

“You’ve finally come,” she said, rubbing my dry hand against her soft cheek, melting away the dead skin into smoothness as though her face itself were cream.

“I’m sorry it took so long,” I replied, taking her cheek into my palm like the sweetest wine in the humblest of gauntlets.

“But now.” She giggled, covering her mouth with her free hand coyly and casting her eyes downward. “Now we will never have to be apart again.”

I smiled back at her and felt my entire being soaked through with the warmth of her glorious presence. The aches of my journey dissipating and the sweat of my climb evaporated effortlessly. “Never again.”

“And that man?” She asked me, suddenly concerned with tears welling up in her ocean eyes like a storm at sea, beautiful but foreboding.

“Him?” I said, and I took her into my arms, the scent of her hair wafting upward wonderfully as though somehow she had hidden an entire garden of flowers within her curls. “I think I’ve proved I’m the stronger man, don’t you agree?”

“Mm. Yes.” She burrowed her face into my chest playfully. “But at the end there…”

“It wasn’t enough, my love.” I kissed the top of her head, tasting honey in the wavy red of locks. “He wasn’t kind and all the rest of the days were so severely misused as to be rendered meaningless.”

“Thank god,” she whispered.

“Thank god,” I repeated.

Thank god, I think, and I reach for my death like a five-year-old to a bag of chocolates, happy with the sweets, and to hell with the outcome.

Tuesday, April 28, 2009

*Ick*

Feeling sick and midterms are coming up. It is a weird week because I did not have Human Rights Leadership today and I will not have Chicano/Chicana Lit on Thursday. What is the world coming to? Crazy teachers and their crazy class-canceling ways/not that I mind.

Got the results of my blood tests from last week (did I mention the bruise from the blood draw?)- so I guess I am severely iron deficient and have a thyroid problem (a kind that affects your metabolism a lot). Honestly, am a bit relieved, because I've been doing all that I can to lose weight and nothing seems to happen. More pills more pills and the shiny, happy place approach-eth. Oy, a lot of pills.

Oh, and I don't have Swine Flu. It just seemed like a good idea to check since I was already there (there's a whole section of the hospital set aside just for people who are checking ^^* panic?)

Ugh, I don't want to write anymore. See what a lazy bum I am?

<3

Sunday, April 26, 2009

*Sleepy Midterms*

They come up, those pesky mid-term exams, papers, presentations, etc. etc. etc. Boo.

Submitted a creative writing piece (I Lost My Soul Today) and my gigantic research paper on Orientalism (which is not online) to an undergraduate research conference thing. Dunno, but I need to try to get some research experience/get published in some way in order to look more "send an accepted letter to- able" to whoever reads my possible PhD applications in the future. Gah, I don't want to go away for doctor school (not the MD kind) but there seems not to be much in the way of my field in the state. Hope I can figure this ness out.

I'm trying to get more short stories written so I can submit a chunk to some magazine or other. Apparently, you can't just send the one, you ought to have at least *3* so the publishers/editors can know what your writing's like and if they like you or not.

Working on Powerpoint for Migration by sea. Ugh.

Rewatching Burn Notice. In Plain Sight's back on. Yeah. .......

You'd think I'd have more to say after so many days of not posting anything, but, alas, I am boring.

R: ?
L: ?

Tuesday, April 21, 2009

Too Tired to Update

So here's the vid we watched in Human Rights today:

Monday, April 20, 2009

*Kaiser Soze? Oh, Kosho Sensei...*

That's who came to class today to speak with us. In Buddhist Philosophy. ... Um, so he talked about a lot of things and it was kind of weird because I don't think he knew that "taking a shit" is a crude way of speaking, so he seemed confused every time he said it and people laughed (which was a lot). Maybe someone ought to tell him (who is not me).

He gave us all tea, but since I sit in the farthest away place if you look it around continued s like, I got the bitterest, leafiest portion, and very little too boot (see how I can make everything negative, as though I would want more of the icky tea). Um, but it was warm, so I was happy, and we got to keep the glasses.

It actually went by very quickly, so it was nice- yay.

Wrote my paper on Chican@s in war. Yup. Needs editing, but I'll do that on the morrow because that's how I roll.

Want to see Dragon Ball....

Two episodes of Bones this week and last week- whoa! My TV schedule is overcrowded and makes me feel less than sophisticated. But I am doing a lot of homework.... so....? Oh, In Plain Sight began again on Sunday and the mother and sister made v. little screen time and the boyfriend none at all, so it is a good sign. Plus, Marshall was just his cuteness self-- I think he may be the only good thing about that show.

Oh dear.

Must get back to work.

BTW, am now reading Diary of a Wimpy Kid: The Last Straw. Hurrah for being done with crappy Chicano/a (Chican@) lit novels.

Hope to God teacher does not read this...


<3

Greenlake... Green Lake.... think it's the first one?

So I walked around Greenlake with my mom on Sunday and saw this:



Apparently, it is called the Arlington Northwest Exhibit, here is the info from the Evergreen Peace and Justice Community:

The Arlington Northwest exhibit is a nonpartisan memorial, raising public awareness of the costs of the war in Iraq. It is setup and maintained by members of EPJC and the local Veterans for Peace chapter. The Arlington Northwest exhibit, in Peter Kirk Park, Oct. 2004 is shown below. Each cross represents one service member who has died.

Arlington Northwest Display is a memorial to US service people who have died in the Iraq, now numbering over 1630. The memorial consists of small crosses and headstones, one for each of those who has died, and all arrayed as they would be at Arlington National Cemetery. This is a nonpartisan memorial, designed to raise public awareness of the costs of the war in Iraq.


End quote. Anyway, there were religious symbols of Judaism and Islam as well, and some nameless "headstones" (I think they're wood....so). I think that this is a great idea and really effective- you can feel the numbers as people more clearly. At the main tent (? was it a tent...?) the people listed how many people from each country had died in the war (although I think it was just soldiers, not civilians).

Also, there are some wire walkers out at Greenlake, tying their wires between trees and trying it out. One of them was v. nice, asking children if they wanted to try. It reminded me of Man on Wire except without the arrogance. Hoorah!

<3

Friday, April 17, 2009

*Yesterday, Today*

Because I forgot to update my blog yesterday. But I must type very quickly, for the baby sleeps seemingly for a mere 15 seconds at a time, after which, she shall be screaming (!) No no, she's pretty mellow ^_____^

Let's see, yesterday I missed the first bus and arrived at school via the second bus just before class began. What a stressful experience! I always think that I'll be late when I'm merely "on time" for class. Also, sat by a perv on the trip back >.<

Chicano/a Lit. class- what did we do? Hrm. We read a short story by Helena Maria Viramontes called "Miss Clairol," which I'll try to scan and post later.... Then we did crazy confusing study questions about destiny and stuff. It was an alright class, I just don't think we did that much that's shout-about-worthy,

Though at one point, the discussion turned to women who wear a lot of make up and I felt very conspicuous. I think I'm the only one in class who wears heavy eye shadow. Dearie me.

