Let's Get Some Shoes

Three weeks until I leave New York. Three measly weeks. I've had three nightmares the past few nights about readjusting to Provo life. Bonafide, genuine nightmares, the kind where I wake up short of breath and scared for my life. One of them involves driving from Provo to Salt Lake, and I keep driving and driving, and when I finally get to Salt Lake it's still Provo.

Tonight I went to Bryant Park for the movie in the park. It was "To Sir, With Love." I haven't seen that film since Mr. Dewes' media class senior year. I was alone, but not really alone. I love being alone! There were these two dude-bros sitting behind me who kept saying, "Yeah dude, Audrey Hepburn is in this." They kept talking about Audrey Hepburn! I didn't have the heart to tell them she wasn't in that film. About a fourth of the way through the film, one said to the other, "Dude, if Audrey Hepburn isn't in the next scene, I'm leaving." Sure enough, she wasn't in the next scene. Sure enough, they left.

Today was a long day. I produced a lot of stories today (which means I coded them up for the pcmag website). I think six in all. It's pretty mind-numbing work. I'm still dead.

Syracuse was fun!! Palmyra was fun!!! I went to the Sacred Grove, to Joseph Smith's house, to the Palmyra temple, and to the Hill Cumorah pageant.

I am reading The Watchmen right now. It's a graphic novel. I really love it. Also, I'm earning lots of street cred at work for reading a graphic novel.

I want to write more, but I'd rather go to bed.

Wouldn't it be loverly

I know why people complain about New York summers now. Today is the most disgusting day I've ever lived through. It's 95 degrees at 70 percent humidity. It is, literally, like a sauna. I am, literally, in need of popsicles, but they will melt on the walk home.

I found out who Dave's dating: it's my friend Emily. She emailed me and told me. I am strangely okay with it. Not distressed, not jealous, not upset. I haven't had the urge to cry; I haven't even teared up. This is odd to me, the girl who cries at the most insignificant beauty, the girl who weeps at the symphony, the girl who cries as a means of relieving stress. It's made me realize that I really didn't like him as much as I thought I did. I was so emotionally involved that I kidded myself into thinking I adored him. There are a lot of things about him I like--a lot--but heck, I was rarely myself around him, at least not the side of myself I consider my best side. He didn't bring that out in me. It never would've worked is what I'm trying to say, and any residual melancholy I feel isn't so much over losing him--it's over not having found anyone better.

Montauk was a blast. A serious blast. We saw Jay-Z in the Hamptons. My skin is so sunburned, I feel like I'm going to morph (Animorphs!) into an alligator. My legs are covered in welts from mosquito bites. My luscious lips are cracked and tend toward bleeding (though they haven't actually bled yet). But I love it all. I love feeling. I love being uncomfortable. I love knowing I am alive.

When I was at Fairway a few weeks ago (for those of you who don't know, Fairway is a posh grocer here in Manhattan), I accidentally bought No Sodium bread. Not just Low Sodium, we're talking ZERO sodium. And it was also $3.00. Rather than throwing away twelve perfectly good sandwiches, I've slowly been consuming this tasteless brown matter, sometimes sprinkling a little salt directly on the bread to make it more palatable. I will not make this mistake again.

My editor, Laarni, asked me today if I would cover the launch of Guitar Hero 3. Would I?! Anyone who knows me well knows that I can't get enough of that game. My records on all my friend's memory cards proves it. So yes. Come July 26 I will meet my greatest weakness face to face: it--new and improved, me--out of practice and fingers out of shape. Let's hope I can rock it still. Hopefully I'll get some cool RedOctane swag too.

My band may get back together this fall. You see, my beautiful friend Barbie is moving back to Utah! She got a job as the lead designer for the Salt Lake Tribune, quite an accomplishment for a barely graduated college student. So luckily I will have her back this fall. Wonderful!

PS I am so in love with love.

I don't wanna be defeated.

I'm still doing the shuffle thing. I'm on song 677.

Work is going really well. They're using my web stories in the print version. They're trusting me with editing (meaning cutting, like actually altering the text as I see fit) the print version. It's really cool. I am flattered. I am also grateful to be a good writer and that I was blessed with this talent, because I really like doing it, be it tech writing, criticism, or blogging. Blogging is my favorite though. Or writing little vignettes about my thoughts and experiences.

