Green Notepad - 07.19.2009

Grey sheets
like grey sheets of rain in the flatlands of Montana,
like the grey folds of my first tanktop, age 8,
how lovely it was, complemented my dark brown skin
that turned pale grey
in the winters of my darkest years;
grey tears.
Grey fog in my mind while i chased the sting,
filled an emptiness, exacerbated a latent calling,
to a grey demon--
the one whoe swallowed my pride for me
while I sacrificed myself to you on grey keyboards
and in grey rooms with grey drinks--
thanks to those things I lost the grey hotel room-key.
Grey skies the next morning reminded me of me
chasing after some piece of me that you had
stolen throuhg greyed trust. Jaded grey trust.
And even now the grey bonds still hold us
together, at least on grey carpet seats,
next to the grey cupholder holding the grey milkshake,
and I, smelling of red lusty nights
try to remember who chose the color scheme.

Book of Pisces: 6-12-2009

"The Lord gives
And the Lord takes away."

When looking into the past, I see the facts, or I see the opinions, or I see a dream. I wish it could be clearer; I wish it were somewhere on paper, in which case I would just peruse the pages of my history instead of playing a guessing game, very likely losing at it.

And it is very likely that all I am writing is a recollection of a failure to master the ability of living in the moment, despite writing as a present creature.

I am multidimensional. So often I separate myself entirely from reality, entirely from the status quo of my person, and I don't know what it means by doing that. Suppose for yourself that it is a defense mechanism, and feel psychiatric about it. Pretend that separation is your weapon, your gun in the war against your archenemy, abandonment, and recall all the times you've used it. After all, how can you be abandoned by solitude itself? You've killed and shot your company, reality, and every soul with every potential to change your heart and mind.

Document your burden of war.

scrubbing is fun.

I really enjoy scrubbing things. I'm not sure if it's the suds, or the little scratchy vibration that it produces, but it makes me feel good. Energized in some way, like I'm making some sort of difference, even if it's only for my own sake (i.e. clean bathtub/toilet/sink/dishes/etc.). God, I'm such a woman.

BUT THEN AGAIN, I can't really manage to keep any clean clothes folded and put away, much less IRONED...

But anyway, I'm getting a little tired of this SPAN 203 nonsense of having no textbooks. I can't tell you how much gas I have wasted going to and fro, roundabout freaking Chapel Hill trying to find these godforsaken texts. And even better, today I was told that the publisher is out of stock...HEY PUBLISHER, PUBLISH MOAR BOOKS.

You'd think it'd be that simple? No! Apparently nothing is simple here at UNC. -__-

BY THE WAY, IT'S A CAPS LOCK DAY.

In other news, I'm having another day, much like the one I had last week (that I'm fairly certain I didn't blog about, but...) in which I am all tired and derp even though I had plenty of sleep the last night. I'm getting nothing done. Thoughts have manifested themselves in food and just as quickly as I have eaten them, disappeared. Meh. Class tomorrow. I should go to bed earlier tonight.

Gonna make some soba now.

falling in love to the colour of merlot.

So, it's been a while since I have last blogged. I don't even particularly remember my last blog, but there was one...at some point in time, somewhere in space...err...something. Anyway, having been recently inspired by a particular person's blog, I have decided that I might as well try again. After all, I really do think about writing all of the time (literally, and I can't explain why I don't just do it) and most of you know how many notebooks I have and carry with me to write random crap in, so why not just add it to my social networking officially. I have added a little feature to my bloggerblogs that easily allows me to post to Facebook...aka be all BA about blogs and actually putting them in peoples' faces (aka newsfeed). Now, getting to the point, shall I?

Working at The Orange Leaf is probably my most recent social and financial advancement. I mean, consider the influx of people coming into the business, oohing and ahhing all over the layout of the place (mostly just the toppings), and then overfilling their cups and paying literally $12 sometimes for a f-ing frozen yogurt. My fingers have acquired that special cashiering skill of swiftly pressing buttons and lifting register flippy things, sliding bills in-between discussing the customer's change, chinking coins down on the counters with such precision...