Then I went to Human Rights Leadership and we had to choose our quarter-long human rights issue topic thing so I'm studying Illegal Migration by Sea.

Then I watched Bones, which wasn't all that great, and pretty much went to bed....

Oh, and I got a 1/2 sandwich, soup combo to go and there was no soup. But I didn't know until I got home, so I am super owed by Honey Bear Bakery at Third Place Books. Le gr.

I am so boring. Oh, but I am working on a new short story, which will have a nifty/creepy ending which makes me happy because I want to write Twilight Zone-esque-ness.

<3 (it's a heart, if you don't know....)

Wednesday, April 15, 2009

*I Have Nothing to Talk About*

We just talked in Philosophy class today... About nothingness again. I spoke in class twice, which is good since like 40% of my grade is participation (I may be exaggerating a tinge).

The weather was nice?

Excited about all these Sci-Fi movies coming out! Let's see, which ones in part.......
Terminator: Salvation (will obviously need to watch the second and third movie though cannot be compelled except by God in booming "death of the first born" voice to do so or be swallowed up by the sea)-- Christian Bale (who will always be the American Psycho to me in a bad way)

Star Trek (App. that is actually it's entire title.) Dir. by J.J. Abrams with Jennifer Morrison (from House! So exciting! A movie!)

X-Men Origins: Wolverine-- with two sexy beautiful men ^____^ Hugh Jackman and ... what? Cyclops is played by some OTHER guy? What the hey-ho? Maybe will not see movie for reason of James Marsden been sans in it (way to word it...)

Pandorum: (From IMDB):A pair of crew members aboard a spaceship wake up with no knowledge of their mission or their identities. --With the always glorious Dennis Quaid and the guy who played Russell in 6 Feet Under...... (I am wise in the wave of television?)

And Dragon Ball, which is out, and has gotten terrible reviews.... but I still want to see it >.<

Will post trailers in future. Really, it took me a long time to write about practically nothing. I wonder if something v. hilarious happened today that I forgot? Penelope Garcia stealing my heart yet again? Agent Too-Sexy-For-His-Pants being, well, too-sexy-for-his-pants? David Boreanaz being his sexy guy self (he says, and I quote, as Booth, "I'm a sexy guy" while shimmying a bit....?)

In Plain Sight returns this Sunday? Marshall Marshall has been missed though no one else in the entire show has... should instead replace Mary McCormick with guy who plays Mary Shannon (her character's)'s partner. Obviously. Will also look for clip of him being his sexy, randomly fact-ful, self.

<3

Tuesday, April 14, 2009

*Stand By Me*

The only thing good about my Chican@ (see the @ is both an a and an o, so it's Chicano/Chicana... I didn't come up with it) Lit class is all the YouTube shorts we get to watch versus actually listening to lectures. Wow, that's negative and I'm posting it up on cyberspace where ya'll can see it, but I just really dislike that class. If you do see this, professor, well, I'm not sorry because this is a journal and I can say whatevuh's I want to people I don't expect to read this thing. P-shaw?

We watched this vid, which reminded me of the "Where the Hell is Matt" Video I posted from YouTube a long while back with the guy dancing in various countries. This vid instead has people singing in different countries to contribute to this one song:


We also watched Tongolele dance:



Because she's a "cultural Chicana". From Wikipedia:
Yolanda "Tongolele" Montes (b. Yolanda Ivonne Montes Farrington, January 3, 1932, Spokane, Washington) is an exotic dancer and actress of the Cinema of Mexico. In Mexico she is considered the seminal "rumbera".
Tongolele became a professional dancer when she was only 15 years old. Her father was Spanish/Swedish, her mother French/English and her maternal grandmother was of Tahitian descent.
She starred in several films from the 1940s through the 1980s but most people remember her from the classic 1971 film Isle of the Snake People starring Boris Karloff in one of his last roles. Tongolele is still active in television, theatre, and nightclubs. She is still well known in Spain and Latin America.

So she wasn't born of Mexican blood but she moved to Mexico and etc. You have the blurb.

We made a bubble chart thing to draft out ideas for our papers. She said it helps her because she doesn't like outlines. But, since I like outlines, I thought the whole thing was a waste of time. And it took like twenty minutes.... maybe not quite that long. Anyway, I'm going to at some point start taping myself writing papers, because I think I'm better at writing orally than with my fingers. You know what I mean?

Then in Human Rights Leadership we had a 2 hr lecture from a fellow that works as a doctor in Thailand talk about human rights violations in Burma, which I've already studied, but still it was interesting in a depressing/I want to jump off a bridge into the sea surrounding Antarctica way (even though it's an ocean.... or multiple oceans.... Oy!). Anyway, app. this fellow that I had Chinese History with last year who is from Burma is going to be working with a group to raise awareness about the situation there at the end of May. Maybe I will see if they need help?

Elsewise, on TV, Agent Sexy Pants was not murdered by barbarous/wicked/lying/bitchy girlfriend of a tramp who for the second time pointed a gun at him and threatened to maul his fantasmic figure. Let me just say, try to shoot Sexy Pants once, shame on you, try to shoot him twice and I'm taking you down, bitch! (Oh.... vicious language.) For more info, watch this week's ep of Without a Trace and skip to the scenes with Agent Sexy Pants aka Eric close aka... I think his character's name is Martin.

And the gal that tried to seduce Angela's ex? husband on Bones was on The Mentalist as a Wicca. I think her character in TM was much younger... ? I didn't see it all though......

I might put up the story I wrote this and last week at some point, but it needs editing and it randomly became a social commentary and I'm not sure I like it. How can this happen- egads!

And this comic was in the paper today and made me laugh:



I think that since it has the author's info in the pic, I don't need to cite anything, but it's from this site:http://comics.com/brevity/2009-04-14/

<3

Same old R and L O.o do you remember what I meaaaaaan?

Monday, April 13, 2009

*Goodbye, Brain*

Philosophizing via lecture listening has done in my brain to the point of PURE DEATH of thought. I do not think, therefore I am not, except that Descartes been critiqued up and down the walls in this class/lecture because the REAL basis for existence is non-existence. And app. Heidegger calls existence "dasein," which is all Germanicly pretty and sounds like "Design". My brain hurts.