When I am truly happy, I discover little insights. I must be truly happy right now, because I find a few insights each day. This morning, it was that I must've been a punk rocker in a past life. I say this because since I've been doing my iPod shuffle thing, my heart noticeably skips a beat when a Mission of Burma song comes on, or when a Wipers song starts, or when I hear the rip-rockin' chords of a Buzzcocks tune. I truly was born in the wrong era, but it's probably better I was born in this era when no good punk rock is being made so I don't become some junkie.

I'm excited for my Super 8 class this fall. I have a lot of ideas for what I want to do, both shots and narration. Every shot I think of involves shooting into the sun, into its amber-colored tentacles. I love shooting into the sun. It can be tricky, but with some practice I think I'll get it right. It creates such an ethereal tone and instantly enlivens whatever your subject is. I love it. Some of my favorite photos I've taken were of JR on the Shandy Hall roof last fall. Shot into the sun at sunset, used a fill flash to light him. They're pretty cool.

Now I'm on song 682. "Bed For the Scraping" by Fugazi off Red Medicine.

Oh you know, just living the dream.

Thirty hours until I leave for Montauk. Meet me in Montauk.

Today I edited a bunch of stories at work. The em dash is overused.

Tonight I am tired. I had good things to write, things about the subway and about how lovely people are, but I am too tired. Well, I'll write a little.

Today I left work and decided to go to SoHo, only I didn't end up going to SoHo. I walked down Park Avenue, from 28th to 14th, to Union Square. I couldn't help but be in love with everyone who walked by. Everyone I passed was just. So. Beautiful. They seemed to smile, even if they weren't really. They were magical. I feel this way a lot though. This time was no more special than any other except for the fact that it happened today. It will probably happen tomorrow too.

Did you know my blog is still on west coast/pacific time? I've never changed it. But I did leave my heart in San Francisco when I first moved to Provo (four years ago), so it's only fitting.

Five weeks left in New York. I think I will be ready to leave Provo come December after all. I'm thinking maybe I'll move to the beach. Maybe I can convince John-Ross to move to Italy with me when he's done with school. (He would have to be my mouthpiece since I can only speak opera lyrics that sing about love and heartache. Then again, I may be able to win a few Italian hearts that way). Maybe I'll join the Peace Corps. Maybe I'll move to the forest so I can meditate all day, every day, and pick up tai chi again. I was happier when I did tai chi.

Why did the Beatles put children's voices in "Across the Universe"? Maybe they thought the kids sounded like angels. I think they sound like gross.

Observations on the Subway: Brooklyn to Manhattan, 1 am to 2:30 am

• boyfriend feeling up girlfriend directly across from me on the Q. I was repulsed. I switched cars.
• child screaming from DeKalb to wherever...Brooklyn to halfway through Manhattan
• Riding backward on the subway is my favorite. The motions are contradictory. I'm facing the past, but the future comes nonetheless. Symbolic of my current state.
• The graffiti on the Brooklyn side is much better than the graffiti on the Manhattan side. One might expect this. I found a secret subway station off the Q. I have no clue where to find it again. The Ninja Turtles probably live there.
• I fall in love with a different man every time I ride the subway. Last night it was a boy with wavy brown hair, layered surfer-style to his shoulders, grey carpenter pants, a darling grin, green Crocs, stained t-shirt, olive skin. He was foreign. He was smiling at me.
• Black men check me out more than men from any other race. I think that's why I like Brooklyn so much. I feel sexy there. Manhattan is only fruitful for skinny white girls. I think black men are probably led on my buxom front side, but disappointed by my lack of a ba-donk-a-donk rear.
• Most black women I interact with here call me "Baby" or "Babe." If anyone else called me this, I would find it condescending. Otherwise, it's oddly endearing.
• There are a few different guys I wouldn't mind dating, but I don't think they know I exist. Or maybe they do, but they don't know I'm a girl. Either way, New York needs to step it up.
• The highest compliment ever paid to me was by my mom's cousin Janet. It was late August in Salem, Oregon. We were at my aunt and uncle's 50th wedding anniversary. Janet had had a few glasses of wine. She was neither drunk nor tipsy, sober nor stable. She cam e over to me toward the end of the party, glass of champagne in hand. "Lisa," she said, "you have a light about you. It's a light a know well. It's the light your mother has. Your eyes sparkle. Your smile lights up the room. It's uncanny how much you look like your mother when she was your age. I feel like I'm in the '70s again, looking at your mother. You have the same air and the same energy." My mother is the best woman I know, next to Grandma Betty, with John-Ross' mother closing in the rear. How lucky I am to have them in my life. This is my greatest goal--to be one of these women.
• Dave is already dating a new girl. I feel very meaningless.
  

