Monday, December 21, 2009


Leonard came home every day. He did not go out, he did not see friends, nor did he want to; they were all dead.

Saturday, December 12, 2009

sienna feigns shock

1st draft of it after editing for about a full day and night.

Thursday, December 10, 2009

i like this guy. we might be friends.

"question and answer"

he sat naked and drunk in a room of summer
night, running the blade of the knife
under his fingernails, smiling, thinking
of all the letters he had received
telling him that
the way he lived and wrote about
it had kept them going when
all seemed

putting the blade on the table, he
flicked it with a finger
and it whirled
in a flashing circle
under the light.

who the hell is going to save
me? he

as the knife stopped spinning
the answer came:
you're going to have to
save yourself.

still smiling,
a: he lit a
b: he poured
c: gave the blade

--from The Last Night of the Earth Poems

Saturday, December 5, 2009

love is simple.

So I watched "World's Greatest Dad" today (when I really shouldn't have).

Interesting movie-- pretty halfbaked second half, nevertheless pretty amazing idea with pretty rich characterization (the catharsis at the end just wasn't mighty enough). But this scene is going to be with me for sometime.

This man's son, an ABSOLUTE douchebag, accidentally dies while masturbating. Even though this man sort of uses his son's death as a way to fend off his loneliness (though it all comes out in the end), in this moment he so loves his son, even though he doesn't like or understand him, he loved him. even in his twisted, darkly funny death, he loved him. he was his son; love is simple.

Wednesday, December 2, 2009

Only two of them actually saw the boy go under the truck. The rest of them felt the momentary change in terrain.

Sunday, November 15, 2009

In times of great distress, in the past, I've zeroed in on something or other and obsessed, shamelessly. i mean, i'm always one for manias, but at certain points they become crutches.

right now this crutch is wes anderson. everything is a wes anderson movie. when presented with an idea, i think, what would wes anderson do? this is dangerous as the anderson i think i know is not real, and, creatively, the anderson universe is so particular that any artistic reflection of it will be a rip-off.


turning to salinger only makes it worse.

i am doing better than i thought i would be doing right now, though. mostly because of wes anderson. sometimes these things can save you. i mean, i wouldn't entrust the man with my soul, but...

Friday, November 13, 2009

The Very Bad Thing

And then last night... or I guess two nights ago now, a really horrible thing happened. I feel hesitant to mention it here, but I'm fairly certain no one from school reads this-- actually I'm fairly certain only two people barely read this, and thus it is for myself, so I can and should talk about it. But if there are any Loyolans who lurk, I ask you, please, to not spread this nor take it up with the person in question. One of my suitemates took 16 or so pills in an effort to kill herself. She and I have been getting to be somewhat close friends lately, and we've both been relating to the fact that we've both been down alot. That night I was back before she was, and didn't know what she had done for some time. I usually leave her alone when she's in her room, but I felt particularly bothersome that day so I kept popping in to badger her, but she was in bed, saying she had too much caffeine and she was trying to calm her crazy heart down. I asked her if she had had coffee, and she said no, cryptically, so I left her alone. I bothered her later to ask her something, and she said she was feeling sick. Later I was writing a story in the living room and I heard her back and forth to the bathroom, throwing up. On about her 4th trip I asked her if she was okay and she finally came into the living room and told me what she took. Me: "Why?" Her: "I was really depressed."

I looked it up, then called the emergency number and asked for a doctor. Psafe officers, RDs, Emergency medical people came. She had chills and was out of it and turned really pale- at one point they were all in the bathroom with her on the floor, asking questions while the RD asked me everything she could. Then the effing ambulance people came and prepared her to go to the hospital, which is when she really started to cry. She asked me to come with her and I said I would and walked out with them to the ambulance. When I got to my car, it was dead, so I tried to find her car by clicking her keys. That went on for about 50 hours. When I finally found her car I zipped to the hospital-- since when did ERs get valet parking??-- tried to get in, then went back outside and fell apart for a few minutes, simply because it was all too surreal-- too close to home but also so vague: she could simply be sick, she was throwing up and pale. If you didn't know, it was just "sick". So removed from what it really is; the outside mirroring the inside; pain. It scared me too because it's something that I think about alot; killing myself, in the sense that I think she thought about it-- sort of abstractly, or the idea that it would bring an end or a change- not necessarily death. Another strange tie-in to what's been happening lately. Anyway. After chain-smoking for awhile, I got let into the room where she was all curled up and by herself. They checked her blood twice while I felt like her mom and distracted her by talking about Jane Austen, and a guy who I swear was Truman Capote (minus the wit) reincarnated demanded she give pee. She threw up all night, and we talked about death and bad british comedians and her parents and my family and I read for a bit until a nice asian nurse woman came in to take care of things. Once she left, we both just sat on the bed and she felt stupid and I told her that if she ever felt this way again she needed to talk to me. She told me the same, and we talked about how it felt to have a need to BE someone and what it was to fail. Finally, we were interrupted by the PET team-- meaning the Psychiatric Evaluation Team-- meaning yes, it is the Psychiatric Evaluation Team-TEAM. But okay. He was nice enough, and finally decided that Ally needed to be admitted into a psychiatric hospital. He would forcefully submit her if she didn't go willingly, so she finally did. At about 10:30, after being there all night, I hugged her and said goodbye, then came home and gathered her must-list (while avoiding and lying to my fellow housemates about it. rather believably, I thought, for an exhausted person) and drove the supplies to her temporary place- a psychiatric hospital in Cerritos. I was exhausted and did not go to any classes that day.

I feel like writing about it, but there's too much to say, and I don't know what she would be okay with. So I leave this now, for myself, to remind me of how this goes when I start to think.

The Very Good Thing

But then a good thing happened: I met an old friend, Sonia. She has been a penpal of mine since I was 13, and one I never figured I would meet, but meet we did and she was wonderful. Very refreshing to hang out with; we are vastly different people right down to our physicality, but I think we are kindred spirits. She and I also shared some very defining discoveries, namely The Royal Tenenbaums, which I recc'd to her, as well as The Decemberists and Bright Eyes (she to me). Where did we meet? At a screening of The Fantastic Mr. Fox. What happened there? One of the most wonderful things ever. I met Wes Anderson.

Well, Wes Anderson and Jason Schwartzman. They are two of my most favorite people on the planet (that is, Wes has been for some time and Jason quickly became one after seeing him in all of his adorable, SCHMACK glory).

Ahhh they are so precious. Anyway. We ended up in the second row, saw the film, which, Wes or No-Wes (but definitely Wes) was one of the most adorable things I've ever seen. The best part is the grumpy little-boy fox (Schwartzman). Anyway. After that was the Q&A, which they handled very nicely, answering every single question, both of them sitting there with their funny little multi-colored socks, being their precious selves in their suits. Yes, I know how I sound, leave me alone, it was my starstruck moment.

Afterward they strolled out with the rest of us mere mortals, chatting and conversing with whoever came up to them. We ended up walking behind JS, so I had to eventually say something once some people had left him alone. I shook hands, said I was earnestly a fan and liked his movies very much, could I have a picture? Thank you, yes of course you can! PRECIOUS MAN. And, may I say, GORGEOUS MAN. Picture was taken, hug was given, Katrina floated away. I now kick myself because there's so much more I should have said-- Thank you for Rushmore, thank you for making me laugh, thank you for co-writing Darjeeling, it's so beautiful, it meant alot to my family and really resonated. Thank you for California, another song that meant alot to my family when we moved years ago (we sang it driving down the 101, it reminded us that we were escaping our bondage for the time being and running towards possibility- we were free). Thank you for "West Coast", it meant alot to me and my friends two summers ago when we all started to go our own seperate ways-- when we listen to it it reminds us all of being together, I sing it when I'm down, thank you for that, thanks. Also, I love your socks. And now that I've met you I think you're probably the most unconventionally gorgeous and (one of the most) annoyingly multi-talented person in hollywood. Dammit. I could have said all of those things but I didn't.

i realllllllly wish i had decided to wear make-up that day.

And then I met him, I met Wes Anderson. Okay. I don't want to make it sound like I think he's GOD or anything, but let me just explain what a big deal this is: When I was thirteen, in 2001, the same year LOTR came out, I saw The Royal Tenenbaums. I didn't totally understand it, but I loved it, and my friend bought me the video for my birthday that year. So I watched it and I kept on watching it and talking to Sonia about it and thinking about it and one day I got the soundtrack from the library- I burned myself a copy and drew the Tenenbaum flag on it with pink and blue sharpies. Through that music and the music from his other movies I started to form my own tastes and became more selective about the pop music that I simply took for granted (no, I did not turn into a snob just yet, but I did broaden my horizons, and no, I never was all that crazy about Nsync anyway). I always loved music and writing, but I think REALLY it was Anderson and specifically the Royal Tenenbaums that made me fully realize what I want to do (Sofia Coppola and Charlie Kauffman and Cameron Crowe helped, of course, as well as all of the old favorites, but Wes pushed me over the edge). He, along with Coppola, was the first modern filmmaker that I read about and paid attention to, he was different. At 15 I went as Margot Tenenbaum for Halloween, even springing to rent a furr coat. When I was 16 I began to really respond emotionally to his movies-- suddenly Needle In The Hay and Fairest of the Seasons meant more and more, and by 17 I was a goner. I went to see Life Aquatic and Darjeeling Limited (as well as Huckabee's and Shopgirl by influence). The only other entities that I think had that sort of influence over my adolescence through young adulthood were The Beatles and JD Salinger, the only entities that've really had major influence since are CS Lewis and Bob Dylan. I love this guy.