Basically, I'm making mad cash and gaining extra customer service brownie (you wouldn't catch this double entendre unless you are familiar with the excessive number of brownie-consuming Orange Leaf customers out there) points called tips. I'm proud of myself. And with the number of accessory-related compliments and little blurbs about life that I throw out there whilst juggling toppings, money, and overall novelty--I just don't really feel the lack of a social life at the end of a workday. Plus, I get plenty of reminders about how many people here are just plain. Similar. Talk to one, and you've talked to them all. I will grant that there are the select few that stand out as beautiful people, interesting-looking people. But, sigh...

Scholastically, I have a lot of drive, but struggle with actually biting the bullet and reading all that I really am supposed to read. I'm still trying to convince myself that I like reading, and I will continue to lie about it until something changes.

And where is my life going these days? Who knows. I spend a lot of time making coffee and a daily morning routine, though, if that counts. Random Spanish, English, and a limited assortment of words from other languages randomly come to mind at times. That counts for something. Eh. No art lately. No art at all. Some say love without art is worthless. I blame summer romantic, emotional, and existential hangups on my dry spell of late. Things of that ilk. Ilk ilk ilk.

Milk, almond milk. Honey almond milk.

Hurting is a wonderful thing--and on this note I would take great pleasure in adding that it gives you something to say. I think I spent around 4 hours talking to A the other night thanks to hurting and hangups, hangdowns, hang-all-arounds. These things bring about changes. And I feel that my soul believes it is deep, and it is that belief that is the depth and the height, which brings it to the weight--and the weight is everything. Weighed down by living and paying imposed prices in exchange for...what? Soul bags of dirt and sand that weigh...a lot.

A heavy soul is clearly a sensitive but strong soul, one prone to shifts and movements and esoteric statements that embody all that is and was. Dirt and sand are like that, you know. Pieces of things that have died and broken down into littler things, but even littler things can be heavy if scooped, shoveled,--hell--bulldozed into compartments stacked one atop of the other.

I wish I didn't get so upset about little things, like, the actual grains of sand and dirt in this metaphorical bags/compartments. I mean...what was behind the majority of the previous two "paragraphs" had to do with how much I accidentally paid for two peaches at Harris Teeter two days ago. $5.30 for two peaches: I couldn't even believe it. I, I flipped. I flipped the fuuuuhhhh out.

But really, I guess we all have to just deal. I did. Sitting in my car in the parking lot of Old East, I turned up the volume of the blues radio station, smacked down my mirror and slicked on some merlot-coloured Burts Bees balm, and voila, my sultry minty-fresh lips grew leaves, produced oxygen, and made the world a better place.

And in an attempt to not analyze how I began to feel better about my peach-related existentialia, I will talk about...you. Or at least mention how I miss you for no good reason at all.

You know, you can get your complete daily recommended value of selenium from eating a mere two brazil nuts. That's cool.

This is how I have begun every morning in my new apartment. I wake up, make breakfast downstairs, and take it all upstairs to eat on my bed on a framed collage from highschool art classes. It's always the same breakfast, or variation of foods: fruit (strawberries, blueberries, and kiwis are the general staples in my fridge), coffee (Trader Joe's New Orleans Chicory Blend) with hemp or almond milk, almonds/walnuts (raw, approx. 9 pieces), and/or oatmeal (rolled, not steel-cut).

And the point of this little detail of my life is thta I cannot seem to get all of my crap put away. And I'm frustrated. /blog.

and this is why I date Johnathan Bailey...

What Johnathan Bailey says about himself:

I am a dynamic figure, often seen scaling walls and crushing ice. I have been known to remodel train stations on my lunch breaks, making them more efficient in the area of heat retention. I translate ethnic slurs for Cuban refugees, I write award-winning operas, I manage time efficiently. Occasionally, I tread water for three days in a row.



I woo women with my sensuous and godlike trombone playing, I can pilot bicycles up severe inclines with unrellenting speed, and I cook Thirty-Minute Brownies in twenty minutes. I am an expert in stucco, a veteran in love, and an outlaw in Peru.


Using only a hoe and a large glass of water, I once single-handedly defended a small village in the Amazon Basin from a horde of ferocious army ants. I play bluegrass cello, I was scouted by the Mets, I am the subject of numerous documentaries. When I'm bored, I build large suspension bridges in my yard.


I enjoy urban hang gliding. On Wednesdays after school, I repair electrical appliances free of charge.