It's a beautiful world.

Humans are 95 percent similar. We're all composed of the same parts. We have the same organs, the same emotions, the same general abilities. We are hardly as unique as we think we are. Black, white, Asian, Dominican, rich, poor, stuck-up, humble. That five percent difference accounts for practically nothing, yet somehow that's where we place all the emphasis. That five percent difference is why people are racist, why there are hair salons specifically for black women, why Asians have narrow eyes, why my last name wreaks of bratwurst. That five percent difference is what breeds the bulk of the hatred infesting the world.

This morning on the subway, a homeless man started his schpiel about how he was hungry and all he wanted was some change for a coffee or warm sandwich. I hear this story at least once a day. My heart is mostly hardened to it. I kept my eyes in my book (The Book of Mormon, ironically) and casually glanced at those better than I who gave him some change, a dollar, anything. We passed 50th, arrived at 42nd Times Square. The homeless man turned to a yuppie white guy, garbed in Lands End, and asked, "This is Times Square right?" Yuppie guy ignored the homeless man. He repeated, "Is this Times Square?"

Yuppie man knew full well that homeless guy was talking to him, yet he still straight up ignored him. Yuppie guy turned to leave, still fully avoiding homeless guy, and homeless guy yells, "F*** you, man." It was the only fitting thing to say, I suppose, and it was deserved.

It's that darn five percent.

Let me count the ways.

New York is great.

GREAT!

Yesterday I helped Trent and Phil and Joe move from my house in north Manhattan to their house in Brooklyn. It took us...TWO AND A HALF HOURS TO GET THERE! I couldn't believe it. It was ridiculous. First, the A only ran to 4th street, so we had to switch to the D. Then we had to switch to the Q. It was the pits. But luckily, they live right next to Prospect Park, so I spent much of the afternoon napping and exploring that gorgeous, lovely park.

Last night was the best! We went to my friend Adeline's birthday party. Addie was an exchange student from France who stayed with my family eight years ago, and now she works for a French company in New York. I have never wanted to drink wine so badly in my life. She had a huge spread of bread and cheese (Oh, the cheese! It was so delicious) and a counter with probably fifteen different wines. We (me, Trent and Phil) were the only native English speakers -- as well as the only non-imbibers -- at the party. Addie lovingly remembered that some Mormons don't drink caffeine, so she got me caffeine free Diet Coke! Everyone else was French, and SO COOL! There was this one guy Charles (Trent and Phil thought he said his name was Jazz) who was very obviously the self-appointed life of the party. This kid was rattling off in French alllllllllll night, and he'd pull one of those "I'm talking loudly is everyone watching me" routines where he'd look around and make sure all eyes were on him. He was great. But France! My love is renewed; my anger at myself for letting my French slip is intensified. I hardly understood anything last night, granted they were all inebriated and talking a mile a minute. But! France!