He was awkward- dressed in a curdorouy suit that I know I've seen before, very tall and skinny with weird, Tim-Burton-esque fingers. He has very wise eyes, I'll say, and looks as though he's about to smirk but never does. He seems like a nice person. He has high taste but I don't think he wants to strangle anyone with it. He said hello, I said hello and shakily shook (heh) his spindly hand. I stumbled through an unprepared speech about how much I love Royal Tenenbaums and respect him as an artist, and he said thank you, and then I asked for a picture, and he said yes. So we took one. And then I shook his hand again and told him that everyone probably tells him so, but that he made me want to make art, and that I was going to school to learn screenwriting, and he said that was wonderful. I said I hoped to meet him again someday, which might have sounded creepy but oh I hope not, and then he wished me luck and I clumsily picked up my bag and smiled again at him and awkwardly walked away.

stupid katrina, stupid.

I should have told him everything, overwhelmed him with a sea of appreciation, detailing the tears that I still cry over the Greenline bus and I've Had A Hard Year Dad and Medals for Punctuation and I Didn't Save Mine and I Wonder If He Remembers Me? and how much I still at least giggle over I Was In The Shit and the revenge sequence of Rushmore and the brother's fight in Darjeeling and "I HAD TO DO IT!" and how I love that he always shows the spines of books and uses music just right and always lets me savor that sincere line that reveals the whole character's heart. But I didn't. I awkwardly ran away. Once I get my typewriter I'm going to write him a letter and tell him all that, but for now I just kick myself and bemoan my mediocrity-- except that now I am just a little less mediocre, because I have met a role model, creatively speaking, and he wished me good luck and shook my poor overzealous hand. Twice. <3 Lately whenever I've felt sad (see: previous blog and future blog) I just remind myself of this, and that I have no reason to be sad. I met Wes Anderson, and Jason Schwartzman (quite possibly the cutest person alive). I'll be happy for some time, no matter what.

On top of that, I re-met an old friend who's meant alot to me, just when I need friends. Aside from being embarrassed that she witnessed the starstruck and stammering version of me, I'm also very pleased about this.

Thursday, November 12, 2009

you are my voice, my microphone.

With every day that passes lately it seems as though there are more and more important things to write about. I wish I had written about every event in great detail, been able to capture my thoughts on every subject and every dry leaf that has slowed my step this month, but that alone is a full-time job. Maybe that's what a writer is, I don't know. I don't think so.With every day that passes lately it seems as though there are more and more important things to write about. I wish I had written about every event in great detail, been able to capture my thoughts on every subject and every dry leaf that has slowed my step this month, but that alone is a full-time job. Maybe that's what a writer is, I don't know. I don't think so.

Lately, I don't know how to describe what's happening. While I think it's dangerous to declare NOTHING coincidence and say that EVERYTHING is connected, I am starting to notice a strange inter-connectivity of events and feelings lately, so much that I'm starting to feel like Albert in I Heart Huckabee's- I have a bit of an existential coincidental crisis. I mean, I always see things as happening for a reason, good or bad (that isn't to say that I believe that bad things always happen and good things result from them- other than building character, I don't think good things always necessarily come from tragedy, but I do trust that there is ultimately a Hand at work in the universe and that God knows what He's doing. But yeah, the Holocaust thing, that was pretty bad...), but I don't think of most things as being specifically intertwined, especially not geared towards me (although of course we are our own martyr or superstar- every story is about us, even when we are only in the periphery of the story). However. This semester (that's how I mark my time) weird stuff has been happening, stuff that I can't help but think is all tied up somehow in a great big knot, and then little weird things have been happening that I know don't mean anything, but they tie into little knots-- and therefore I think they're meant to confirm that yes, yes it's relating to my hunch that all the big stuff is related. (see what i mean? three little things adding up to a donut does not have anything to do with my big problems, but the fact that the three unrelated things add up to something may be symbolic that my big unrelated things may add up to a big something).

Also, when I say strange I don't mean supernatural, just largely out of the ordinary for me.

I could discuss those things, but it's too exhausting right now. Some shall be included below, however...

okay. for my little posterity friend, here you are:

One day awhile ago, I went to see the Decemberists at UCLA. I went alone, as per the norm as of the past year, and they were wonderful. I got to really see UCLA in the daytime (it looks so Ivy leauge... maybe it's all the Ivy), and savor my first seated, no-opening-act concert. They were FANTASTIC-- their first set was the entirety of their new concept album, Hazards of Love, and then when they popped back out for the second set they totally engaged the audience and Colin Meloy might well be the funniest person on the planet, and they played new and old and got the audience to sing and clap and ooh. It was just great. My row was full of weird people I didn't want to be with... dancing, please stop the awkward dancing.. but still, the audience was really into it. I suppose the best bits were the start of Billy Liar (BILLY LIAR'S GOT HIS HANDS IN HIS POCKETS!- everyone went nuts), their cover of Crazy on You (their guest women singers KILLED it- amazing voices), and their last song, Sons and Daughters, which is so them and such a hopeful song. Meloy got the audience to sing "hear all the bombs fade away" as they riffed and sang away and stole into the night. That was really beautiful and lovely. I will complain that they didn't play alot of my old favorites, mainly Engine Driver from Picaresque and Summersong and July, July and mostly Architect, which would have made my life. But still. I think it was the best concert I've been to (yes, Foriegner is the best rock concert. And Hush Sound was the best for the experience. and Bob was amazing because... well, I saw Bob Dylan.) I didn't take any pictures, but that's okay. I was very happy there. Afterwards I walked to Diddy Reese to get some cookies, got a bit lost, but finally made my way back to fraternity row and found my car again. Good night.

I then had a really rough week or two. I felt really horrible and the campus felt really tense. I felt as though I was making no progress and that I have really been wasting my time, most of the time. And not in a good John Lennon way. I felt horrible and useless and crazy and so saddened by myself and my tendency to fail at what I see as "everything". I do not live up to the standards I feel I should have, and I am so disappointed. LMU went crazy for three weeks- the first, a crazy kid got racially threatening by pounding on doors and screaming about lynching and creepy stuff like that (and some girls got stalked in a car? dunno about that). the second, our homecoming saw many parties shut down and 3 kids rushed to the hospital due to ODing (though I'm pretty certain they lived). The next weekend, a fraternity kid, a senior, shot himself in the head. My room-mate, as well as a ton of other people, knew him, and the cloud that descended over the campus after that was pretty stifling. Nobody really knew how to take it.

That same week I found out that not only was my oldest friend (of 20 years) was pregnant, I later found out that she gave premature birth to a baby boy and that he was struggling for his life. He has turned out okay, he gets stronger every day.

That same week my cat, my old sweet cat got attacked by a fucking dog and died. She did die after receiving medical attention and love from my parents, so at least she didn't die huddling under some shed somewhere- I hope she died knowing that someone loved her and would have stopped her from being hurt if we could. I really loved that cat so much, I had her for 14 years, and she loved me no matter how grumpy or ugly I was. When I was so deeply depressed in 2006 I hardly ever got out of bed- literally only getting up to check the computer or to shower and brush my hair if I had received warning that someone was coming over. But my stupid cat loved me, and she'd scratch at my unsealable door until it moved enough to let her slide in, and she'd hop up on my bed and curl up in the same spot by my feet. She knew I wanted her there. She also did the weirdest thing when I'd pick her up and say hi, she'd sniff my lips and nose without touching me with her face. I'm so not a kiss-your-pet person, but it was like affection that we both understood. I loved my cat. She loved me. It's hard to come by, love is.

My mom had surgery; she had a giant benign tumor removed from her stomach, as well as a hesterectemy (if that's how you spell it); removal of the uterus. She's recovering okay, but it was very costly.

I discovered that due to a believe-it-or-not SMALL miscalculation on my part, I was overdrawn at the bank without knowing it. The small overdraft became larger as I continued to charge things, assuming I had 400 dollars in the damn account. Well, for every overdraft there's 35 dollar fine. I made several purchases. Over a weekend, I was negative more than 700 hundred dollars. I have no way of paying this off, as well as other bills to pay. Fuck.

Double-fuck: Cannot find job. Never found internship.

Triple-fuck: My student account at LMU has announced that I never got all of the loan I thought I had- thus, I owe 7,000 for this semester not to mention NEXT semester. I must pay for this semester before I can register for next semester. My last semester. I cannot pay this. I cannot find any other student loans. I have no co-signer. I need to register. If I can't, I cannot come back next semester. I will have to put off graduation. Fuck fuckity fuckstein. I really want to graduate, I really want to fly away, I really want to vanish into Europe and never ever come back to this wretched place*. I'm scared and flailing down the infinite abyss-- Zach Braff, we were once friends (actually, according to a dream I had, boyfriend and girlfriend in a very clean apartment). What happened?

The Very Good Thing that happened is to follow accordingly, as well as the Very Bad Thing.

Wednesday, November 4, 2009

bored to death

"Hit me! Get angry!"

"I'm not good with anger, I go straight to depression."

last week was a really, really hard week in really, really strange ways.

my cat died.

this week will be better.

Thursday, October 29, 2009

i think i am a bit man-deprived these days.

cigarette + book (which happens to be a john lennon biography!??!!?!)+ snappy suit. UM?!