I am an abstract artist, a concrete analyst, and a ruthless bookie. Critics worldwide swoon over my original line of corduroy evening wear. I don't perspire. I am a private citizen, yet I receive fan mail. I have been caller number nine and have won the weekend passes. Last summer I toured New Jersey with a travelling centrifugal-force demonstration. I bat .400. My deft floral arrangements have earned me fame in international botany circles. Children trust me.


I can hurl tennis rackets at small moving objects with deadly accuracy. I once read Paradise Lost, Moby Dick, and David Copperfield in one day and still had time to refurbish an entire dining room that evening. I know the exact location of every food item in the supermarket. I have performed several covert operations for the CIA. I sleep once a week; when I do sleep, I sleep in a chair. While on vacation in Canada, I successfully negotiated with a group of terrorists who had seized a small bakery. The laws of physics do not apply to me.

I balance, I weave, I dodge, I frolic, and my bills are all paid. On weekends, to let off steam, I participate in full-contact origami. Years ago I discovered the meaning of life but forgot to write it down. I have made extraordinary four course meals using only a mouli and a toaster oven. I breed prize winning clams. I have won bullfights in San Juan, cliff-diving competitions in Sri Lanka, and spelling bees at the Kremlin. I have played Hamlet, I have performed open-heart surgery, and I have spoken with Elvis.

Obviously, he is awesome like that.

"Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse."

T.S. Eliot (1888–1965).  Prufrock and Other Observations.  1917.

1. The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse A persona che mai tornasse al mondo, Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse. Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero, Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo.     LET us go then, you and I, When the evening is spread out against the sky Like a patient etherised upon a table; Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets, The muttering retreats         5 Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells: Streets that follow like a tedious argument Of insidious intent To lead you to an overwhelming question …         10 Oh, do not ask, “What is it?” Let us go and make our visit.   In the room the women come and go Talking of Michelangelo.   The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,         15 The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening, Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains, Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys, Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,         20 And seeing that it was a soft October night, Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.   And indeed there will be time For the yellow smoke that slides along the street, Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;         25 There will be time, there will be time To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet; There will be time to murder and create, And time for all the works and days of hands That lift and drop a question on your plate;         30 Time for you and time for me, And time yet for a hundred indecisions, And for a hundred visions and revisions, Before the taking of a toast and tea.   In the room the women come and go         35 Talking of Michelangelo.   And indeed there will be time To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?” Time to turn back and descend the stair, With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—         40 [They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”] My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin, My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin— [They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”] Do I dare         45 Disturb the universe? In a minute there is time For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.   For I have known them all already, known them all:— Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,         50 I have measured out my life with coffee spoons; I know the voices dying with a dying fall Beneath the music from a farther room.   So how should I presume?   And I have known the eyes already, known them all—         55 The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase, And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin, When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall, Then how should I begin To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?         60   And how should I presume?   And I have known the arms already, known them all— Arms that are braceleted and white and bare [But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!] It is perfume from a dress         65 That makes me so digress? Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.   And should I then presume?   And how should I begin?       .      .      .      .      . Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets         70 And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?…   I should have been a pair of ragged claws Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.       .      .      .      .      . And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!         75 Smoothed by long fingers, Asleep … tired … or it malingers, Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me. Should I, after tea and cakes and ices, Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?         80 But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed, Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald] brought in upon a platter, I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter; I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker, And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,         85 And in short, I was afraid.   And would it have been worth it, after all, After the cups, the marmalade, the tea, Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me, Would it have been worth while,         90 To have bitten off the matter with a smile, To have squeezed the universe into a ball To roll it toward some overwhelming question, To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead, Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—         95 If one, settling a pillow by her head,   Should say: “That is not what I meant at all.   That is not it, at all.”   And would it have been worth it, after all, Would it have been worth while,         100 After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets, After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor— And this, and so much more?— It is impossible to say just what I mean! But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:         105 Would it have been worth while If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl, And turning toward the window, should say:   “That is not it at all,   That is not what I meant, at all.”       .      .      .      .      .         110 No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be; Am an attendant lord, one that will do To swell a progress, start a scene or two, Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool, Deferential, glad to be of use,         115 Politic, cautious, and meticulous; Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse; At times, indeed, almost ridiculous— Almost, at times, the Fool.   I grow old … I grow old …         120 I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.   Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach? I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach. I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.   I do not think that they will sing to me.         125   I have seen them riding seaward on the waves Combing the white hair of the waves blown back When the wind blows the water white and black.   We have lingered in the chambers of the sea By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown         130 Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

I had a really epic post on "friendship,"

A post that I had been working on for a couple of days, that, at any rate, got deleted by one of my siblings in endeavors unknown to me on my computer.