Today I went to church. It was a great day. A GREAT day. A boy I once had a purely physical relationship with is getting married. Good for him! I don't know the girl, but I pray they'll be very happy. I met many wonderful people, including a girl named Sara who's 29 and moved to New York a year ago after working for a designer lady in Boise, and now Sara goes to Pratt and she's interning with Steinway! Like Steinway pianos! She said I can come play piano there anytime I want to! We exchanged numbers so we can be friends. After church, Chris, Yancy and Lacey came over to my house for a short while, and I heard Yancy's ring tone (DRAGONFORCE!! I heard his phone ring and I actually looked around for Rory!) before we all trekked back to Fort Tryon Park for this boy Collin's birthday party. It was so fun! Megan had her Polaroid and we took photos. She also had her baseball mits, so we played catch. Anne made delicious cupcakes and cake, and she brought games like "Stick the butterfly on Curious George," which bears a striking resemblance to Pin the Tail on the Donkey minus the concise name, and we wore party hats, and flew a kite, and blew bubbles, and later I ran along a rock wall that had a 20 or 30 foot drop down one side. Luckily Yancy held my hand for comfort, and Megan took an amazing photo of it. Everyone walking by was jealous. I would've been too. It was a marvelous evening. The weather was perfect. The mood was perfect. Everything was perfect. Also, Fort Tryon is my most favorite park in Manhattan, if not all of New York City. It is gorgeous. Windy, overgrown, mysterious, enchanting. I will return there oft.

Now I'm at home listening to the Beatles. Maybe I'll update my ipod. I'm still doing the shuffle thing. I'm on song 378 out of 5,150. I'm doing pretty well, eh?

The moral of the story is that New York is a lot of fun, and I will miss it come August 9.

This week for the 4th of July I'm seeing the New Pornographers for free, watching the Macy*s fireworks, and then this weekend I'm going camping in Montauk, meet me in Montauk.

My life is like, so shoes.

Love (truly),
Lisa

Not For All The Tea In China

I've realized I'm noticeably more sad in the morning than the evening. I'm not sure why. Strange, eh?

Today I'm working from home. People at my work work from home all the time. I often wonder if they're actually working or if they're doing what I'm doing, which is working while watching movies. Oh and blogging, but I already blog at work anyway.

New York in the summertime is gross. Don't ever let anyone convince you otherwise. I'm not going to waste time describing it. Just know it's gross and that dry heat is where it's at.

I've been thinking a lot lately about growing up, about what I should do when I finish school in December. I could stay in school another semester, I could work for a little while and go to grad school in the fall. I could go back to New York and work, or go to Europe and work, or move home to San Francisco and work. Also, I could stay in Utah and work, although I'd move to Salt Lake City. Or I could still serve a mission.

But the real dilemma is this: Do I want to be someone or do I want to be mediocre? I feel that if I move back home, I'll be taking the easy way out. I could work a cool job in San Francisco, but it probably wouldn't be with the BBC. If I moved to New York I'd be unhappy because I have to take the subway everywhere. If I moved to London or Paris, of course I'd be happy and doing something with my life--I'd be in Europe!

Do you see my predicament? I need to detach myself from that mindset, that I have to be somewhere other than a place I know to be somebody. I'll go where I should go, I guess.

Here's a personal revelation. My friends Trent and Phil and Joe have been staying with me the past few days since their sublet doesn't start til tomorrow. I've noticed though that I really like having a man around. Like REALLY. It feels natural. It feels right. It feels...scary. I'm not sure what it means, but I think it mostly just means I like having a man around. Nothing more. I think it also means I miss Dave, but my life is already less stressful not talking to him. I let myself get too stressed out with him. It wasn't good. This time not talking will be good.

Also, his myspace profile says he's from Bourgeois Bohemia. I've always wondered what this was, so I finally looked it up yesterday. The definition of the term bourgeois bohemians follows: "Often of the corporate upper-middle to upper class, they rarely oppose mainstream society, claim highly tolerant views of others, buy lots of expensive and exotic items, and believe American society to be meritocratic."

Too bad Dave's so cool.

Off to work!

I'm so tame in my old age.

I have six weeks left in New York starting today. Six weeks minus two hours from the time I started typing this.

I am not going to take my iPod off shuffle until I leave (This is a goal I will not complete). I'm on song 224 out of 5,150.

Tomorrow the iPhone comes out. Everyone at work is freaking out.

This weekend I am helping Trent, Joe and Phil move to their sublet Brooklyn. Then we are going to the beach so we're not so white (except for Phil because he's Asian). Then my friend Addie, who once stayed with my family as a French exchange student, is turning 26, and I'm going to her party which will probably be full of French people. She lives in Park Slope. It will be a day full of Brooklyn.

Wednesday is the 4th of July. We are seeing the New Pornographers for free. The Macy's fireworks are that night. They light over one million pounds of explosives. Anyone who knows me knows I am overjoyed with this prospect.