Wednesday, October 28, 2009

“ Love of beauty is Taste. The creation of beauty is Art. ”

Ralph Waldo Emerson

Tuesday, October 27, 2009

on writing and happiness. i suppose.


but i can't even do that right now.

my mind is so full of people; souls storming the gates to be free, but when i pull the latch all they do is stand there and stare- surprised. like any life-long prisoner they don't know what to do once they stare freedom in the face. where will they live? who will they love? most of all- what will be their method for walking out the gate?

sometimes i think i am wasted potential, sometimes i think i runneth over with genius or magic that must be shared, and sometimes, like now, i think that potential was just a dream. a pleasant thought to cling to in order to get through the days. yes, there will always be someone better than you. but what if you're really no good at all? then where will all these souls be? that's the most horrific of all-- would they be better off in someone else's prison, do you think? would someone else be better equipped to take their hands and help them down the steps and into the garden or the spaceship or the courtroom or the river or the studio or where-ever they belong?

today i was so depressed. i reached a point where i just wanted to cease to be myself. and i hate myself for moments like that because i think it's brought on by how we live- we are so selfish. i don't mean children die in africa while we eat mcdonalds and complain about our parents selfish, but how often we turn inwards rather than to our fellow man selfish. i was so sad that i cannot be who i want to be, who i feel i need to be, and that i constantly destroy or am destroyed and all it takes for me to rebuild is me standing up, but i don't want to stand up. but i do. but i don't do it. and oh, i feel so sorry for myself. i have "PROBLEMS". and everyone else, especially the needier, more emotional, sometimes more insightful ones have their problems, and we all have these problems and no one understands us and OH we are so unhappy. these problems are made only worse by how we live, the pigeon holes we are fitted into while we are simultaneously being told that we are individuals and therefore meant to be misunderstood. No one gets us, and at the same time pretty much everyone in America is depressed. Reason says we should at least have something in common, but we are determined not to see it. again, we do not- i do not- reach out. we have forgotten we belong to each other; by trying to care for others our own pain will decrease-- in fact, this depression, this pain which we feel is so individual and so hard to understand to everyone else through empathy for another person will become universal. i know i need to work on understanding that, but i don't know how right now, and i still feel so sad! sometimes i think i was merely cut out to be like this. i'm having alot of struggle with understanding my own power to change, i suppose.

but oh, i want to, i want to write. maybe freeing them will make me happier, or maybe doing them justice, having some satisfaction with their existence, will be the only thing to make me satisfied.

Monday, October 26, 2009


I think I created you.

You did. I created you too. I breathed life into you. That's how love works.

Saturday, October 24, 2009

the only good line from "the last kiss", an otherwise horrendous movie.

"Stop talking about love. Every asshole in the world says he loves somebody. It means nothing. It still doesn't mean anything. What you feel only matters to you. It's what you do to the people you say you love, that's what matters. It's the only thing that counts."

Wednesday, October 21, 2009

said of a prison inmate; a serial killer

"He was buried in a prison cemetery, as no one claimed his body."

Sunday, October 18, 2009

productivity is a wonderful thing.

yesterday morning i woke up late, but i have just finished my homework for most of the week, hurray.

Saturday, October 17, 2009

Friday, October 16, 2009

here comes the blind comissioner

Last night I went to one of Bob Dylan's three concerts in Hollywood. It was... quite something.

I'm beginning to notice something about myself and concerts-- apparently they're pretty momentous occasions. I don't know if it's because I'm a sensitive person or if I overthink or if my heart is just a special kind that wants to burst at the slightest expansion, but at concerts or any momentous occasion to me I seem to realize on several levels that it's momentous, so much so that perhaps I fail to be in the moment because I know I should be in the moment. I can't help it. I know that life is short-- maybe I realize that more than some young people (for no particular reason- I'm neither naive nor overfamiliar with death or anything) so I want to wallow and soak and let things carry me away, but of course they never will be able to lift me if I'm aware of them-- if I throw myself at them. Yes, sometimes they get by me anyway, but I can't help but think I feel things a bit differently. I think I am Tereza from Unbearable Lightness-- the world is heavy.

Point is, the concert was a strangely surreal experience-- as alot of them have been, but this one in particular for a few reasons. One, I was alone and thus... well, we'll get to that. Two, it's so bizarre to see a figure you're so familiar with not a few yards from you- someone you feel like you know, but who does not and will not know you ever. In a way you are a voyeur. Three, Bob Dylan in particular has so much significance attached to him (for me, I can't imagine the oldsters's experience). He's a co-founder of rockn'roll, modern folk, pop songs with deep significance. No one is like Bob Dylan, no one has his mythic history or his image. I realize all that IS indeed image (and I have theories about that too, mostly concluding with my opinion that he has no personality of his own left), but still. It's a pretty affecting image. I look at him like I look at a beautiful old building or pictures of Europe-- the complexity, the history, the magnificent things that have passed before it/him and, furthermore, the beautiful and strange things he has created. The history alone gives me chills. I don't want to make him out to be a god or even a musician who can do no wrong (because lord knows he can) but it is a rather striking and strange feeling to be in the same concert hall as that.

That said, I faded in and out of that surreal feeling throughout the event. He didn't do anything to help- he didn't speak until the end when he introduced the band. He sang and played the keyboard (never the guitar, alas) and was, well, Bob Dylan. Some moments were absolutely sublime, some songs could have been skipped or replaced with material I would much rather hear- sadly he did not play Desolation Row, which I've had on repeat lately, or Positively 4th Street, or Times (which I suppose he'd feel funny singing now that he belongs to the old world), or Mr. Tambourine Man. He played a few new ones which I was not familiar with but which I liked very much (one being Forgetful Heart, which was pretty moving. now that I listen to it, I really like it, but allow me to say that live it was beautiful). He now sounds much more like Tom Waits so far as voice goes, but his manner and enunciation is still so HIM. Some verses he sang as if he were mocking or asking a question-- in that great Dylan way. It's like an actor choosing the emphasis to put on a particular line that changes the meaning or the joke entirely-- he's good at that. Anyway, it was more of a rock show than anything, and his band was really good. They really slayed Highway 61, and on encore they did a mean version of Rolling Stone (and Jolene? meh) and All Along The Watchtower, which, according to what I've read, played like he always wanted it to sound- electric. It was like hearing Hendrix's version with Dylan singing. Wild.

However, the absolute best best best best part was Ballad of a Thin Man, which ended the first set (before the encore). They stopped moving around the stage, came to the front, the lights dimmed and became cabaret-style (that is to say, most of the place turned dark and the above lights turned off, and then they lit them from the very front of the stage in a kind of amber color. reminded me of a speakeasy or something). He was standing in the middle and just did a KILLER version of it, with his guy on the guitar wailing away and sounding incredible, and him on the harmonica- again, killing it DEAD. Vicious. About halfway through it I realized that the front lighting was casting a massive shadow- his only, nicely done- against the curtain behind him. Man. Eerie as hell. So fitting. I would like to rewind and just experience that again.

The people were strangely nice, too. Unexpected. At one point I abandoned my initial place because jerks encroached, so I moved further to the left of the stage. Eventually more and more people pushed in, but I remained because I could see okay (though there were some freakishly tall people way up front-- jerks. Anyway, I was standing, and there was a gap between me and this super tall guy, but he wasn't IN front of me, just in front and to the side so he wasn't blocking my view, but I didn't want to move up too close to him and piss him off. Plus he looked very self-involved and snobby, and I don't know about these Dylan people. But then, right before Dylan came out, he turned and smiled at me and his whole expression changed. "Do you want to stand in front of me?" He asked. Nicest Dylanite ever. Later, a guy with a hat was somewhat in front of me, and between sets he turned back to see my POV and asked if I could see. So yeah. Despite the blatant little potheads (inside? really, potheads?? clearly nothing stops you [wow, i AM frances mcdormand]) it was incredible. Just great. I drove home in the fog listening to Desolation Row and just thinking.

Such a conflicting feeling, feeling that satisfied and that yearning at the same time.

I'll figure it out someday. Or not.

Thursday, October 15, 2009

Leopard Skin Pillbox Hat

"It's just about a hat, man." - Bob Dylan.

Saturday, October 10, 2009

i am bloody shakespeare (and he was bloody, that one...)

woe is the soul forsaken, for my words are immortal, and how they suffer.
-me, so far as i know.

i think that's pretty good.

This is something I am thinking about right now: Thursday night I went to a best-of-the-year honors thing for my school. It was on the 20th Century Fox backlot, which was a treat for me. Actually I can't convey to you the glee I felt as my trashy little geo waited in the ranks of cars to enter through the gates. Better still, the awards ceremony was buried deep within the nest, so I had to wander around the paths to find it. It was wonderful. Night yes, so not much filmmaking going on in front of the naked eye, but do you know that delightful feeling of anticipation that fall brings in, that taste of ambition beginning to dawn on the climate? Christmas is coming, Halloween is coming, soon we'll all have turkey, what will we do and how will we do it? That's kind of how it felt. I was by myself, also, and that always intensifies these moments. It makes me wonder if I should always be by myself so I can understand things better. Anyway, it was strangely wonderful. The ceremony was nice too, I got to see what goodies that the production kids have been doing all year and some famous people were there, too. The one that excited me was Brian Hegeland, the guy who wrote LA Confidential and Mystic River and, one of my favorite movies (don'tjudgeme), Knight's Tale. Anyway, he's apparently alumni, and it was very encouraging to see him. And frightening, too, I suppose.