Thus, long story short:

1) Raised not to need people

2) Stuck to that

3) Get real lonely sometimes

4) Realized that I probably do need people, so I'm making the efforts to reverse my previous mindset.

End of story.

And in other news, I've been working on breaking my addiction to negativity, and I must say, it's not so bad to choose to be positive. I actually end up feeling a bit better, which has never been what I wanted, but what I needed. I'm also going to be taking intensive language courses at NCSU from May 17th-June 30th, meaning, I will have approximately 10 days to make moneys for rent (living with John's sister in Raleigh), and then back to school. Intense, 6-hours-of-Hindi-class school, and I am hella excited about it, too. I'm also getting a part-time job, probably babysitting or something of that nature. Yes, sir, it is my goal to prove myself capable.

But, jeeze, I want to just have some time to read Murakami. Why Murakami, you ask? His wisdom is as supreme as a team, an ice cream, a flying dream. Oh, Kafka, you and your shore you tempt me so!

That monkey is me.

postcard. just one of the many.

I am in love with you, Emmalie Mariah Calvillo. There is no doubt in my mind that this is what is supposed to be...I am praying for you every moment. You have this wonderful talent of making me want to be extraordinary, to learn to love you in the most ideal way. I am looking forward to knowing you more and allowing you to know me more as well. I know that this will be difficult, but I will not leave your side. I love you, and that will not change.

With all the love I possess.

just saw a couple of tasty-looking recipes.

Okay, so this first one isn't vegan, I know, but it looks absolutely delicious to me. It may be the juxtaposition of the green with the white and yellow, I don't really know. But possibly replace the egg with a really nice campari tomato and a nice bit of macadamia cheese, salt, pepper, and voila! Vegan.

The second recipe  is vegan, and raw, too. I've been interested in this whole "raw revolution" deal that seems to be popping up at random times (well, I guess if you research the things that I research, anyway) and intriguing me every time. I always think to myself, "I could try that! It would be so easy!" but then I remember that my fridge is only...so...big, and by that I mean, it's not big at all. Perhaps, when I have an apartment or something (and a much bigger fridge), next semester I will be able to make the "raw revolution" happen to my diet, because I feel incredible when I eat as raw as possible.


Okay, so that is the end of my foodie talk for now. I found out yesterday that I made an A- on my Russian 442 paper (would have been higher if it had been longer) and a B+ on my midterm (missed one identification question), which translates to me, I AIN'T DOIN' THAT BADLY AFTER ALL! I have been incredibly worried all semester about that class, admittedly being unable to finish a single one of the reading assignments in their entirety. After all, they were all hefty, at least 150 pages per 2 nights, and sometimes more over the weekends, and I have been ever-blessed with a slow-but-meticulous ability to read quickly...or interestedly.

And it was never that I found an assignment to be uninteresting! Absolutely not. I find Russian literature to be enrapturing, intriguing, and revealing, to a tee, the most delicate and dark issues of humanity...

I'm just a slow reader. A distracted reader. A reader that falls asleep while reading. It's a horrible thing to happen to a college student.

But, ah. There wasn't a single correction mark on my paper. I was so anxious; I simply turned the paper over when he handed it to me--I wasn't even sure that he knew who I was because I am quiet in class (another thing I need to work on). I was planning on simply looking at it later on, under the privacy of some shady tree or lofted bed, but then I saw the mirror image of an "A-" from the back of the stapled pages, and had to look to make sure that I wasn't hallucinating.

The A- gave me the courage to look at my blue book, also known as my midterm...the midterm that was based on all of the readings that we had done up until that point...so, about 4 books and 4-6 short stories or so (and by short story, I mean 30-70 page reading assignment). I figured that I was going to be B.S.'ing the crap out of myself (no nasty potty-pun intended, here) for that test before I took it, for obvious reasons. Ah, it worked out well. Well enough for the last half of the semester anyway.