Friday the 6th, Fujiya & Miyagi and Ulrich Schnauss play for free.

Saturday morning I'm leaving in a 15-passenger van with 9 or 10 friends for Montauk where I will be camping on the beach until Sunday night. Meet me in Montauk.

The next Friday night I'm taking the train to Syracuse to see Marcus. I get to sit in the dining car and lounge, which must mean I have to wear a black sequined dress, white gloves that make me a modest woman, and a feathery hat. That night we're going camping near some waterfalls. The next day we're going to Palmyra for pageant. We're driving back to NYC the next night.

The weekend after that is Trent's birthday. He wants to go to Atlantic City. Maybe we will.

The weekend after that Sonic Youth plays in Brooklyn and Lani comes to town.

The weekend after that is my last weekend in New York.

The Tuesday after that is my last day of work, and I fly home Thursday.

I leave on my road trip home a few days after that. I'm going to ride bikes with my dad in Yosemite and go camping with my dog Kimba. (Phoebe could come too I guess, but she's small and doesn't like walking, so when she gets tired she just plops in the middle of the trail). I'm going to go to the beach. I'm going to do nothing. When I'm sick of being home (which is never possible) I'm going to drive down Highway 1 to LA where I'll visit Kevin and Cameron. Then I'll drive back to Utah.

My birthday is the 25th. I'll be 22. I'm having a Backyard Birthday Bash. More information to come.

I move back into my lovely home the 26th and 27th. School starts the 4th.

I've turned into a planner, you see.

Uncool Fool Can't Wait to Go Back to School

The worst part about life is waiting. Waiting until I'm tired enough to go to bed. Waiting until I become cool. Waiting for people to make decisions you know they should make. Waiting for the fiesta below my window to stop. Waiting to go back to Provo (from there I will be waiting to go where?)

I just watched Almost Famous. I don't know how I'd never seen that movie before. It basically affirmed for me what my parent's friends have told me for years: That I was born in the wrong decade. Here I am, almost 22, and my preferred listening format is vinyl. Rolling Stone is run by the man now (although the film purports it was back then too), and who tours on buses anymore? That age is over. But Lester Bangs said something interesting in that film. He said, "I'm always home. I'm uncool." Sometimes I feel this way, but I'm not always home so maybe it's not true.

I made a big decision last week. It was to stop talking to someone very important to me, at least for the rest of the summer. That was Tuesday night. The only day I haven't cried was Friday, but I am a born-again crier (I never used to cry until last August when I had an emotional and spiritual rebirth). The emotional repercussions vary. Most of the time I'm fine. I don't think I'm fine at all when I sleep, because he's been in my dreams every night since then. A) I never remember my dreams except until last Tuesday night, and B) I rarely have people in my dreams.

Josh came to visit this weekend. We saw a man sitting in a trashcan at Coney Island. He was serious about it.

I've lived in my new apartment since Wednesday and I haven't unpacked yet. I have six weeks left in New York, but all I can think about is August when I have 25 whole days to do nothing. It's not enough days. But I won't unpack. I guess I think it'll feel like I'm just on vacation if I don't unpack, like I just got here and I'm going right home. Nostalgia has always been a horrible disease to me. I am one of those people who should take a clue from Cinema Paradiso (great film if you haven't seen it) and never go home.

(One week left in June, four-and-a-half in July, one-and-a-half in August).

I have really great parents and really great friends.

(I think in parentheses).

I'm increasingly convinced that I will suffer from depression my entire life. Not severe depression, but mild after thoughts from when I was severely depressed a few years ago. It will surface at inopportune times, like while I'm making love once I'm married (One time it hit while I was making out with this boy a few summers ago. Luckily he loved me, so he only comforted me), or when I move to new places. I'm fairly sure I'll suffer from postpartum depression when I have kids (all the more reason to continue my plans to adopt), and despite my beliefs on the afterlife, I'll miss my parents, once they die, profusely. I don't think I'm special in any of this. Everyone goes through these things. Everyone has a hard time being away from the people they love. Everyone has had their heart broken. Everybody hurts, sometimes. (Yes! I did that thing).