Senioritis hasn't really hit me, nor do I really think it's going to. At least not as severely as some others. I feel as though I've already had my moments to panic, to worry, to try to make ends meet, that weighty decisions and the idea of being done with school is not frightening in the least. Yes, I like school, I like learning, I'll be sad to see mandatory scholasticism vanish from my day-to-day as well as the comforts that will run away with it, but perhaps it's because I've done this all backwards, because I have no particularly strong social attachment to my school of choice, because I already know what I love to do... who knows, my point is I do not feel the post-grad Dustin Hoffman experience. HOWEVER. I do feel the fear of not being able to be Brian Hegeland, or Clint Eastwood, or Sofia Coppola. I don't care if I have to work two or three jobs for the rest of my life or whathaveyou, but if I don't get to write, if I don't get to create on that level I think I will have a very difficult time surviving. I suppose I define success for myself as quality, and as I was watching one of those stupid montages for one of the editors that was also being honored on Thursday, my eyes started to well up and I thought, damn. I love good film, really good film. What if I fail at that? Oh no, oh no.

So that's what I've been thinking about. I can't seem to explain it to anyone, when I open my mouth all it sounds like is the senior blues or some riff on the American Dream, but I like to think it's different, and I want God to tip the roof off of the coffee shop that I'm sitting in right now and tell me exactly how many great works I will accomplish before I die, and how many people will be affected by them, and how I will know how appreciated I am before death. Only this will make me happy right now, and He knows it, what a tease.
i've been having all of these fantastic ideas for stories and screenplays lately (well, always) but with no time or real motivation to proceed. rar. and these are REALLY GOOD ideas.

this morning i watched two really excellent movies: Dangerous Liaisons and Titus. Titus was, I suppose, more impressive, but I achieved a sense of satisfaction in watching both of them as I recalled their release very vividly and their presence at video stores and in pop culture, and that I couldn't see them. Titus was too violent, and after I got a bit older I just had a hard time finding it and finding the time. Dangerous Liaisons was much too steamy, though my dear mother did tell me the whole story once after she had seen it (and liked it, I knew, despite her qualms). Dangerous Liaisons was just quite a terrific thing... very whole in its presentation. A completely unapologetic period piece with really intense acting, especially from Glen Close who seemed to get alot of those kinds of scary women roles. Titus was really just something else that I need to rave about later, though I must say it's probably a new favorite movie. Julie Taymor, you are wonderful.

Anyway. I liked this from DL:

Madame de Rosemonde: I'm sorry to say this, but, those who are most worthy of love are never made happy by it.
Madame Marie de Tourvel: But, why? Why should that be?
Madame de Rosemonde: Do you still think men love the way we do? No... men enjoy the happiness they feel. We can only enjoy the happiness we give. They are not capable of devoting themselves exclusively to one person. So to hope to be made happy by love is a certain cause of grief.

Tuesday, October 6, 2009

help me?

nothing is worse than going to waste.

Monday, October 5, 2009

I just bought tickets to see Bob Dylan on the 14th. For alot of money. I'm also going to see The Decemberists on the 19th. Stupid, stupid girl. Hahaha. At the same time, good for me. I'm not even given pause at the thought of going alone (which i am). Ha, goooood for me.


I'm tired, having not been able to sleep once again. But we are watching Michael Collins in class today so perhaps I will catch some zzz's in there, though let it be known that I am most fond of that gangly Mr. Neeson and his droopy hands.

Today, I shall go to class, do all of my philosophy homework, write to people about internships, finish a book, print off lines to practice, email a fellow about CLC, eat a salad, pick up some extra food items, and write to career people about jobs. Also, I will apply at blockbuster. Blah.

I need:
To lose weight. I went to the gym this morning, finally.
To get my room in order. IE LAUNDRY, hanging up frames.
To do some more writing for myself.
To paint some, also for myself.
To get an internship.
To get many jobs.
To be friendlier to people. I really do. I realize when I'm at school I make people think that they don't matter to me, but that's just because I don't like being around anyone when I feel gross about myself. And at LMU I almost always feel gross about myself. When will it all end?

Coffee. That's the answer.

Sunday, October 4, 2009

i was slicing up an avocado

me: marvel at yourself for a minute
i was thinking today
that seeing ourselves from the perspective of others could be so damaging much of the time
because most people you are familiar with don't even know you all that well
or want to protect themselves so they color you in negative shades without thinking
so you'd either see a pigeon hole or something not all that attractive
it could be a very eye-opening thing
Maureen: yeah
8:21 PM me: but i mean when it's the people who really love you, or even maybe think you're even more fantastic than reality because they can see your potential.
it would be cool to occasionally be able to put those spectacles on
me: to balance out everyone else. don't you think?

Friday, October 2, 2009

Generally speaking, you know what bothers me about puritans? They entice you with promises of non-alcoholic glee, and then once you've joined their cult they tell you what you're going to do-- nothing fun, that's what. They make you go to your hovel and wear grey dresses. Especially if you're a little boy. Nothing says puritanical like little boys in grey dresses. That's what the Oft Quoted Puritan says, anyway.

Wednesday, September 30, 2009

and i can't deny it

this morning.... i stayed up all night long. i know i'll crash at about 4pm today, but that's okay. point is, i have books, coffee (in a huge alice in wonderland mug), a nice window, an empty apartment, and frank sinatra singing "that's life" in my ear. i love this moment. i love this moment. i love this moment.


An actress flattered me yesterday by saying she thought I was a fellow actress while we were doing a read-through. This made me happy.

Sunday, September 27, 2009

from an email i wrote to a newish friend

I remember the insignificantly significant. I remember the exact first words Josh Nitschke and I exchanged ("Is that the room? They all look alike!"), what I was wearing when I met Jon (a large lampshade hat, which i was really trying to make work that day, but had come to realize in the hour beforehand that it was not to be, something that his expression told me instantly. thanks, could have saved me alot of trouble). I remember my friend's friends names better than I do my classmates, I connect songs to every event and personage in my life, I collect the ticks and inflections of other people. I think it's because I am saving them up to use someday, maybe just in writing, maybe not. Sometimes I feel like JSF, a collector. Now that I have romanticised myself, I will say that I am also brazen and notorious for sharing things that folk honestly don't care about or don't feel is appropriate unless under influence of alcohol. Though I have never been drunk I would assume that were I to be, I would be the best friend that the main character would not want around because I would tell so-and-so that so-and-so likes him, and so on.


Forgive this, but my cat has nine lives (i do not tire of finding that amusing): what sort of gesture did you choose to represent yourself? I hate those kinds of things. Not expression, but having to encapsulate yourself, say something about yourself. It seems like on the one hand if you knew yourself you wouldn't be able to summarize at all because it's too great, then again if you knew yourself utterly you would know the one word, the one gesture that could be you, tastes and preferences aside and be damned with only the core remaining. And if you knew yourself you'd be okay with that. Whereas I, though I like to think I know myself so much better than other people, feel like I have to demonstrate my layers or duality or so many elements of my identity (as I would like it to be) constantly. In summary, those kinds of things give me too much personal anxiety-- as if by saying the word or making the motion I am sentencing myself to be that, rather than letting that speak for me. Ah well.

Saturday, September 26, 2009

is this really three in one?

that's what she said.

Anyway. My room is mostly decorated, and mostly clean (on my side) right now. I went grocerey shopping today; I returned stuff. Much better day than yesterday, which was just a huge disaster on a massive scale-- one of those days that worries me for my future self. If I don't escape from the scrapes that I am continually putting myself into then I fear they will only get worse, but that is not what I feel like thinking about right now.

One of my favorite songs about pain is John Lennon's "God", which doesn't get talked about all that much, except sometimes by the chapman guy who shot him. Sometimes I think about how Lennon died and I'm just surprised-- really, that someone that iconic was taken down by a chubby weirdo who now seems to be a form of Alex DeLarge, that he never escaped from Yoko (was it better that way?). I've read so much about John Lennon in the past three or four years that I have a strange sense about him-- you know how no matter what you always seem to have a feeling about some celebrity or other?-- I get this sense of tragedy to match his wit. He was so brilliant but so self-loathing, so wanting someone to take care of him. How else could you explain a genius being in the situations he was in at various times? He seemed far superior to the other Beatle-minds, and way too intelligent to be taken in by people like Yoko or sexy sadie or what have you? What a restless mind. He wanted to be taken in, he wanted everything that sounded ridiculous and fantastic to be true, but everytime he came up empty he'd berate the beauty of the attraction in the first place, he'd chastise what he viewed as sirens for pulling him in, when really he was the one listening, willing to listen to them every single time.

that was a totally off-base stream of conciousness and not at all what i wanted to write about, but the song came on and it gave me that feeling it always does. i can't believe songwriters die. good songwriters-- good writers-- good musicians-- good artists-- should simply deny others the crown and live forever. it's not right taht artists should die. it's just not. how on earth can we connect so often to someone who no longer breathes? and yet we do. i think it has something to do with the soul, however you wish to interpret that.


So I have to write a short paper thingy about Plato's views on art and aesthetics, and while I understood (and relished) the reading I have no idea where to go with that. I'm going to stream of conciousness here.