Went to Japanese tonight as well, and I got good remarks from 先生 for my 翻訳 of Joni Mitchell's "Both Sides Now." But I only wrote about the 雲 part so far, continuing with 愛 and 生 next week. In スペイン後の授業 the teacher keeps talking about how 良いwriting in Spanish and 英語 in one book is, but I think that 誰も分かりません。

Well, not nobody, but few people can understand if an author uses extensive Spanish and English both in the same work. But apparently that kind of thinking is racist. Therefore, I'm throwing in Japanese for my papers and to hell with her if she can't 分かる。

情勢のためにおこりました。Gっっっっっっr。

Oh, speaking of rants (that Japanese was a mini-rant), DK1 on YouTube wrote on his blog about this blog, which I'm going to include in its entirely, though he didn't, because it was amazingly interesting. The gal who wrote it is 23 and a PI intern (how interesting is that!) From SciFiForums.Com:

Dear Fuck-ville USA,

Where: 23rd and Charles street on the 800 block.
When: Friday at approx. 8:30 p.m.
Me: Blond girl in leather jacket and boots and blue shirt

To the stupid guy I was performing surveillance on. Will you just take a drink…just ONE drink…just one beer for fucks sake and let me take a picture of it so I no longer have to sit in the back of a smelly van spying on your pathetic ass with my partner’s super-cool spy cam and bogus binoculars.

To the creepy man in the white Dodge Intrepid who solicited sexual favors from me as I stood on the corner, taking a smoke break…I am NOT a HOOKER and you’re blowing my cover! Stop leering at me. It doesn’t matter how long you sit in your car with the motor running, you will not get so much as the finger from me (though it was tempting, believe me).

To the gangbanger who cut in front of me when I was in line at the Ghetto-Mart, take that stupid bandanna off, you look like an idiot, and your scrawny butt is not any tougher because you’re wearing all black. I hate you.

To the Rasta dude who almost hawked up a giant loogie on me. Die.

To the pimp in the crap-ass caprice with the uber-special shiny hubcaps: Yes, I am out here all by myself tonight. No I don’t want a ride. No, I’m good thanks. Really. Oh, I’m a whore? Stop calling me a whore! You fat, ugly, motherfucker. I hope your ‘whip’ takes a nosedive into a ditch some where. Yeah, I’m talking to you. Dumb ass.

To the evil little man behind the counter at the Ghetto-mart, you I hate the most. Why? Because I walked my ass two blocks in the dark through fuck-ville USA to buy some stupid chips from your store in hopes that you might let me use your bathroom. After being subsequently leered at, harassed, called a variety of super-cool names, and almost been spit on, all I really wanted to do was pee. But did you help me? No. You evil little man. You would not let me use your bathroom. I offered you TWENTY dollars! Twenty. Fucking. Dollars. But oh no. No can do. Can’t let the harmless little blond girl use your bathroom. The only bathroom within walking distance is off limits. Of course it is. Why wouldn’t it be? This is fuck-ville USA.

Lastly, to the little old lady whose driveway I peed on while hiding behind your car…I’m really, REALLY sorry. It couldn’t be helped. I had to go. And you also didn’t have any motion sensor lights on your house. Bad idea, by the way, because in fuck-ville this makes you a living target. Especially for people like me. Again, sorry.

Sincerely,

Me

P.S.

To the guy I kicked in the ribs and face last night. I’m pretty sure I broke your nose with my heel. Hope you liked it. If you ever touch my boyfriend again I will KILL you.

To the guy who back-handed me. Die. You busted my lip, you asshole.

To cop who didn’t arrest us, THANK YOU. (They really did jump us, by the way).

End quote.

Anyway, I thought that that was really interesting and perhaps emphasized the comparatively boringness of my life. Oh, but she did say "Emerald City" so maybe I just need to head to the shadier parts of town and spy on people....

R: Their Dogs Came With Them by somebody or other that I'll look up later.

Friday, April 10, 2009

Death is a Disease or Work?

Why is my "The Fountain" soundtrack from the library different from the one on iTunes? But only the one song. Track number five is randomly titled something else.

The one on iTunes is even different from Amazon.com (which matches my copy), with Track Five Entitled "Work" instead of "Death is a Disease."

This is important, you see, because the song "Work" was what brought me to find the entire album. It's a wonderful tune and I wonder why it is only on iTunes.... Let me click on it to see if it is randomly "Work" with just another name, Shakespeare-like.

So, it IS the same song, just with a different name. Interesting... Why would this occur? iTunes error? Wikipedia also states that the title is "Death is a Disease." The guy is working as a doctor trying to save this monkey's life (the guy when the song is playing, not the other two guys played by Hugh Jackman as well), so both titles apply.

iTunes, why do you do this to me?

End Rant and return to "Work"

Thursday, April 9, 2009

*TED, Yo So Joaquin, and Cesar Chavez...*

But not in that order. Anyway, I got a pocket world atlas today so that I can further my quest to memorize the location (then capital) of every country in the world (this one, not the others, if they have countries). Will become genius-like atlas woman with knowledge far and wide. (And sound Bridget Jones-ish in the process).

First book club meeting tonight; I just joined one in North Seattle (mom did too) and we talked about Prozac Nation. It was a pretty short meeting, less than an hour. Not sure how well I like it yet but I guess we'll see. Next month's book is The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay, which I've already read, so that should go alright. Am all set, anyway. Month after is City of Thieves, which received a very high average review on Amazon (4 1/2 stars).

I went to the César Chávez Celebration and signed the petition to make his birthday (March 31st) a state holiday (here in Washington). This group wants to make it a National Holiday though, so, if you live elsewhere, hop to it and sign/start a petition!

A video about him, which I cannot vouch for. Just know that he worked for the rights of farm workers by creating unions and rallying the workers themselves to participate in non-violent protest, which included a large number of Latinos (mostly Chicanos) and Filipinos:


In case you didn't know, he was also a vegan...

Then I went to Chicano/Chicana Literature class and we watched these videos:



(The full poem can be found here: I am Joaquin)

Then this clip of an interview with Sandra Cisneros (who wrote Caramelo as well as House on Mango Street):


We talked about her experience wanting silence as a sort of Woolf "Room of One's Own" concept, and how this compared to another author, whose name I didn't get down, who was/is a single mother of seven children and says that her children are her music. She could not imagine writing in silence. Who is she though? Hrm.

We also read some articles, but I'm not posting them because I don't think you'll read them. I probably wouldn't if I were you. Hrm again.