But really. Since I've been back from California (I was only there for five days, for crying out loud), I've had a pain in my heart. I can't shake it. I'm on the verge of tears half the time, and I've started counting the weeks til I leave again. I did this when I first arrived in New York, but it stopped altogether probably two weeks afterward. I'm counting on that again. I don't like being unhappy in New York. I don't like being unhappy ever.

Today after my walk and nap in Central Park, I walked down 72nd to purchase a cupcake at my favorite cupcakery, Buttercup (it became my favorite today). A few storefronts down from Buttercup was a young girl, probably ten, who looked a lot like my old neighbor and best friend Jenny Wille when she was that age. The girl was playing some very sad melodies on her very sad-looking violin, with a pitiful glittered sign balancing precariously in her violin case. I had to hit the perfect angle because of all the glitter, but it read, "HELP PRESERVE THE RAINFOREST" in those horrible block letters all children are enamored with. (Block letters and bubble letters). Perhaps it was because I was already emotional, but my sunglass-covered eyes filled with tears as I placed a dollar deep in her violin case. There are few things as touching to me as 1: children being sincere, 2: people loving the Earth, 3: music, and 4: a sincere child playing a musical instrument on behalf of the Earth.

Today I found Gramercy Park near my work. It is so gorgeous, but you have to have a key to get inside. What good is a beautiful thing if people can't enjoy it, or if only rich people can enjoy it? Don't they enjoy enough already?

Last night I saw the film "Let's Get Lost," a documentary made in 1987 about Chet Baker. He is a different person to me now. Then I met up with my old friend Lauren from high school. She is so great. I really like that girl.

I have to go now. I want to finish writing, but I'll have to do it later.

Bye Bye Bye

The further I venture into adulthood, the more I realize boredom maximizes whatever personal problem I'm currently having.

For example, my last blog post I stressed about a guy. Warranted stressing, maybe, but being home was really the only thing that initiated it. Since I've been back, I'm completely okay about it. Everything I said: Nullified. We are just friends, after all. (But are we?)

Today I have a softball tournament instead of work. Sadly, I wore my cute new flats and not my scrubby old sneakers, automatically demoting myself to the position of heckler/Uno player.

Until going home this weekend, I can't remember the last time I was bored. I've developed a built-in time killer, i.e. looking for split ends on my hair. It's a horrible habit. It's like biting my nails. I've noticed, however, that I unconsciously start looking for split ends when I hang out with this certain person here in NY. It's not that bad though. I'm so busy, all the time, that being bored is a welcome diversion.

I could've written that much more eloquently.

I was hoping to find a salvation.

I have a slight hole in my heart today. I had the greatest day today. I went to SF and met up with my friend Matt. What a delight, this Matt is. We went to In N Out Burger. We went to the Sutro Bath ruins, my favorite spot in the entire city. We went to Ocean Beach. Then he drove me home. It was a delightful day, the best I can remember in ages. There hasn't been a single day, perhaps not even a single moment in New York that topped my day.

But then I came home. My mom wondered why I couldn't date someone like Matt because he is handsome and with it and has never veered too far from his beliefs. We went to my grandma's house which my aunt and uncle are currently preparing to sell. We laughed at a pair of shoes Papa altered: he must've needed to be three inches taller for a project, so he took a pair of Reeboks and nailed the soles to three-inch tall blocks of wood.

Then I got online and remembered someone who's supposed to miss me and who I'm supposed to miss. Sometimes I just don't know. I think, "You should just move on. Things would never really work out. It would be a potentially tumultuous life." Friends tell me, "You are too good for that. Don't sell yourself short." I'm blinded by potential. The highs are so high and the lows are so low. When really, the highs are not that high and the lows are too low. Maybe it's the distance. Maybe it's the fact I feign satisfaction in the present while hoping for future satisfaction that only taunts my heart and skews my logic and confuses my prayers, because really things would be so great if only. Maybe it's that a person cannot possibly love another when they hate themself. Maybe it's the fact we haven't heard the other's voice in a week.

I will always be second rate compared to her.

I'm going to chalk it up to fatigue. I'm jetlagged, my dogs wake me up at 7 am with their slobbers and affections, and my parents' blind racism and ignorant political statements strain me emotionally.