So Plato says:

- Art is imitation
- Art is the lowest form of a "thing", the 3rd version of it (it's natural state, its tangible state, and then... art)
- Art is either useless because it has no social utility OR
- Art is falsifying, appealing to the lowest part of the soul, because it may incite a distorted view or bad behavior as a result of misunderstanding.
- A: it may incite a distorted view for the less educated because we are fooled into thinking we are being educated but rather we are just enjoying diversions. Because storytellers, artists, imitate without knowing the natural or tangible state of the thing that they are imitating, they may be presenting something entirely false, or at least somewhat "angled"-- as in a painting of a bed. depending on the angle at which the bed is painted, the perspective of the bed will appear to change, but that is not necessarily what a real-life bed really IS. Then, later, when we see a bed, we may not recognize it or think it to be something else. The same can be said of virtue, beauty, good things and bad things (don't do bad things, only do good things...)
- B: It may arouse in us passion, but passion isn't beneficial. it makes us behave rashly.

this is kind of confusing, because he essentially calls it evil.
then he goes on in Ion to talk about how it can be divine, from the gods, which is funny because according to plato nothing from the gods could be bad-- in fact, if it is inspired-- created? by the gods does that mean it is a new "thing", a "thing" all to itself? Ie, the first manifestation of something natural rather than the third version of something; a pure imitation? And Plato doesn't say this specifically, but one would reason that aside from imitation there IS creation in art, even then, obviously-- but because of its invention is it then a lie and therefore evil? OR woulc he argue that there actually is nothing new under the sun, there cannot be creation outside of what the gods have already created-- everything, therefore, is imitation of their natural creations??

Bottom line (2): Art is imitation and therefore bad. Artists are imitators of the lowest form and therefore know nothing except how to imitate.

Obviously, I have alot of objections to this approach, but not none that can be approached using the constructs that Plato has arranged. He promotes censorship; but to achieve his ends of an ideal city full of obidient people, people of one mind, one cannot deny that his approach is fairly sound. Most other objections are rooted in the idea that passion is healthy and good, and not just rash and dangerous, as Plato asserts at every given moment.

I suppose my major objection to Plato's declaration that art is "bad" is this: Plato says passion isn't beneficial, and passion can be a result of art. To me, it seems as though being exposed to living passionately is a large part of being human- human in a POSITIVE sense rather than a reckless and useless way. Plato's approach to life seems to center around virtue, which is noble and true, but he assumes that passion has nothing to do with virtue. Can not one be passionate about virtue?

One thing I may say is that a writer or painter may know his procedure-- his craft being how to wield a pen or brush, and, while it's true that if a writer wrote about surgeons that he is imitating what he may vaguely understand or have researched-- but I would argue that an artist- a good artist, at least- does have a skill of understanding and insight. From my perspective, Plato sort of fears humanity-- he wants to educate it and put it away, reason it into civility, but in doing that isn't he also trying to understand it, to analyze it and to improve it? Is he not making observations about men and trying to make sense of them? Isn't that what all good art does? Is not art, in a sense, philosophy? And in that case, isn't an artist, depicting his understanding of humanity with his own personal insight, putting forth a concept just as Plato does in his dialogues? It is arguable that the artist draws no conclusions, but according to Plato who declares that art can alter opinion via emotion art DOES put forth a statement (ie a tragedy-- this is sad, or a frightening painting-- this is scary), just like Plato's philosophy (ie philosophy of aesthetics-- art is bad. art can be dangerous). I suggest that artists are philosophers too, albeit with a more emotional approach (which, yes, Plato would condemn most of the time for being passionate-- but then again he does seem to agree that emotion may be Divine), and therefore possess knowledge similiar to that of a philosopher-- it is simply expressed differently.

Friday, September 25, 2009


To the guy who approached me today in the bookstore and told me i was really cute, thank you. the self-pitying girl needed that. i hope you didn't let the self-important laugh or the awkward avoidance on the way out fool you.

oh you darling man,

So I don't know if it's reflecting back on Dan In Real Life or one too many viewings of The Office, but I find myself irresistibly attracted to Steve Carell. I think it's just getting older and seeing the value in character (we're not talking michael scott now) and humor and gentility, all of which he appears to be in possession of. This makes him exceedingly cute.

Wednesday, September 16, 2009

i fucking hate my directing teacher. fucking. hate him.

...that's a bit exaggerated. but you get the idea.

Tuesday, September 15, 2009

oh we couldn't bring the columns down

deja vu.


i don't know about children. if i want to have them, that is. i don't feel cut out to be a mom in alot of ways, but sometimes i just have ideas about how to mold a human being without crushing them, and i think maybe i wouldn't suck at it. too much.


in class today i suddenly decided that i must write down all of my favorite names. forgive this, whoever happens to read this- i am not usually this person. but i do love names.

Dominic (or Donovan, but you can't have both)
Hadley (The Sun Also Rises is dedicated to him)
Loudon (no, the Wainrights had nothing to do with it... I swear..)
Dante (well, it's better than naming him Chaucer)
Zooey (oh salinger, you've ruined me)
I kind of like the traditional boy-boy-names like Harry and Charlie and Billy, too.
Jude. So I could sing HEY JUDE to him. He would so growing up either hating or loving the Beatles. I could just name him Lennon. Bet he'd HATE that.

Margot or (eux, I suppose)
Ophelia (i could call her Opie)
Portia (yes. yes. Shakespeare much?)
Kate (not Katherine, ever. but Kate is lovely)
Phoebe (oh Salinger again)
Audrey (ye old hollywood)
Ingrid (although I have to admit I keep hearing Roddy Mcdowall say it in That Darn Cat.... "INgrid!".... but on the other hand, it's such a graceful, feminine name, as in Bergman.)
Maude (Judd Apatow had the nerve to name his daughter this. kudos, apatow, kudos...)

In other news, I was just on itunes and decided to see what was new at the store. i discovered
1) i am not up on my hipness. at all.
2) all of my little secrets have become big secrets due to the popularity of this crazy internet world. damn. i feel tragically unhip.
3) fleet foxes? new song?

Monday, September 14, 2009

the idea of idle beauty is worth the most contempt

this is a college kid thing to write about. but i am a college kid, so allow me.

i have no money, zip, nada. overdrawn, in the RED, dying, worried.

this weekend was my friend lauren's birthday. she wanted to have dinner. not too much to ask, obviously, and yet i had no cash. at all. maxed cards, you know, and i also wanted to actually GET her something, gah. so. i realized that i had 2 books from barnes and noble that i bought in ventura so i found the receipt through some black magic, then dashed to the nearest B&N for a refund.

now, as soon as i walked in i saw the large looming sign declaring 14 days the cut off point for returns. oh no. i get in line anyway, thinking maybe they won't notice it. i get redirected a number of times, finally to be told, indeed, that those 14 days had passed. depressed, i was about to withdraw my stupid nabokov and capote from the ring and endear them to me forever, but wait. they'd let me get away with it. it's just a FEW days after. but don't do it again! PRAISE GOD!! 30 dollars!!!!

Happily, I skipped forth from ye wonderfule olde bookesupplie, only to face my old friend, Coffee Bean. I sighed wistfully. If only. And I realize I'm hungry, too, with only oatmeal at home to eat. blah. as i make my way back to my car i espy a card on the ground. it looks like coffee bean..... could it??? i take it in. i find out that 10 dollars is on this here foundling. happy, happy day. i get a muffin.

i run to target. i return a skirt, but the money is refunded to my credit card. the good news about this is that now, come tomorrow, my netflix will actually be renewed through this card that now has some money on it. but anyway. i make my meager purchases for lauren. 2 pairs of cutethings and some peanut M&Ms. i usually want to do so much more for birthdays, but alas. I run home, run to the resturant, end up spending more than i planned on once tip and taxes are taken into account. and then i chip in to buy her a little cake and sparkly candles--- all in all, leaving me with one dollar!

and that, kids, is how to celebrate a birthday on a limited budget. old receipts and the kindness of parking lot gods, or God, who actually realizes that I need Coffee Bean more than I'd like to admit.

that's all.

Tuesday, September 8, 2009

this is fashion for katrina right now.

this is the stuff that dreams are made of. when i am in shape, i'm going to be much more devoted to style. damnation, i love vintage.

mod dresses (casual) and coats. yes.

sixties sophistication-- modest/conservative but very attractive, put together. i love Joan's flair as well... then again Joan can make anything sexy. Mad Men= obsession.

Deschanel is pretty much my number one fashion/image icon... she's super quirky but still on the vintage side, and not too offbeat. She dresses creatively and brightly (her general image is desirable too-- attractive in an intelligent way, multi-talented, but still very feminine.)

cannot find frying pan. hell to pay.

i hate relocating. i always lose about 15% of my useful items every move. if i move 3 times a year, as does your average college student, that means i lose 45% of my stuff. the coffee mugs will be the next to go, i just know it.

Sunday, September 6, 2009

first week of school

Her boots fell to pieces long ago-- they were her daddy's boots, now only shreds, strapped around her feet- mere cloth protection from the heat of the ground, the sharp rocks. Now she walks slowly.

Done, finished, the beginning of the beginning and also the beginning of the end. Strange.

Best not to concentrate on specifics and just blaze on through.

Things to say, but today is the day to study and get things done.

That said, my Thursday class is all-Chaucer (Canterbury Tales) all the time, and my teacher is a dream (in an English Professor Weirdo way... not in a conveniently young and hot way, alas). He's hilarious. Anyway, he referenced "Geoffrey Chaucer Hath a Blog" in class and apparently I was the only one who didn't know about this phenomenon, but it's the funniest thing I've read in a long time and I'm addicted.