Then I traveled to Human Rights Leadership class and we watched a few videos of the TED (Technology Entertainment Design) Talks. The first, by Alisa Miller, speaks about people's growing ignorance to world issues while access to media increases:


The second video was by Bono, which apparently I simply cannot pronounce correctly, who spoke about the situation throughout much of Africa. He says that "Africa is on fire" and that we can make our age stand out in history books by providing justice to the people of that continent. It is a long talk, but I provide it for your viewing pleasure nonetheless:


Apparently, also, there is no reason for my credits from Japan to be absent from my transcript at this point. Yuck. I shall have to call the Registrar's Office.

I am also nearly, nearly done with another short story, which I may post for your enjoyment/extreme loss of luckiness. Speaking of which, I found a four-leaf clover yesterday and pressed it in a very thin book. I should probably smash that small book beneath some heftier ones, but I am currently reading it, so this must be postponed. You see how complicated my life is, yes?

Reading: Canicula, still, because it is short but painful. As in, I'm bored. As in, I want to read anything else v.v
L: Nothing, but I just got The Fountain soundtrack from the library- huzzah! Not that I've seen the movie (I started but....) but the music is lovely (at least the few songs I heard before turning the movie off.)

Good night good night! <3

Wednesday, April 8, 2009

*Ugh*

I feel sick and dizzy, so there is nothing much I can write. Tomorrow is my Friday, so I shall try to post something longer and more interesting.

We watched "How to Cook Your Life," a documentary about a tenzo, the cook/monk in Zen monasteries. Here is a trailer:


In case you can't tell from the trailer, it was not mind-boggling or really interesting at all. I thought that the Zen communities pictured are really far from Zen Buddhist ideals and altered in a painful way. I don't know what I'm trying to say, but we studied this subject before- the "Westernization" of "Eastern" religions. I don't know, it's just that, having been to real Zen temples in Japan and Seattle, these "monks" seemed more like hippies trying to escape than actual practitioners.

Also went to see a panel called "Slamming Slumdog" about Slumdog Millionaire. 3/4 of the panelists thought it was imperialistic and sexist, while the other thought it was anti-imperialistic but still sexist. Having yet to see the movie, I cannot engage in a "dialogue" (even though sans them here, it would be a monologue... though I prefer the term "soliloquy").

Feel Sick. Good night!


<3

R: Canícula
L: "How to Cook Your Life" trailer ugh.

Edit: I forgot, but we watched a similar vid to the one I'm going to put below, Sandra Cisneros reading her short story "Eleven" in class yesterday. The beginning of the story is cut off, so it begins:

What they don’t understand about birthdays and what they never tell you is that when you’re eleven, you’re also ten, and nine, and eight, and seven, and six, and five, and four, and three, and two, and one. And when you wake up on your eleventh birthday you expect to feel eleven, but you don’t. You open your eyes and everything’s just like yesterday, only it’s today. And you don’t feel eleven at all. You feel like you’re still ten. And you are—underneath the year that makes you eleven.

The clip:


The story: http://74.125.95.132/searchq=cache:zXPRZmCxAIoJ:khsaplit.pbwiki.com/f/Eleven%2BEssay%2BPrompt.doc+sandra+cisneros+short+story+sweater+not+mine&cd=1&hl=en&ct=clnk&gl=us&client=safari

Tuesday, April 7, 2009

*Wah! It's almost Midnight!*

So I must type very quickly so as to get this online before tomorrow and have a "daily blog" going for a bit. What can I say? I may be going to a discussion on Slumdog Millionaire at school tomorrow entitled "Slamming Slumdog"- a lot of the profs didn't like the way it portrayed poverty I guess? If I can get myself awake and pretty early enough, I shall go, and give you the 4-1-1. Otherwise, we shall all live with a bit more mystery in our lives. Or we could read Agatha Christie novels. It is all so mysterious in and of itself.

Also going to a Cesar Chavez celebration on Thursday, because I RSVPed and therefore must go. Even if I am tired. Even if I'd rather do anything else. Ye.....

What else?

I am reading Canicula, and if I wasn't so lazy there'd be accents galore making this all prettily Spanish perfect. That book is for class, so it must be so. It is also less-than-interesting. And so it goes?

It has been lovely in Seattle the past few days ^_^ and now I sleep!

<3

Monday, April 6, 2009

*Must.... Write... Short... Stories... gah!*

Trying to replace the ones in my Nanowrimo-ness with new ones. Working on different genres to improve variety in works. Apparently I tend toward supernatural-esque writing in the short story (with an attempt to be Twilight Zone-ish), but general fiction in my novels (except the on-going Bertie project, which is Children's Fantasy (with caps)). Who knew?

I would like to try some more crime writing (I did one short story about someone who wants to be murdered by a serial killer..... it makes sense in context?) but it's hard. Would really love to write something Noir-like (notice I'm switching up the ish, esque, ness, and likes). That would make me so happy I'd dream of chocolate sundaes for weeks on end without waking up hungry.

Anyway, apparently I do understand the Buddhist/philosophical concept of religion as explained by Nishitani in that it relates to something Tanaka said. Which Tanaka? If only I could remember- le sigh. Anyway, the struggle toward Enlightenment is generally like a person swimming into the ocean, with Enlightenment being the far shore. You swim and swim and swim and swim (and swim?) until you run out of energy and sink. As you sink and begin drowning/dying you can no longer rely on your own efforts. Suddenly, however, the ocean floats you back to the top, and you do not drown. This is like religion according to Nishitani. Does that make sense? Maybe not.... but it makes sense to me so hurrah for relating, ne?

Must keep diary in Japanese acc. Japanese sensei. How to do? Maybe instead will try to translate story into Japanese. Then I can get compliments on my writing which may or may not be sincere but will pump up my ego nonetheless and probably impede my journey to enlightenment (which is now lower cased for no apparent reason). Oh ego, you ruin everything. Id be a lot better if you'd just slip away (wow, that joke was bad even for me).

Reading..... nothing? Er.... I studied Japanese instead of reading today.... tech., I'm trying to read Sense and Sensibility but the attempt goes poorly. Am not enthralled. Must try harder because Austen will do pretty things to my ugly mind. Right?

Love and peace to you all! Except you, and you know who you are (You!).

<3

Edit: From the Usual Suspects, which I highly recommend, because I like the line: The greatest trick the Devil ever pulled was convincing the world he didn't exist.

Sunday, April 5, 2009

Copyright OR "Oh"

Apparently, as a blogger, I'm covered copyright-wise. So don't steal from me, villainous dogs, or I'll take your booty to court (notice how I cleverly avoided cursing not once, but twice, in a manner that inspires pure genius/I am so full of it).

(From http://www.homeschoolblogger.com/SusanSpann/25658/)

Eagles' Wings.
• September 16, 2005 - Can I copyright my Blog? (Basic facts about U.S. Copyright law)


Believe it or not, you probably already have.