I have vowed to take responsibility for my free time and actually do my reading assignments to the best of my abilities for the remainder of this semester...yes, that's what the suckage of Spring Break did to me...motivated me for some reason.

Anyhow, Physical Fitness Assessment (PFA) in the morning (0545) for AFROTC...and a hell of a lot of Spanish catching-up to do before I can feel fully satisfied with my life.

Hah. Just kidding. It's probably never going to happen with this young chile.

3-14-2010, moleskine

Ink in the well.

Rocks in the well.

Water in the well.

Baby in the well.

3-15-2010, moleskine

...It made me wonder how I got there,

who dealt me those cards--

It wasn't even about me

or because of me.

I was simply there, I had fallen,

for myself, into that well,

and it had nothing to do with those cards.

Going vegan.

If anything good at all has resulted from Spring Break thus far, it is my recent decision to go vegan. I give most of the credit for this decision to the Hallelujah Acres diet, inspiring people to "self-heal" since 1992. (Note: I am not actually doing the diet, but sort of just taking from it what I can realistically apply to my current gastronomical practices)

I've just been noticing my recent lack of energy lately. Even with enough sleep, I'm tired more often than I'd like. There's this "slump" during the day when I'm like *omgreachesforchocolate*, feeling like I'm going to either pass out or simply just drop, dead-tired. Moreover, the fatigue takes over my mental state, and it's just downhill from there with depression, extreme negativity, etc...as if I did not already have enough problems with motivation and time management.

I just feel the need to clean up my life, straighten things out. This break has brought to the surface a good deal of "issue" and "concern" that I had forgotten about, mostly harboured by my family, but mostly true nonetheless. Yeah, that was a really loaded statement. A lot is going on.

But on the menu for the daily:

NanoGreens
Pink Lady Apple Oatmeal
Arugula (very tasty, if you have never tried it)
Ethiopian lentil dish (a recipe of my own)
Curried cabbage and carrots
Raw beet hummus and carrots
Lots and lots of chocolate, dairy-free, of course.

i hate pressure.

Pressure to read, pressure to write, pressure to play, pressure to look, to seem, to be.

It's all I feel lately.


And you'd think that I would "work best" under this "pressure," but the truth is, I work best spontaneously. It comes from my heart that way.

I want to change.

Two things about this:

You know, I feel like I have never really accomplished anything with much discipline, and thus, nothing really noteworthy. It's apparently a practice, not a natural ability; but even the practice feels to me like the furthest-away, most difficult thing I could ever imagine attaining.

Mom has been saying for years that I lack self-discipline. I do not deny this fact, but lack the personal motivation and, yes, self-discipline to change it.

I feel like I have named my disease, but how to treat it is unknown...the next step...

"But where do we go from here, the words are comin' out all weird..."

Second thing:
I've been trying everyday to figure out what is wrong with me, how I'm going to be happy. And I realized it is just because I have no real talent; talent is be able to do something well, and doing something well usually requires this self-discipline that I lack. (There are always the exceptions, though; but waiting to find out if I am some sort of savant isn't working. I am just not.)

I guess I just have to drag my feet on, pick one foot up after the other until I get somewhere, hopefully far away from this point in my life which is more or less a point in my character. And from what I can gather, that is the only way to change.

It is not easy being poison.

And that is all I have to say right now.

Overflow.

 

I just want to know if things will ever look up from this mess, or if I'm just going to stare into the sky from this mirror forever.

It's been a while...

Since I've blogged. Blawged. Blauged. Yeah, that last spelling was a little bit weird. Anyway.

This semester is panning out to be a good one, at least so far. Twelve hours is pretty easy to manage, after having dropped my Intuitive Calculus class because it was another one of those taught-by-TA/grad student courses that was pretty ridiculous. The teacher was a really condescending person, and had very little teaching ability. He was good at bringing up random but interesting facts in class, though, not that those really counted for much.

My Russian Literature and Culture from 1945 course is incredible. I'm pretty far behind on the reading, as is usual for me in any literature course, but the lectures are simply...remarkable. I would love to upload a clip of my teacher, his accent and all. I become so captivated by his accent and enthusiasm during class, that it is pretty difficult for me to not pay attention. However, I have found my mind following little rabbit trails from the topics we cover. I don't contribute much to class, unfortunately, because I am so far behind on my reading (we usually have 100+ pages per night). But, I am working hard to catch up on what I feel is crucial to the class. We've already read 4 books, 2 course packet short stories, and I've got another course packet assignment before today at 2...oooh, twelve hours from right now.