I have this fear that grows more intense each time I visit my parents. I'm fairly sure they won't like who I marry. At least, they won't have much in common with him. But I'm so afraid he and I will become ostracized from my family. That our opinions, which surely will conflict with theirs, will cause polarization between us. Last night we were at Emil's, our family restaurant for four generations. It was 10 pm, nearing closing time, and the service was understandably slow despite the clientele lag in the eatery. My uncle made a crack, "I'll bet the immigration officer came and cleared out the kitchen." "Haha," my other uncle chimed in. "Vamanos, muchachos!" My parents laughed heartily. Behind them was a Hispanic man, no doubt from Mexico, probably on his third job of the day, bussing a recently vacated table. He looked up when he heard this comment, watching them cackle in ignorance. I turned to my brother Michael, my one comisserator, and told him the sequence of events. He bowed his head in residual embarrassment.

Yesterday at Costco, my mom told me she didn't think my dad would like me getting the Planet Earth series on DVD for my birthday. I described the series to her, and she said, "I don't know. It sounds too Al Gore-ish."

"Tell her God's creation is not Al Gore-ish." That's what he said. How can I move on from someone who can whip that out?

I am so confused these days, but I've asked for too much help from the place I receive the most of it, without listening to His advice. My prayers are nullified by my stubborness.

Being in San Francisco today, at my favorite spot in the whole world, taught me something. New York and I speak the same language, but we speak two different dialects. I grew up speaking Bay Arean. San Franciscan and Berkeleyan. I can learn New York's language, but I'll never be a native speaker.

I have nine weeks left.

Wild is the Wind

Well, I'm a little bummed right now. I'm in DC visiting a friend this weekend. It's been fun, despite the fact I had my first dose of east coast heat. Yesterday we explored downtown DC. Once again, it was fun, but my friend's girlfriend can be whiny and fussy, and he caters to her every desire. So pathetic. I have no tolerance for this type of woman. Her type is the reason I tend to avoid my sex unless I'm related to them. But I saw lots of cops wearing shorts. I saw a lot of old stone buildings. I saw a lot of Indian people. I always saw a lot of Smithsonians.

My friends in New York are going to the beach tomorrow. Lame. Sure, I'm going to the Holocaust Museum and the National Arboretum, but they're going to the BEACH! Memorial Day is about two things: BBQs and beaches. I did the former today, and it's going to be weeks before they go to the beach again.

Second whine from me. There's a booze cruise for all the LDS singles in my area this weekend. I'm torn. Do I go to a free concert by rock and roll legend Roky Erickson, an event that wreaks of cool even on paper, or do I go to a 3-hour long linger longer/boat cruise that will cost me $20 and force me to be with a bunch of 20-somethings with no means of escape save the passage of time?

All in all, I can't wait to get back to New York. I'm glad I came to DC since I've never been here, and it turns out Bob's moving to Indianapolis tomorrow (Bob's my friend who lives here), but I feel like I'm missing out on EVERYTHING! Not true. I felt the same way when I left Provo. I'm going home for five days in a week-and-a-half; I'm sure I'll feel the same way then too.

Screw leaving New York! I love it too much.

a resurrection

In less than a week, I will reach my one month anniversary of being in New York. However, I did not start falling in love with New York until nearly two weeks after I arrived, May 12. It was a wonderful day. We took the afternoon train to SoHo. I bought a necklace that has a fish on it. I was wearing a new dress. It started raining. We got lost. We got soaked. Then, at the end of the night when I was tired and suffering sugar withdrawals, I heard a man in the subway playing the title track from The Umbrellas of Cherbourg on his accordion.

My heart lept across the platform, my aorta entertwining with the luscious meanderings of that sad song.

Thus was the beginning of my love affair.

My desire has only heightened since. Last week I found one of my favorite albums of all time, "Chet Baker Sings," on vinyl in the Village. Yesterday I went to what I thought would be a hipster/indie show, only it ended up being the most svelte experimental jazz in all of Manhattan. Today I went to The Daily Show and Al Gore was the guest. Afterward, we went and lounged in Central Park, listening to the songs the air sings as frisbees glide through it and the snapping fingers of the grass as barefoot children run through it.