Original blog entries, like many other creative works, are generally protected by copyright from the moment of creation. Under U.S. law copyright protection attaches automatically to all creative works which meet a few basic requirements.

What are these requirements? To obtain copyright protection under the law of the United States, a work must be “copyrightable subject matter,” must possess the required level of “creativity” and “originality” and must be “fixed in a tangible medium of expression.” Early copyright law required registration with the U.S. Copyright office and compliance with other specific formalities. Modern law no longer requires compliance with these formalities in order to establish copyright protection, although compliance is still mandatory before the copyright holder can file a lawsuit to stop unlawful use (known as infringement) of a protected work.

We will explore each of these areas in detail over time, but a brief summary will help to illustrate the basic meanings of the terms.

Copyrightable subject matter essentially means “creative works.” U.S. Copyright law protects “original works of authorship,” including literary (written), pictorial, graphic, artistic, architectural, dramatic and musical works. The scope of copyrightable subject matter extends even to movies, recorded performances and creative works based upon earlier works (also called derivative works). Blogs are definitely included.

Copyrightable subject matter does not include individual words, slogans or phrases (frequently protected by trademark), inventions (the subject of patent law), historical facts or blank forms.

Copyright law does not protect the “building blocks” of expression, such as character types (“a priest”), themes (“evil never prospers”), general ideas or concepts subject to the “merger” doctrine.

Copyrightable “creativity” and “originality” require a new creation, as opposed to “mere copying” of works already in existence. Works independently created by the author which represent or contain more than a trivial variation on prior works satisfy the legal tests and qualify for protection.

Blog content cut and pasted from other sources will not, in most cases, qualify for copyright protection. Content cut and pasted without proper attribution may even infringe the legal rights of the owner or copyright holder of the original material and subject the copier to liability for copyright infringement.

Fixation in a tangible medium of expression requires the creator to produce his or her work in a manner which may be viewed, perceived, reproduced or communicated to others. This communication may be achieved either with or without the use of a machine or device. Writing a story on a piece of paper or typing it into a computer constitutes “fixation.” Posting a Blog entry on the Internet or a comment on a message board constitutes “fixation.” Technical rules aside, almost any act which enables the creator to save the work will qualify as fixation for purposes of copyright law.

Notice that copyright law does not require the formal publication or sale of creative works. Why not? The answer lies in the underlying purpose of copyright law.

The United States Constitution grants Congress the power “to promote the Progress of Science and the useful Arts, by securing for limited times to Authors and Inventors the exclusive Right to their respective Writings and Discoveries. (U.S. Constitution, Article I, §8, clause 8) The threshold for copyright protection is low and attaches automatically because copyright law exists to encourage creative activity. Writers are more likely to write, and bloggers more likely to blog, if they have some measure of ownership and control over the fruits of their labor.

What rights does the creator acquire under copyright law? What actions violate those rights? What happens when copyright protection ends?

Those answers and more in future installments.

© Susan Spann, 2005

*Anniversary*

So, I didn't update yesterday because I was in Yakima for my grandparents' fiftieth, which pretty much everyone who reads this (i.e. my mommy) already knows. O.o So, then, why am I telling you? Ah, my friend, were I to tell you, I'd be mutilating the mystery of the world beyond recognition.

A crime for which I would pay with eternal writer's fatigue. And then my fingers would surely fall off, one by one, from neglect. Or, perhaps from lack of neglect? A result of which I would be forced to say "my digits" in a Rebooty way until everyone in the universe got the reference.

And so the seriousness ends. Ha, "rebooty", I am so amused.

Obviously have nothing much to write about. Thusly, I end my entry here in hopes that no one sets their peepers to it.
<3

Friday, April 3, 2009

*Usual Suspects, Prozac Nation, and Alias*

Because I can't actually talk about myself? So... I talk about random pop culture? Hrm. Maybe brain is too fried. Or not, given that I was speaking nonsense to the little baby most of the day (^_____^). Gah! I just annihilated my own excuse. Must be more careful not to make such mistakes in future.

So I saw the Usual Suspects today. It was on a list that I'm going through of movies on Amazon.com, which I cannot give you the title of without telling you a huge aspect of the story-line (it made it less intense, to be sure, knowing this detail). I really liked Kevin Spacey in it- makes me want to see American Beauty from beginning to end (as opposed to a mad jumble of scenes hrm). Basically these five guys meet up in a line up and end up having to do this suicide mission/job/thing. You've probably seen it, come to that, because it's a big film. But, anyway, it was pretty amazing- especially the ending (even if you did know a bit of what was going to happen). It has an R rating for "violence and a substantial amount of strong language" but the language really wasn't that bad at all- esp. if you've seen shows like Oz or Deadwood or pretty much any R-rated movie these days (even comedies like Kiss Kiss Bang Bang). The violence wasn't that bad either, so go see it if you haven't (and by "go," I mean "rent" because it isn't in theatres....)

Prozac Nation Prozac Nation, le sigh. How depressing. The authoress is just a little bit of a liar, you know. She talks about being dirt dirt poor (she is completely dependent on her mother throughout) yet somehow manages to visit all of these places, go to Harvard (granted, she does have grants -ha), have extreme counseling, etc. etc. etc. How can she afford all this if she's practically living on the streets? At one point, she even points out that it's cheaper to live in dorms at her university but that she chooses to live in an apartment. Plus, she must make some extra money publishing these articles and books (and getting an offer for the Oprah show... goodness) Thus, I am unconvinced of her poorness. Nor can I relate with her. How can she just go somewhere new and find all the drugs right away? Glaciers!

But she really does capture what it feels like to be depressed. The complete self-involvement of it all and how this makes you hate yourself. Read it for a book club (we're reading The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay next... which I've already read... hurrah for me?)

Alias... well... the spy drama is awesome and Jennifer Garner is gorgeous no matter what she wears or what color her hair is. Not many people can pull of these crazies outfits and colors, but somehow, her sheer goddess-like-ness allows her to pull it off. I am more impressed by her every time she graces us with her presence <3 The writing is good overall- the fight scenes are action-licious and the dialogue witty (some fun minor characters thrown in) but.. well... these things they steal/need info on/etc. can be silly.

From alias-tv.com:
"Sloane sends Sydney and Dixon to Madrid to steal a lockbox, containing a sketch with what appear to be digital code...only drawn in the late 15th century by a seer named Milo Rambaldi." (Episode: Parity)

Really? It is just needlessly cheesy. And the episodes are structured strangely. Like the previous episode actually ends just before the opening credits of the current episode role, and the next episode begins just before the end credits (if that makes any sense). So you basically get one full episode in the middle, then the end of the previous episode at the beginning, and the beginning of the next episode at the end. Does your brain hurt?