In other news, everyone is pretty correct in saying that the Spring Semester is a fairly relaxing semester (despite the nearly existential hangups I get about grades and the "battle" against grade inflation here...I could go on for hours about how I simply cannot sign my life over to school work and the goal of attaining the highest possible grades), though I tend to keep myself busy in as many ways as possible, as I am a very self-entertained person. My room has been maintained well, also. I've been sort of just making the best of my dorm and looking ahead,  towards the time next semester when I will be living in an apartment or a small house somewhere on The Hill or in a nearby town, close enough to school to grab a bus, bike, or maybe even walk if the rain, snow, wind, sleet, whatever-crappy-weather-have-you ceases. I long for the summer.

Or at least spring. I've been reminiscing about time living in the country. I remember so vividly how everything would just explode with blossoms, even the grass. The first sign were those bushes completely covered with yellow blossoms in February. Then came the camelias in March, the daffodils and the crab apple trees in mid-late April with flitting butterflies in the branches, the rest of the trees after that, and lilies of various kinds. Then, the fruit trees would blossom, and we would plant lettuces and spinach, broccoli, and cauliflower in our huge dirt patch of a garden, and pick whatever grew first. I remember walking barefoot through the mist to that garden minutes before supper to basically hew away our dinner salad. My feet would be covered in grass and clay, but it just felt so good to smoosh the earth beneath and through my toes. It felt like life back then, so fresh and clear-headed, and more connected to nature than I feel life is now. Nature feels a lot less accessible here and now. What is accessible here and now are books and research resources, and a lot of imported salad greens.

Repulsive...

There are times when I feel trapped. I wish that I would have taken that gap year. I wish that I would have gone to a different school, a less serious school...sometimes. I wish I would have moved away and gotten a job and figured out some things about myself.

Wishes are really just inkling remains of missed opportunities. A door only slightly out of reach at one point in time...

I hate feeling like I've resigned to not even try to reopen those closed doors...not even knock. 'Cause if I tried-- what if the door opened after all?

on the road again.

We are now en route to St. Louis, where I will spend hours (hopefully) ogling over Monet, Picasso, and Gougan in the art museum of my childhood. There will hopefully be Vietnamese food somewhere in there as well. But all that is for later…

My mind has been busy today, and all of the above (or below, as I think I’m going to make this a separate blog) writing was planned out in my head last night as I lay awake in the hotel room shared with my grandparents and third sibling, grandpa and sibling snoring away too loudly for my sleep.

Driving through this flat region between Colorado and Kansas, and Kansas and Missouri, I can see so incredibly far ahead of me. And if only life was like that…

It would be a mixed blessing, if anything. Because, on one hand, I think of my future, ten years from now, what will my life be like? Who will I love, who will be dead to me? Who will be dead in general? I know nothing, although I exist too often in the future.

I thought earlier today about the meaning of “living in the now,” and it reoccurred to me that what we call “present” is actually simply the passing of time from the past into the future. I have thought of this before, that there is nothing else. I may have the notion that something is “present,” and by the time the synapses amongst neurons in my brain have occurred, I have realized, it is not present at all, but past. And if you mentally consider anything as foresight or future, after it has been thought, is it not past because of the same principle that time is ever-passing.

So, I cannot exist too often in the future. There is no tangible future, only the notion thereof, which is simply occurring in the passing of time. Only the thoughts which have not been thought, but perhaps predetermined, that are really the future and thus intangible.

“Happiness is a crock of beans”

"not angry, just not drunk enough to be amenable."

This Christmas roadtrip (and "vacation") has had its ups and downs, like always. The fun times were few and far between, and way too much eating took place. At least the kitchen was a place of commonality, though. That's important when it comes to me and extended family.

A couple highlights:

Christmas Supper

Grandpa E. and Bubbles brought fresh goat milk, along with their sons (my trouble-making uncles), and it was so good. I have never had such amazing goat milk. I drank it with supper. And yes, it included green chile. 