Bit that made me laugh exceedingly loud:

For neyther he nor Sir Neville had sene the snakes, but herde onnlie the cryes from below and knew nat what happede. And so Sir Sean got hym up to move but Sir Neville seyde, ‘Sir Knight, whan first we met ich toolde thee that if thou sholdst do my biddynge, thou wolde lyue, and in ower aventurez it hath happede thus that thou hast no reson to distruste me. Thou must bringe thy witnesse to Kyng Arthurez court, and thus stay thee heere the while ich figure out what the helle the noyse ys aboute. Mesemeth peraventure that the in-shippe filme ys Failure to Launch and alle folke do screme in terror at the mismatchede romantique payringe of Sarah Jessica Parker and Matthew “Nat Luke nor Owen” McConaughey.’ And so Sir Sean stayede put while Sir Neville went doun to ward the noyse.

Tuesday, September 1, 2009

happy 50th blog.

aimless. no, not that, pretty productive, relatively. but i'm stalling. why am i so resistant? damn.

pondering standards, how i see people. will i become like my parents, will i stop trying to understand them and take them as is? i hope not, or maybe i hope so.

yesterday, and during points of today i have had the strangest sense of homesickness. strange. ventura must be home, i don't feel homesick there. but i do feel restless. maybe the restless feeling is just because i am young and clueless and haven't done or seen anything, or found what i'm looking for. maybe that's just natural, maybe that's just what CS Lewis is talking about on the subject of Faith in Mere Christianity. I wish I were more intelligent in regards to my own feelings sometimes. I see some people here, giving in to every whim and backpeddling at every moment, and I'm not like that. But it seems that with every altering of emotion I'm thrown into a turmoil. Anyway, point being I think my most significant comfort right now is knowing that Ventura is home. Ventura is home. And it's alright to feel homesick for it, even if it is unstable.

Though homesickness is never nice. Right now I feel strangely urgently needy, like I need a hug, someone to sit with me, someone to be with me NOW, but I don't want to be with or close to anyone. In fact I'm avoiding it, for the most part.

Going to the school shrink tomorrow. Probably not Christian, which would be my desire, but free, which is my joy.

I want to see Taking Woodstock. AND the Time Traveler's Wife. Suck it (I'm already talking like my room-mate. scary.)

Sunday, August 30, 2009

truth doodles

I am not strong. I am not the leader I thought I could be. I need people to complete my happiness. Trust?

A truth? What do I know?

There is always hope, and you must never abandon this idea. Hope comes to me in letters. It comes to me from god, but that doesn't mean it can't appear/manifest itself in superficial ways.

Hope is Holden's Phoebe.

Thursday, August 27, 2009

ummm things i want to write.

Short Stories

-- San Francisco
-- Dentist "you're still numb"
There's a magazine next to me. I think Liv Tyler's on the cover. I make no move to pick her up, though; I never really liked Liv Tyler and I prefer to make no sudden movements lest I provoke Mr. Sugarsawra's stony looking receptionist. She has scary-looking fingers- good for filing, I presume, but probably not for holding babies or anything like that.

-- Fishing Village story.
The water seems to sympathize, its soft curves look inviting as they embrace and pass through the boat, every wave that follows seems to be perfectly in time as he hears it hit the side. He will always be a fisherman. The rhythm of the sea lulls him, assures him; he will never go home. His love is too big for harbor village. The waves crash in time with his thoughts, coming together and breaking apart, they seem to be saying the same thing, over and over as the boat is pulled deeper into the dark night.

I love you, I loved you.

-- Cancer kid/sister story. "She's real cute bald, too." "I'll bet... wtf?"

--Election Story, Voter Girl Virginity
The fall breeze was heavy with the weight of promises whispered on the winds, sent from the pulpits, called down on us from the giant televisions that seemed to be everywhere on campus. Everywhere seemed to be Election Land, but on campus it was positively inescapable. Even with the surprise of rain over Halloween weekend the posters remained, now with a sort of gritty character as their giant letters bled red white and blue and their faces sagged. Bulletins, wrapped in plastic and attached to sticks, were planted in the ground and in every dorm hallway hand written signs clung to the walls, urging all to the TV-clad study rooms to watch the action unfold. The staunch-looking, elderly conservative or the slick, refreshing democrat? Who would the nation choose to lead us now? We college kids had it figured out, for the most part.

-- The Night Granny Died and Our Friend Amanda Went to Prom

-- Dory's School

-- Funeral Home
The three of them sat there, each feeling as though they were sharing a surreal moment, one they would look back on from time to time like a memory one keeps in a shoebox- an object like a marble or a penny or an eraser shaped like a penguin. There was something so timely about their appearance, their togetherness, their almost perfectly symmetric alignment- two plus one people perfectly positioned on a bus stop. Justine didn’t want to look at either of her benching contemporaries, as a matter of fact- she wanted to believe that their expressions matched hers, that they were at that moment indeed the three wise monkeys; partaking in no evil.

She removed her glasses- just an inch from the nose, then raised her finger to give the left side a tap- but something changed her mind. Slowly, she removed her glasses entirely, dropped them into her purse, and gazed ahead as the three of them wondered in silence if their bus would ever come.

-- The town of Fopstein and Mr. Bailey
He had a dream. One of those odd dreams where you see yourself doing something, but you are also the one doing it? One of those ones. In it, he had created a person, a beautiful Tin Man with round rolly legs and square body- a Tin Man who could move and speak and answer questions.

I want to write a series of essays or stories about 20 of my favorite songs. Somewhat like Nick Hornby's Songbook, which I had forgotten the merits of until today. It will pretty much just be for my sake.

I need to find a good foundation for a novel.


The Western Hamlet Masterpiece. Oh yes.


How Wilson Lived

Clara Bow Biopic

Lengthened version of Jackson Hole script

Fixed version of Homeschooler Script

Screenwriting Class Sitcom/Community College

Ok, i feel better now.

Wednesday, August 26, 2009

so i wanna get your everything

Packing/resorting for the new year, getting kind of excited. Have finally reached a sort of revitalization, even though I'm kind of tired physically. Anyway, found my old 03-06 journal. Tinkerbell is on the cover, but the inside is fascinating. People are fascinating, myself included.

I just wish I could remember if I was earnest back then, or only kidding myself.


just compiled pretty much the only remaining writing from my rough time, found in another random notebook which I just trashed.. interesting to read it now, it just drips with disconnect and anguish and self-hatred and alienation. man.

An airport is a surreal place to be when you don't even feel like living. (this was scribbled out but i could still read it)

You sit there with your alloted two pieces of carry-on luggage, plagued with the traditional reservations of an non-frequent flier- the chief being "what if I've made a mistake along the way?"-- checking inside your now overstuffed purse every two minutes to make sure your boarding pass and cellphone and ID are all in their proper and accessible place. You're traveling alone- first time, come to think of it, but you really don't think of it because its never been an issue. You're here at Gate 47 and it was all easier than you thought, to be honest, but you aren't thinking of that too much and you're certainly not honest.

What you are is hoping you'll stat thinking about flying alone, making mistakes, sitting next to an ill and or psychotic basket-case with no respect for personal space. Dying, crashing, you almost wish that terrified you.

It doesn't, actually. And you can't for the life of you be afraid because more than anything you're scared of your lack of foresight, lack of anything.

It's funny, you think, to be in a place like this, a palce where previously you'd just casually people-watch and wonder about their personal lives, who they love, who they're going to see, where they're from and if they'd had the same breakfast you had. Now you find yourself consumed with fear about their pasts. What horrible things have you done, mother of two? What was the worst thing you've ever done, and did anyone ever find out?

These people are me, these horrible people are all me and I belong with them at Gate 47. I hope the plane never boards, all we'll leave is each other. Eventually we'll murder one another for linty mentos found at the bottom of handbags and cracker crumbs and juice boxes-- a mere step before we turn to cannibalism and eventually do the world a service by wiping ourselves out.

I hate myself even more for wondering it. Child molester? He's probably the nicest person in the ever. He's probably an angel in disguise, or God, even, testing me. I wish God wouldn't est me, especially when I've already proven myself a failure in His imperfect world.

another day:

This is the point where someone is supposed to call but no one does.

One thing I wish you'd all have told me was I was making your life so miserable. I wish, I knew I had things that had to be dealt with but I didn't know that I was perceived as some kind of psychopath who must be tolerated.

And by the by, most of those times you thought I was trying to make anyone feel guilty, I wasn't.
I just didn't know what to say.

Another day:

Stories with no one to tell them to, the moon, the moon.

The lamp that reminds me of your earrings.... just a billion more to regret.

Another day:

Everyone's an opportunist. I see it in everyone and I hate it.

Punishing schedules and myriad affiliations provide ties that are all too illusory. People experience profound dissonance because they are in the company of others but NOT TRULY CONNECTED TO THEM.

Saturday, August 22, 2009


i am obsessed with this silly clip from forgetting sarah marshall. and now with this comedian whom i find exceedingly lovable:

but can you save me from the ranks of the freaks

i'm tired.

the restlessness is fading, though, and i know i have to stop looking for the Divine Push in regards to everyday living and know that i have to start seeking the Divine on His Private Line. i have to stop hoping for people to save me, to say the right thing or be the right comfort or know what it is that i need-- or can distract me enough to shield me from this feeling of lack and empty.

boys do not pay attention to me. they cannot save me.

men do not understand me. they cannot save me.

i will be taking care of my family soon enough. they cannot save me.

friends are to be loved, not wrung of all care. they cannot save me.

i, i who have more issues than readers digest, cannot save me.

one step at a time.