Maybe I'm a bit behind the times, all of these came out in the nineties or early millennium.... right? Hrm. Well, just be grateful I updated at all! Am now going to sleep and calling you ingrates (even if you are thoroughly amused and happy I posted ^___^)

<3
R: ? (should probably start something...)
L: Dustin O'Halloran "Piano Solos Volume 2"

Thursday, April 2, 2009

*Mi Familia and the UN*

We watched the film Mi Familia in class today. It was alright, v. sad though. I don't know, something about it rubbed me the wrong way. It's about a family headed my a mother and father who immigrated to the US from Mexico. It's just one of those immigrant stories where EVERYTHING happens to this one family- kind of like Come See the Paradise (about a Japanese American family). So basically, this family sees the following issues: gangs, drugs, murder, racism by the police, mysticism and religion (river god takes someone aka they die), son renouncing culture (change name to William), marriage for entry into the US, prison, farm labor, stereotyping, owning a Mexican restaurant, etc. etc. etc. it hurts my head all that they squeezed into this one family. Plus, you don't really get the narrator's story. Except that he was in the navy. Hm.

Maybe three stars ?

Then we learned about the UN in Human Rights Leadership today. It is all v. confusing, btw. My head hurts thinking about it, so I'll post something or other later. Don't much want to argue politics where all the world can see it (will end up political prisoner O.O whaa?).

Almost done with Prozac Nation- hoorah! And one of the other books for Chican@ (that's how my teacher writes Chicano/Chicana because it's both an a and an o... though I still have not met my professor yet. Is calling a professor just plain-o teacher bad?) Lit finally arrived- yay! It is short, so I shall begin it ASA my current book is completed.

Cannot stay up to watch Ghost on tv tho v.v good night!

<3

Wednesday, April 1, 2009

"Shiny Planet"

Obviously, an actual title is needed. Eck. Here's the short story I said I might post. I've got it dated and printed and saved up the wazoo but am still slightly worried someone might turn it into something not half-bad and steal it without mentioning li'l ol' me. In which case, I'd have to sue them and sew them (to a meteorite...). Be warned, ye piratey kinds- yarg!

(From my 2008 Nanowrimo Novel "Dedication"-- short stories are intermixed with the narrative)-- which means I also have this on the Nanowrimo site on my account. Feeling v. protected (though a little vain O.o)

Working title "Shiny Planet" (anyone have an actual title?)--

It was brighter than I had imagined, the light so intense that I had to shield my eyes with my hand and look at the ground. The dirt below me shimmered, as though someone had mixed in glitter with the soil, and this shimmery dirt caught in the wind occasionally and carried through the air, giving everything the illusion of being an illusion. It smelt old. Although I know this description is vague and offers little, it is exactly as I felt, as though I were entering some ancient library, sealed off for hundreds of years and preserved until my entrance. It was a hot sort of old smell, the heat slightly above the temperatures reached in even the highest regions of Earth.

My companion handed me my goggles. In the shimmery air, her hand too glistened, making her appear as though she was merely a figment created by the random shapings of the wind. Perhaps nothing here would appear real to me at first.

I placed my goggles over my eyes and offered a brief “thanks” to my companion. She said nothing in response, still taking in her first few experiences of the new land. I stood beside her and looked up, surveying the sandy scene that looked a lot like something you would see in a fairy tale. Of course, there were very few trees, and would have been few colors at all if the glittering sands had not caught the sun in tiny prisms. Or perhaps it was something other than sand, pollen maybe. I must admit to you that I am not a scientist. That was not my purpose here.

The sun seemed dangerously close, as though it might crash into us at any second. But, really, it must be the case that any deviation in the proximity of the sun from a person’s location makes he or she nervous. My companion certainly seemed anxious, though I really couldn’t expect less, given the circumstances.

“What do you think?” She asked me, turning to face me with her lovely figure, lovely face glittering, making her seem like a goddess, the goddess of this strange place.

I considered this question. “It is iridescent.”

She laughed but ended up coughing as she inhaled the glimmering bits. I rushed to her aid but she shook me off with her hand and removed her water bottle from her side to take a large gulp. She continued to smile as her coughing became less frequent and stopped.

“I didn’t mean for it to be funny,” I said, shyly, continuing to watch her.

“You never do,” she replied as she hitched her water bottle back to her side, “That’s what makes it so funny.” My companion then stretched, her back and shoulders, producing various cracks and snaps, before sitting down rather abruptly, more accurately allowing herself to fall into a cross-legged sit. “What should we do first, do you think?” She looked up at me with a hand shielding her eyes, the sun still too intense, even with her goggles.

“We should assemble our new shelter,” I suggested as I mimicked her way of sitting, which wasn’t nearly as easy to do as it had appeared. “It could get dark at any time.”

“It won’t get dark at any time, ever,” my companion countered. “That’s the point, isn’t it?”

“One of the points,” I replied. I leaned back, resting my entire torso in the sand, half-worrying that gigantic tentacles would suddenly reach out of the ground and wrap themselves around me. I would have a moment to scream, to simultaneously warn my companion and bid her adieu, before being pulled into the ground and devoured. Most likely, the beast would tear me into tiny pieces, first my limbs, so that I would have the sensation of being ripped apart, and then my head. But then, it was only a half-worry.

The sun fell strongly on my face, and I felt the shining particles attach themselves to the hairs on my face and head. I wondered if I glittered like my companion, if I could ever look half so appealing. But then, that wasn’t the problem, was it?

“It isn’t how I expected it would be,” she said to me, and I nodded in response. “I thought it would be hotter.”

“It is very hot,” I replied, and felt my skin burning to prove it.

“But it could have been worse.” She took out some sunscreen from her backpack and rubbed it messily across her face in splotches. It smelled like grapes. “It’s actually kind of pretty.”

“Yes, the iridescence is very nice when it isn’t lodged in your throat,” I agreed, which made her laugh again, though I still was not trying to be amusing. I think there must be something strange in the way that I talk now. I used to make her laugh before but it was always when I had meant to. Something was strange here. Perhaps it was the heat that did it.

She lay down too, and rolled over to be beside me. I stretched my arm to rest by her side, but did not touch her. The sand grew hot beneath us, and I wished that we had brought a towel. But then, this wasn’t a pleasure cruise, either. To be entirely candid, I must admit that the reason for our stay here was, at this point, competently eluding me.

“We should assemble the tent,” I suggested, and I stood, carefully, the pretty dusts sweeping off of me in the motion and with the wind. I could feel the wind push through my hair, sending the shimmers from it as well, apart from those that were always there. I could feel the sands begin to stick to me as I sweat and knew that the two of us would soon be uncomfortable.