Isaiah’s and Bella’s birthday party

Although their birthdays are 4 months apart, we celebrated it all on Isaiah’s birthday, the 26^th, and voila, a ton of family shows up, some that I knew, or had met once. It was an interesting experience, and a lot of fun just hearing the parents’ stories from way-back-when, and sharing future plans amongst the older children and advice-ready adults. Weirdly, this event took place amongst both sides of my family, and everyone knew each other already? It was odd.

Bowling

Who ever knew that I would be so terrible at bowling, but occasionally lucky? My grandmother was trying to give me some tips at how to hold the ball and throw it (roll it? Toss it?), and I was so focused while practicing, that my ball rolled right out of my hands and into my Uncle E’s lane, throwing him completely off his game and getting zero pins on his first turn. He promptly grabbed me and made me “bowl with him,” resulting in a strike. So, maybe I’m better at random luck than real skill. Who knows?

Skiing

Okay, so, we usually ski Telluride, but this year, Powderhorn it was. Much to my dislike, it was incredibly small and there were tons of people everywhere. However, I had a LOT of fun. A LOT.

I’ve never been one to take risks, but this time, I took some serious ones. Ones that nearly killed me from fright or general accident (mind you, I’ve only skied two other times in my ENTIRE life). After taking two runs down hills exceeding my experience, I was getting much more comfortable with my skiing ability, or potential ability, really. I finished out the run somehow skiing on my back down a near-vertical slope. It was fantastic.

I am a great skier, and cannot wait until next time. In all seriousness, I had fun.

Single-handedly preparing an enormous meal for my family

Oy, vey, I have a big family. I prepared stuffed lamb, honeyed duck and wild grouse with cherry-orange confit, gnocchi in two different forms (one, as a first course with cream sauce, goat cheese, salad all sprinkled pomegranate seeds; two, with artichokes, olives, onions, tomatoes), sautéed zucchini, and…I think that is all. Oh, yeah, homemade hummus.

I wasn’t too impressed, things didn’t taste right to me…but everyone else was really happy with the food, so it was a job well-done.

An unfriendly textual run-in with The Ex

I accidentally sent him a joke picture of my knee because the first three digits of his phone number are the same as my current boyfriend’s phone number. I never said I was mature.

I didn’t realize it until he later texted me back while I was in deep thought, contemplating my anger pertaining to why I was not going ice fishing the next day, and all of the intricately maintained relationships I have in my life.

He was so friendly, too.

“What’s the goddamn point?” he said.

I was confused. I didn’t really understand why he was texting me, or what in the world he was talking about…

Then it clicked: John had said that he never got the picture, and I had thought that there was just a network error or something, and altogether, I didn’t think anything of it. But the picture—the ABSURD picture—went to The Ex. Geeze, rote memory, how I loathe thee sometimes. I was mortified, more so than I should have been, I think.

I apologized, and with sincerity told him what happened, and of course, I got whatever’d. So, I apologized again, as I have never been one to be unnecessarily harsh to him, and he said something along the lines of “I don’t think I’ve made it clear enough. I NEVER want to hear from you again, in ANY form of communication.” By then, my mortification had evolved into anger, and I responded with more than a few unkind words. I mean, I really told him what was what, and that if he knew what was best, he wouldn’t text me back.

And he didn’t…until an hour after, trying to pull the whole messaging device only receives plain text and X amount of characters. It was from his phone number though, meaning, it was not even legit, as the real notification comes from the actual network at a 900-number.

How lame.

The Last Supper: Fish Tacos and Mango Brulee, sans blowtorch

Well, we finished our family time with a strong culinary demonstration of the P.E.A.C.E.-I.I. Family’s signature dishes, fish tacos, tomatillo salsa, and “spicy slaw.” And of course, I made a pastry, a mango brulee tart this time, which did not turn out how I wanted it to, either, so…screw my away-from-home cooking skills.

Visiting with family in Denver

I got to see and spend some time around spinach salad, Whole Food’s pizza, and delicious homemade apple and pumpkin pies with family in Denver that I hadn’t seen in a while. One particular cousin and his wife are missionaries, and it was really amazing to hear about all that they were able to do with their work, especially for kids. I respect them greatly, and cannot wait to do something similarly with my life someday.

WELL, that concludes the highlights.