Monday, August 17, 2009

TMI, the world screams, but I don't care: horrible, horrible cramps today. Curse Eve, curse babies, curse the female species. This suffering is entirely uncalled for in light of the fact that I probably will not have children. And even if I did--- years of monthly pain, courtship (ie years of awkwardness and an expensive wedding), a ridiculous 9-month pregnacy (huge feet, huge self, morning sickness) all for what will probably be an ugly baby?

I'm being silly now, but really. Come on. They weren't always painful, it seems like just this year they've moved from uncomfortable to unbelievable. People don't understand it if they haven't experienced it-- it's as though a tiny steel fist has grabbed ahold of all of your lower abdominal organs and is squeezing them from the middle. Because of the source of pain being essentially in your stomach you assume you can breath and that will change it, but no. You think a shift in position could make it more tolerable- like a stomach ache. But no. You think relieving yourself will help. But no. Today it was so painful I was sweating and very near throwing up. Eventually I popped 2 tylenol and 3 ib profins-- not reccommended, but finally did the trick. Or maybe it was my plea to God to make the suffering stop. Horrible. Horrible. Horrible to be under strain like that in a house that is not your own-- though going through it in a dorm with a clueless room-mate was also not entirely comfortable. UGH. STUPID.

So someone in my life needs to get married. I have a fever and the only prescription is more weddings. This will also be a plus if I am made godmother to all the little tots that result from said weddings... twill save this period-sufferer from providing myself with my own children. Everyone wins.

So a few months ago I did a happy exercize, listing 5 good things. wir beginnen again.

1. Pride
Yes. Pride comes before a fall, and I am aware of the scrutiny that I will have to handle after this statement, but it has just occurred to me and it has made me very happy, again, especially given my stance on remaining single: i think i have had a good hand in helping people i love. In the past it has been very hard for me to see any positive effect that I could have on anyone. Surely I have been the only person to benefit from friendship, surely I am the one that needs. I have been accused of being needy and weak before, and I have taken it to heart. That is a painful idea to face, but I don't think it's true anymore. I don't think it ever was. The details of that are for another time, but my point is that I have given alot of myself and I think I have left somewhat of a good impression on the recievers. I think those that know me have grown more honest because of me, I think they have grown more affectionate through me. I think more people can say "I love you" now than they could before, and not worry, not be concerned that it is not a cool or manly thing to say. I think more people can talk about themselves with ease, I think more people can read aloud and not worry so much about messing up. I think more people know not to identify a tear with a child. I think more people can be comfortable with themselves, safe in the knowledge that someone loves the daylights out of them.

2. Classes start soon.
I am not relishing my return to the fake-Catholic land, but I am psyched, psyched to the max to be educated again. 2 film studies (Irish and Women in Film... rad), 1 philosophy, 2 screenwriting classes (directing- ie production!!, and writing the sitcom, oh no), and 1 english class (chaucer! all chaucer!! all the time!!). Not to mention a job, volunteering, going to the gym, joining CLC (finally) and the possibility of an internship. I need to find a church, too. I think maybe I will be better this year about going to class...

3. Lack of depression
I don't know if it's because I haven't had the chance, but it seems as if this summer that I've slowly, subtley become less prone to collapse. Maybe I was right back in June after all. I'm still no good at getting up, no good at anxiety, and somewhat lax about hygeine (comes from understanding your own level of attractiveness. a difficult reality when spending time around friends who are 10's while you remain a 3... but wait this is a good list..). I did have a random outburst of emotion at an uncalled for moment, but I think I'm going to be OK.

4. I went to San Francisco.
I have to spare the details of it here because it was a pretty stressful trip for me, but good lord. What a wonderful city. I would like to live there for awhile. It's so alive, but it's not like LA. It's not crudely made, it's historic and beautiful and bridged. All LA has to offer is Hollywood, and even that is grimy and cold in many ways.

5. Sadly I have run out of time. I will think of another good thing or perhaps five more later. Sleep now.

Monday, July 27, 2009


i have a tendency to stifle myself with my own ambition.

Sunday, July 26, 2009

dead start to story.

He did not make use of the dead horse’s remains. He considered them useless, tainted by evil. A beautiful horse, like the other three, he himself had named it, Big Joe, after himself, a kinda joke, but it was dead now and that really didn’t matter. Dad Sir was no longer around to tell him not to waste resources, to tell him what was right, so Joseph vowed to move on instinct. From the moment he saw Dad Sir in a pile, fallen and broken and trampled, he knew things were going to be different. He did not cry, it was not something Dad Sir would have wanted, and Lord knows Ma was doing enough of that for the both of them- for anyone in the whole world.

After seeing after Dad Sir’s burial the only logical thing to do was kill Big Joe. Big, beautiful Joe—he knew what was coming to him. He took it like a condemned prisoner, like one of the men Joseph’d seen hung in town, when they used to live in town.

oh the glory that the lord has made

and the complications you could do without/when i kissed you on the mouth.

the more i listen to it- and i think i've listened to it a good 10000000 times, it reaches out for my heart and just destroys it. sufjan, my stalkee (that's not true- i actually want to know nothing about him), is i think the songwriter of the decade, and this song is one of the most perfect i have ever heard. the complexity of it is just out of this world- the sound of it, the arrangement is beautiful and subtle and so easy to listen to, and the lyrics flow like poetry- it IS poetry, it is fine literature. it is also a beautiful unfolding story about first awkward love in a religious community, about growing up, and about death of a young person. He covers his story, his longings, as well as her story, her life cut short. he muses on the concept of pain and struggles with God. even more than that, every part of the story is illustrated so beautifully- described as in a refined novel. it's so evocative. i wish there were something i could manage to say about it that doesn't seem cliche, but right now everything that i have just written sounds old.

i'm just going to keep the lyrics here for quick reference.

Golden rod and the 4-H stone
The things I brought you
When I found out you had cancer of the bone

Your father cried on the telephone
And he drove his car to the Navy yard
Just to prove that he was sorry

In the morning through the window shade
When the
light pressed up against your shoulder blade
I could see what you were reading

Oh the glory that the lord has made
And the complications you could do without
When I kissed you on the mouth

Tuesday night at the bible study
We lift our hands and pray over your body
But nothing ever happens

I remember at Michael's house
In the living room
when you kissed my neck
And I almost touched your blouse

In the morning
at the top of the stairs
When your father found out what we did that night
And you told me you were scared

Oh the glory when you ran outside
With your shirt tucked in and your shoes untied
And you told me not to follow you

Sunday night when I cleaned the house
I find the card where you wrote it out
With the pictures of your mother

On the floor at the great divide
With my shirt tucked in and my shoes untied
I am crying in the bathroom

In the morning when you finally go
And the nurse runs in with her head hung low
And the cardinal hits the window

In the morning in the winter shade
On the first of March on the holiday
I thought I saw you breathing

Oh the glory that the lord has made
And the complications when I see his face
In the morning in the window

Oh the glory when he took our place
But he took my shoulders and he shook my face
And he takes and he takes and he takes

Reading that as I listen to it is really too much.

Saturday, July 25, 2009

of new favorites and coincidences, of dualities i will not explore today

Life is a strange thing, and as much as I think I'm in touch of it most of the time I am beginning to wonder if I really am at all. Oh, no, another layer to life that must be peeled away.

Such discoveries always lead me to question my own sanity, but after reading some Hamlet tonight I have decided against going down that road- I am too tired. For now it's tipping my toes into the notion of a dual understanding- perception and fact, self perception/image and self actualization. The world is vast, but the mind even more so.

So tonight, I put away these thoughts and concentrate on my pride at being creative, at being quite a powerfully creative person. It will be a shame if I cannot overcome myself and make something of this power-- I am starting to see it for what it is, and if it can only get out- if it only has enough time and memory to be let out- then it would build itself (and then comes the problem of introducing it to a public, but no matter, perhaps it will introduce itself too.. perhaps it will walk and talk by its own little self!).

Also, I have thought of setting aside a separate blog where i will write only about film and books and television and music and stuff. but then i thought, meh. why not write about it here, start keeping things in one place for once?

Books I am reading: The Journals of Sylvia Plath (! Remarkable, strangely helpful and encouraging, a new favorite, more on everything I love about it soon; but as I said a few entries ago I strongly identify with Plath and women like her, and I hope and probably incorrectly interpret that the meaning behind that feeling is my own brilliance), All Men Are Mortal (strange, interesting writer that Simone. It's existential and so far I like it very much, though the beginning feels superior to the rest of it. funny anecdote on that + mechanic someday soon), Mere Christianity (still, I know, though I shall mention a bit he wrote about Faith that I find very encouraging), and a few other things. But those are the ones I'm determined to finish.