I imagined that the sun was setting, growing a little more to the west as each second progressed, though I didn't even know which direction was which or if, perhaps, the sun set in the north here. It was a hopeful notion, at best, and the result of the heat on my mind, at worst. I wished I had thought to shave my head before coming, to give my scalp at least a bit of reprieve from the heat. If it had been a little hotter, I imagined it might have burst into flames.

“I don’t have the energy,” my companion whined, slightly, but she stood nonetheless.

We returned to where we had come from, where the tent and a box of provisions lay, including matches and a few logs to start a fire. I think those might have been meant as some sort of a joke, though they were heavy to carry, I remembered. The tent was small, you could tell even with it disassembled, and sadly black, which would look dismal against the mostly brownish orange, though shimmery, landscape.

Taking up a few pieces, I glanced to my companion. “Do you know how to construct this?”

She rummaged through the box, trying to find the instructions. I was fairly certain we had never had any, but it seemed a pity to ruin her hopes so quickly. “I think we must’ve lost them,” she exclaimed, and she walked over to me. “I’m sure we can figure it out, though.”

It took us nearly an hour to complete the tent’s assembly, and we were exhausted when the effort was concluded. From the box, we removed two energy bars, which we ate voraciously, though they had no taste to speak of.

However, it was a great disappointment when we entered the tent, for it was even hotter than the outside, due to the black color, which took in great amounts of heat. In order to combat this, we removed our clothes and ripped them, covering the small roof with their pastel colors. With any luck, this would eventually cool the tent, provided the wind did not blow the garments away.

We sat inside the tent, beside each other, but not touching, for a long time. My companion would occasionally wet her fingers in her water bottle and fling the droplets at me, smiling sometimes though sometimes sad. There was nothing really to do. I went out to get the box and set it at the opening of our tent, so that we could reach it from within.

“Is there anything interesting in there?” My companion asked, glancing over my naked shoulders and back to the box’s interior.

“Do you want to have a hand at carving one of the logs?” I tried, taking one of them out and showing it to her.

“No,” she replied, a bit disappointedly, “If we got splinters, there wouldn’t be any way to get them out.”

I nodded and returned to her. As I began to set myself down, my companion called out abruptly for me to stop. I froze, my knees bent, imaging myself quite unattractive to look at in such a position.

“Stand up again,” she commanded, and I did. I stood before her and watched her look me over, every detail of my body. She had seen it many times before, so I wasn’t sure what she was playing at. Perhaps I was simply more interesting to look at than the tent’s dark walls.

“Never mind,” she muttered, after a few minutes. “Just sit next to me.”

I set myself beside her and met her gaze, which had turned melancholy. “Do you want to try to sleep?” I asked.

“I don’t think I could,” she replied, though she lay down nonetheless. She sighed deeply, glitters shooting from her mouth, and closed her eyes. I watched her for a very long time. The dust settled on her quickly, enveloping her figure so that it looked as though she was wearing a very tight body suit, and then, as though she were an erotic figure created out of the sand by a naughty child.

I quietly emptied the box then refilled it, trying to trick myself into believing I was organizing things. It certainly seemed as though we were already running low on supplies, but I supposed that must be impossible. It would take a very long time before we ran out. I wondered if we might devise a calendar to count the days. But then, if the sun never sets and the sun never rises, I think that they cannot really be days at all. In this place, night and day are the same.

In an attempt to occupy myself further while my companion pretended to sleep or perhaps made a play at being dead, I tried to remember her name. It was silly, I was sure, that I could have forgotten it, and, in fact, I was positive that I could never have forgotten the name of my only. And, yet, I found myself in the awkward position of having lost it, somewhere along the way.

She stirred, finally, and shook herself violently to remove some of the dust, though it clinged to her as though it were permanently attached. She coughed, noisily, a few times, and freed her mouth, for the most part. Sitting up, she smiled a dusty grin at me. “Did you try to sleep?”

“No,” I replied, “I organized the box.”

“There isn’t very much in there,” she said quietly, but she came over to view my work nonetheless. “How long was I out for?”

I figured she was playing some sort of game. She had not slept and we were both aware of this fact and, additionally, I had no way to measure time. “A few hours,” I lied, and she nodded.

“Do you want to go exploring?” She asked, and I replied “yes” very quickly.

We left the tent with only our goggles on, and continued carrying on through the desert with the sand cutting into our flesh lightly. The sun seemed ever closer, though I told myself it must be further, and the heat tried to dry the sand onto us like concrete. We continued into the endless day until we were back at our tent. It appeared that this was a small, globular place. In order to get any sort of exercise, we circled our tiny planet a few more times.

My companion took me back to the tent and we again sat. She looked tired, beneath all the sand, and she breathed heavily. We had not walked far enough for her to be so exhausted, but the heat seemed to affect her more than it did me.

“Do you want something to drink?” I asked. “I can get your water bottle, if you want.”

“Just lay by me,” she pleaded, and I did, because she sounded so miserable and we had only just arrived.

She brought her fingers so that they were only a few centimeters from mine, and I worried that she might forget herself. I coughed to remind her, and she pulled away, standing abruptly to look down at me. “Why do you have to look so handsome?” She asked. She probably would have screamed this question if sand had not been hardening in her throat, stealing away her voice.

“I look like I always looked,” I replied, and I too stood. Her eyes continued to trail me. “Why would I appear any differently?”

She shook her head. “It’s just so hard.”

I nodded and wanted to approach her, but kept my distance. “I’m sorry,” I said quietly, but then I admitted, “I seem to have forgotten your name.”

I had expected her to be surprised or even angrily shocked by this news, but she just sighed, quietly, to herself. “Of course you have,” she replied.

“Why?” I asked. “I don’t remember anything.”

“You seem to remember some of it,” she countered, and she approached me again.

“You can’t touch me,” I explained, voicing what we both knew.

“My name is Anne,” she said quietly, “but you’ll forget it again. You always do. They made it a little bit easier for you.”

I wanted to touch her, it filled my mind and it killed me that I could not fulfill the one action we both longed for. “How did we get here? I don’t remember. Why do you remember?”

“Because I killed you, Peter,” she exclaimed, and she threw up her hands in irritation, though I was unable to discern whether it was aimed at me or herself, “And I had to go where they send people who kill those the one they love.”

“Why did you kill me?” I asked, somehow calm.

“I don’t know, I just did!” She began pacing the tiny tent, small circles. “And you were there, after they pumped sodium thiopental into my veins, waiting. You’d been waiting. They said you wanted to be with me, despite everything.”

“I don’t remember any of this.”