I know why Paul Simon writes so many songs about New York now. Bodegas. Stoops. Diamonds. I know why Woody Allen films so many films in New York now. Dixieland. Village. Soon-Yi. (Just kidding).

New York is the best lover I've ever known. Patient, understanding, ready to listen, vibrant. I am attached.

revelation for my readers

I wasn't sure if I wanted to delete this blog or start a new one to talk about all my New York happenings. I've been working on this one since high school, you see. I never really told anyone about it though.

Things have changed. There's a lot of stuff in here I'm not proud of, and a lot I wish I hadn't wrote and wish you wouldn't read. Nevertheless, I am unashamed. Please, read this blog. I'm going to start writing in it again. Read my old entries though. Get to know me. Thank you.

Gosh. I read back on my more recent posts and moan. I can't believe I was so pathetic to be that torn up over a guy.

Anyway, life is going fine. I decided to graduate in April, right on schedule at four years. I'm heading to New York to intern with Hachette Filipacchi, then who knows what.

I'm struggling with something though. I'm moving out of my house, as we speak, and I haven't told my roommate yet. My name's not on the lease, I'm only subletting, so I can leave with no remedial consequence. But I feel awful. I've known for almost a month, but I haven't told her. I'm horrible.

Back to packing...

my life story

I think you know your life sucks when you come home on a Friday night, and no one calls you to hang out. The catch is: you don't call anyone either.

Really, this is me. This is what I do most weekends and weeknights. Whether I have no desire to call anyone or lack the confidence is of no importance. I have ten people I could call right now who would want to hang out, but I can't figure out why I don't just call them. Things were much easier when I lived with my best friend and we could stay home and be happy as clams. Now that I don't live with my best friend (I basically live alone; my roommate is never here), I find I am discontent in staying home by myself, yet do nothing to change it. Luckily I don't complain about my version of loneliness to anyone; I keep it to myself and resolve to change it but do nothing.

And that is the crux of human discontent -- one sees what needs to be changed yet makes no attempt to change it.

The end. Have a good weekend.

The Way I Feel Inside

I have led two, passionless years of existence. I loved Sloan. I loved him in a way that redefined love. I am home for Thanksgiving, I am discontent, I am restless. I am sick of nothing being good enough.

My ex-boyfriend from the summer, Ryan, called me tonight. What do I do with that? I don't care about you like that anymore. You loved me and I did not love you. I am sorry because I don't think we can ever be friends, unless you are already over me and in that case you were not in love with me. You have life in you, incredibly passionate. I am sick of you not being good enough.

And Richard who I am "pseudo-dating" in Provo. Why can't I be like you? You don't care about anything. Politics, music, film--you like everything except for country and rap. You have no political affiliation, no passion. You are the most content man I've ever met.

I am sick of no one being good enough to take his place.

I am ready to love. Really, really ready. I want someone good enough to make me forget Sloan even exists. I want to remember how I felt and I want someone to blow that out of the water. I want to meet you and your parents and not look back. I am crying. I am alone.

let's have a war

I'm trying to find inspiration for my personal narrative, rough draft due tomorrow, and I want it to be good. Damn good. I just read through a bunch of old blogs to find inspiration and Whoa Man. WHOA. So crazy to see the difference in my mood between October 2003 to April 2004. It's a long roadtrip of happiness until January '04 and then CRASH!, I've driven past the Cliff House and into the ocean. I really loved that guy, that Sloan. It's good to remember once in awhile so I don't forget how to, you know? I mean I've cared about people since then, but nothing like that, not even close. In fact I ended a relationship this summer because of that, because even though he was good it was so far from Sloan that it wasn't even worth it to me. Now I don't even talk to summer guy anymore and I broke his heart and I hate myself for it. But if love's not there, there is no point in staying. I still have no idea what to write about. Rick thinks I should write about our camping trip a few weekends ago; I'm afraid it's cliche. "I love my friends. They are sooooooooo great. We do stuff together all the time. For example, one time Rick, Capree and I went camping up the canyon. It was so fun because we made s'mores and it rained and we picked wildflowers and peed in the grass." Nuh uh man. No freaking way. It is still too fresh to have learned anything from it other than I have two lifelong friends because of it. That is all. I need to start writing it nowwwwwwwww. I <3>