Films I have seen recently: Public Enemies (i'm christian bale wah wah i enjoy NOTHING), in which I mostly enjoyed the gunfire and the romance between Depp and the French woman who happens to have a lovely name that I would hate to misspell. Yes, wildly romantic story tucked inside of an infamous legend, and I have to admit I loved it, as the filmmakers knew I would. It was strangely sincere, passionate, and surreal as it did not function in the real world but rather in the movie world that Dillinger had mapped out for them (they don't particularly touch on it in P.E. (ehe) but D was verrry much into the flims and undoubtedly got many of his best lines from the screen...) It gave me a strange ache, to be honest. But then again I detest such honesty--

anyway: Desperate Hours (one of Bogie's last, and I have been so fascinated by the man and his persona lately... what an interesting character! i must read his biographies), Face in the Crowd (creepy masterpiece, unbelievably ahead of its time, if i were a film teacher i would demand my pupils study it), Stop-Loss (frightening also, i did not know about stop-loss, nor do i know much of the military in general: should change that), In Cold Blood, Basic Instinct (regrettably... wow, softcore much??), The Muse (dull but clever, rather what I needed I suppose... oh god, though, two Sharon Stone movies in one day??), The Beguiled (really interesting! i loved the ending, and i loved Eastwood ALOT. first time i have seen him play a character quite like that... almost a villian, almost), and Confessions of a Super Hero (highly recommended. i LOVE docs that explore character and counter-culture... the nooks and crannies of the US are just full of interesting stories). Last week I saw The Fall, which is my new favorite [OH MY GOODNESS just as i was typing "new favorite" the very phrase "new favorite" was sung in a random song on!!! what does that mean? i am befuddled!! the song is apparently new favorite by allison krauss. i must look up the lyrics now, though they do not sound divinely applicable right now, as one would hope]. Anyway, yes, the Fall, beautifully poetic. And Confessions of a Shopaholic, which had a scene featuring one of my directors last semester, Jim Holmes. Worth it just for that-- though, silly as the movie was, I found it endearing for its timeliness.

Tonight, because I spent the whole day dragging about I have been struck with that guilty creative impulse. COMMIT TO RECOMMIT!!!! LET THAT BE YOUR MANTRA! You will always have bad days, probably more than others, because you are depressed, and you have gotten weak, and you have allowed the tricky devil into your head and your hollow bones and I wish I could say no more but it will be a steady process-- this we can do, we can do it, we can make a life. BOTTOM LINE: this life must change. THIS LIFE MUST CHANGE!! Please God, through You, let me change it. Through writing, change it for me.

A rant and a prayer and 50 film reviews later, i bid you adieu.

Friday, July 24, 2009

So I was going to write something about the current surreality of my day-to-day, but i got distracted....

helllloooo mister eastwood. why are you ancient again??

Saturday, July 18, 2009


fuck all.

Wednesday, July 15, 2009

i get banged up alot, like a pinky toe.

Things are going okay, things will continue to get better; as they say in those self-help circles, we must keep comitting to recommit. Tell me-- am I approaching this from the wrong perspective? Should I stop listening to the affirmation of Aimee Mann, A Weather, and everyone else that sings like they are Sylvia Plath's distant relatives? Is it better to feel like you're not alone in your worries etc or is it best to believe you have none? Can you really trick yourself into getting better, or in the end will you keep coming back to the fundemental problems?

Actually I know the answer to that question- yes, you will keep coming back to them because problems do not merely vanish. They intensify the more they are ignored, like a bad infection, like a cavity... like a twinkie, like a twinkie. Scratch that last part. But for real, now, I don't know how to strike at the heart of it, I don't know HOW TO CHANGE IT, damnation, I don't know how! Doesn't it take a little outside help? Don't freakin' flowers need sun and cute watering cans with rust and polka dots, memphis? Yes, they do. All I want to do now is make the noises of frustration, that damn, no one is helping me, no one is picking me up and giving me what it is that I need to fix me. COLDPLAY, WHERE ARE YOU WHEN I WANT YOU?!?!!! But anyway, I am not upset as I write this, just annoyed, grumpy at myself for wanting change, mostly disgruntled that I don't know what to do next. Just "plugging away" is not appealing right now, can we change that? What the devil does that even mean, anyway? Plug away? As in keep plugging the dam, keep the water at bay, is that what that is? Finger in the dyke, hm? No thank you, I don't want to be a beaver [haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa bit of an entendre there. bad. but still]

Well, enough of that. What else?

I have found a semi routine these days. It is the life of a nomadic writer, and I both like and dislike it, if i may offer a riddle. I get up late (or at least, always later than I would like), I get all of my stuff together, I haul myself to the gym (sometimes) and then to the coffee shop. I stay all day, I write, I facebook, I write, I read email, I write, I submit, I organize shot lists, I beg people to help me feel fulfilled by working on projects with me. I have been somewhat productive, but I feel myself waning. Must not do that. Must hop back to the drawing board every day. Must make some money, please oh please. Must be a grand success.

Things are actually off to a good start. A story: Once I established a bit of resolve, back in June, I had a bad night, as referenced somewhat in my last whatchamacallit. I was dreadfully down and pissed off that I was down because things were meant to change, right? Right? So I was thinking ah, it's all been for naught. So the next day I slothed to my computer and checked the ole gmail only to find that the Whom It May Have Concerned was very interested in my meager offerings- hurrah! Published, me! Online, yes, noir story of four years ago, yes, but regardless this was encouragement! A publishing credit! 30 dollars! PRESTIGE- sort of. So back to the drawing board I went with great fervor because things are getting better, getting better all the time.

I have also made an important decision, one I know will get me into a scrape, probably, like every stupid bright idea I have, but here we are (sunset and camdennn): I am going to DO things. Things that are probably not advisable-- I am going to go places, and I am going to FIND ways to go there. I will not be restricted because I have been restricted for too long. For much of my childhood, for some reason or another, there were so many things that I knew I couldn't do. Things I could not attend, places I could not go, things I should not try. I just assumed that experience would chalk up once I got older just because I was getting old, but this has not happened.

Today, my father told my mother and my mother told me that I should not go to San Francisco now- I should go someday when I have money, when I have the means. Well, look here. I agree. Going now may not be satisfying because in my mind I will be thinking that I am spending money I do not have, or I will not spend money on things that I will regret not buying. I will be stressed at this fact, but I shouldn't be, because LOOK HERE- we never went anywhere, we never did anything. I have so few genuinely good memories of us doing anything, trying anything, enjoying ourselves. We did not go on travels, and Dory restricted us, money restricted us, mom's anxiety and dad's protectiveness and our mutual apprehension- natural and learned- kept us from participating in life. Goddammn it, how have I not played pool in my life? How have I not played party games, how have I not had childhood boyfriends and why can I not rollerskate? Why are my nicest family memories connected only to our moving from state to state and breaking down at strange truck stops with Elton John and Woody from Toy Story to keep us entertained? No, it wasn't tortorous, and it wasn't always like that- there was Disneyland and such. But still, I did not have a childhood. I am cool with that, because I think it made me concentrate on the things that were actually important, things like morality and knowledge and character and dynamics and caring for the other people in your life, but I still miss those experiences that everyone else seems to have had. Damnation, I am going to have them. I do not care if I put myself into even more debt-- it is worrisome, but aren't experiences more important? Isn't seeing life more important? Yes, a resounding yes, and so I will go to San Francisco, I will take my typewriter, I will wear flowers in my hair and I will be very happy to spend at least a little bit of the money I don't have on San Fran chocolate.

Freakin' yes.

Saturday, June 27, 2009


You know, not to look at things as simply as my Bible-Belt Loving mother does, but for lack of better terms I must say: the stronger my resolve to change or do something good, the stronger I am struck down, Brought Down, I suspect, by something beyond my power, something that's got It's Eye on me and knows how to affect me.

In the past week I've made huge leaps and bounds in my life towards my betterment and my mental health and my relationships. But in my resolve to change and keep full speed ahead I've been stopped with urgings to slow down, to fall down, to relapse. I have been steadily down for many months. This week, following my resolve, I have felt decidedly suicidal. I have no reason for this, and as I am too rational it is of COURSE not a threat to me, but it IS amazing to me that it has struck out at me now. Why now? Nothing bad has happened. Quite the opposite. All quiet on the homefront. Depression is such a fucking monster.

One thing that calms me down when I get like this is reading about other people who have suffered. It's good to know someone can relate, someone could put my own feelings into better-formed sentences than I could even begin to attempt. Elizabeth Wurtzel, the notorious bitch and depression poster girl, happens to be unbelievably relateable. Everything I've read of hers resonates. Amazing that reading about something so depressing can have the opposite effect.

Right now I am very tired of being alone. I would like Elizabeth or Sylvia or Susannah or someone else completely different to come and pat me on the shoulder and say... well. I don't know.

I wrote the following while in "a mood". I fell asleep before I could finish it.

I always thought when I finally did it I'd make it look like an accident. Ultimately, I kind of wanted something more dramatic and obvious-- images of me hanging from a noose in the corner of an attic somewhere were hauntingly horrible and entertaining. Drowning myself in my own bathtub. I always thought the easiest, kindest way to go would be the sleeping pills bit, though to help oneself along you should slit the wrists- not across the street but down the road, maybe just a little bit, just to expedite the journey. Just a little bit. A part of me wanted to do that, so people would know. The typical "dramatic effect" idea, that show 'em all concept. That's weird, I think, because there's really no one I wanted to show. I was not particularly bitter at/with anybody. I guess I just wanted to make my point that I was capable of it, that I was serious, that I had that darkness in me. That I was not a joke, that this pain was not imaginary. I wanted them to know that, I wanted myself to know that.

ugh. i am being tough and telling this to take a hike, but right now i feel spectacularly unsatisfied.