“They didn’t want you to remember. It was too awful and you didn’t do anything wrong and it’s more painful for me, having to keep telling you all this! It was too wonderful for me to get to have you again.” She looked at me, and she might have had tears, through she just looked shimmery to me.

I thought for a moment, and felt that I had known this, somewhere inside all along. Yet, I had forgotten. And, she claimed that I would forget again. I couldn’t believe that I could forget this sort of thing, and yet, it wasn’t a matter of thought. “How long have we been here?” I asked, for it had only been half a day for me.

“Forever,” she said, and she cackled piteously. “I don’t know how long. We keep putting up the tent and tearing it down, and food keeps reappearing. And our clothes. And you keep getting mesmerized by the shimmers and saying the exact same things. And I can’t even touch you, or they’ll take you away from me.”

“I wish I could touch you,” I said.

“Me too,” she replied.

I considered her for a moment. “I’m sorry,” I said quietly, but then I admitted, “I seem to have forgotten your name.”

It was brighter than I had imagined, the light so intense that I had to shield my eyes with my hand and look at the ground. The dirt below me shimmered, as though someone had mixed in glitter with the soil, and this shimmery dirt caught in the wind occasionally and carried through the air, giving everything the illusion of being an illusion. It smelt old. Although I know this description is vague and offers little, it is exactly as I felt, as though I were entering some ancient library, sealed off for hundreds of years and preserved until my entrance. It was a hot sort of old smell, the heat slightly above the temperatures reached in even the highest regions of Earth.

EDIT: Apparently, by posting on Nanowrimo's website, I am copyrighted, thus,
Copyright 2008 Amanda Martin

Edit 2: How did my spellcheck not catch "shiny" spelt "shiney"? Oh.... now it does... weird. Silly glitches.

*Images in Philosophy*

The prof. used a lot of references today to get us to understand what Nishitani was really talking about when he defined religion in his essay. These are not pleasant references (although sometimes amusingish), but I'll put them here for your viewing pleasure (reading pleasure?). Basically, Nishitani says that the starting point for really experiencing what he means by "religion" (which, btw, cannot include ego) is true despair, generally through one's death (or supposed death) or the death of a loved one. That point when the question becomes not "does God exist?" or "what use is God to me?" but a reference to one's own existence without the distinction between "I" and everything else.

He used a Jewish saying in class to explain this (actually, I can't find it online, but he said it was Jewish... maybe a famous rabbi said it?). I shall paraphrase (because I can't find it, aka am Google failure): "The moment of my death, I ask 'Who was I, so busy, so important,' and God laughing 'No.'"

... I guess I didn't get it down very well, but you have the gist. Right? It reminds me of Watchmen:
Rorschach's Journal. October 12th, 1985. Dog carcass in alley this morning, tire tread on burst stomach. This city is afraid of me. I have seen its true face. The streets are extended gutters and the gutters are full of blood and when the drains finally scab over, all the vermin will drown. The accumulated filth of all their sex and murder will foam up about their waists and all the whores and politicians will look up and shout 'Save us!' And I'll look down, and whisper 'no.' They had a choice, all of them.

Anyway, another example he gave was Roman Polanski's version of Macbeth when Macbeth sees the forest marching toward him, a symbol of his approaching and inevitable death. Acc. the prof, only Polanski or someone who had experienced what he had could so well depict this scene, having known the feeling of losing everything (Macbeth's wife's just killed herself as well- recall) when his pregnant wife was killed by the Manson family.



The last example is from Seventh Seal by Bergman. I could only find it sans subtitles, so I'm putting a translation of the scene first. Basically the fellow who "stabs" himself cuckolded one of the other men (Skat) and fakes his death to get away. He is pretty happy to have survived, but, as this scene shows, there's no cheating death:

JOF
He's dead, totally, enormously dead. In fact,
I've never seen such a dead actor.

LISA
Come on, let's go. This is nothing to mourn
over. He has only himself to blame.

PLOG
And I have to be married to her.

JONS
We must go on.

SKAT lies in the grass and keeps the dagger pressed tightly to his breast.
The travelers depart and soon they have disappeared into the dark forest on
the other side of the meadow. When SKAT is sure that no one can see him, he
sits up and lifts the dagger from his breast. It is a stage dagger with a
blade that pushes into the handle. SKAT laughs to himself.

SKAT
Now that was a good scene. I'm really a good
actor. After all, why shouldn't I be a little
pleased with myself? But where shall I go? I'll
wait until it becomes light and then I'll find
the easiest way out of the forest. I'll climb
up a tree for the time being so that no bears,
wolves or ghosts can get at me.

He soon finds a likely tree and climbs up into its thick foliage. He sits
down as comfortably as possible and reaches for his food pouch.

SKAT
(yawns)
Tomorrow I'll find Jof and Mia and then we'll
go to the saints' feast in Elsinore. We'll make
lots of money there.
(yawns)
Now, I'll sing a little song to myself:
(sings)
I am a little bird
Who sings whate'er he will,
And when I am in danger
I fling out a pissing trill
As in the carnal thrill.
(speaks)
It's boring to be alone in the forest tonight.
(sings)
The terrible night doesn't frighten me ...

He interrupts himself and listens. The sound of industrious sawing is heard
through the silence.

SKAT
Workmen in the forest. Oh, well!
(sings)
The terrible night doesn't frighten me ...
(speaks)
Hey, what the devil ... it's my tree they're
cutting down.

He peers through the foliage. Below him stands a dark figure diligently
sawing away at the base of the tree. SKAT becomes frightened and angry.

SKAT
Hey, you! Do you hear me, you tricky bastard?
What are you doing with my tree?

The sawing continues without a pause. SKAT becomes more frightened.

SKAT
Can't you at least answer me? Politeness costs
so little. Who are you?

DEATH straightens his back and squints up at him. SKAT cries out in terror.

DEATH
I'm sawing down your tree because your time is
up.

SKAT
It won't do. I haven't got time.

DEATH
So you haven't got time.

SKAT
No, I have my performance.

DEATH
Then it's canceled because of death.

SKAT
My contract.

DEATH
Your contract is terminated.

SKAT
My children, my family.

DEATH
Shame on you, Skat!

SKAT
Yes, I'm ashamed.

DEATH begins to saw again. The tree creaks.

SKAT
Isn't there any way to get off? Aren't there
any special rules for actors?

DEATH
No, not in this case.

SKAT
No loopholes, no exceptions?

DEATH saws.

SKAT
Perhaps you'll take a bribe.

DEATH saws.

SKAT
Help!

DEATH saws.

SKAT
Help! Help!

The tree falls. The forest becomes silent again.




At some point, I need to post something more original here, rather than depending on famous directors. Hrm.

<3

Edit: Actually has the translation now- d'oh!