I can't believe I didn't find this sooner.
Eavesdropping much?
Saturday, April 28, 2007
Saturday, April 21, 2007
I have an "off" day.
Have you ever had one of those moments where someone asks you, "Hey, how was your day?" but what they really mean is, "Hey, it's my job to be nice because I work in sales and I actually don't give a shit about your day." Unfortunately, that subliminal message doesn't sink in until you are half way through your explanation of how your day actually was. Like how you went to an hour an half yoga class this morning, sat in line for an emmisions test for a WHOLE hour, went to Trader Joe's, and then decided to sit on your couch and watch some TV since it's, you know, raining, but you have this birthday party to go to in like two hours so you figured you would just run to Kiehl's since you live right around the corner--the little voice starts urging to shut your piehole, but you stubbornly ignore it--and buy some face wash, and I was going to wear these great leather shoes tonight, but it's raining and they might get ruined, haha, but maybe I'll wear 'em anyway. Anyway, thanks for the face wash. Ok bye.
Impressively, you managed to reveal your currently lackluster life in the time that it takes to exchange cash for change and a receipt.
Then they give you that look. That look that says, "OK, Crazy. Come back and see us again when you've rejoined the human race, Crazy McCrazster."
The best part is when you get home, realize that you bought the wrong kind of cleanser and need to go back into the store of Life Embarrassment, return unwanted Non-Foaming Cleansing Milk for the preferred Gentle Foaming Facial Cleanser, catch glimpse of distorted reflection in uebershiny door as you leave, startle, and think befittingly, "Great. Crazy McCrazster managed to scare even herself."
*****
The gray, unpredictable mood of today contrasts sharply with the lively, jocular mood on Thursday night. Great friends. Great conversations. Great bar. Great beer. All of the necessary ingredients were present, mixed, and baked to perfection. We discussed politics, Virginia Tech shootings, issues on gun control, clinical psychology, abortion, education, life, and death.
Death has been omnipresent. The anniversary of my friend's father's death was on Sunday, 33 people died on Monday, the anniversary of Columbine was on Friday, another friend is scattering his grandmother's ashes today, people continue to perish in the Middle East, and my uncle died on Thursday. Uncle Pat is, er, was the eldest of eight. He served in the Coast Guard, married the love of his life, smoked a pipe, wore a Captain Ahad beard, stepped up as patriach of the family after his father passed away, never wanted to be the center of attention, but was always the first to crack a joke (usually at the expense of one of his siblings). At family reunions, Uncle Pat and his seven siblings (#5 being my Dad) would gather around and sing this old tune from the 40's that my grandmother taught them while she played the piano. The eight "kids" did this ritual even after Grandma passed away. But now, there is only seven. Seven is such a small number compared to eight. People die. And it sucks.
I have successfully avoided feeling any sort of emotion all week until today. I cried. I cried during Grey's Anatomy (nothing really tragic even happened in this episode). I cried during October Road, a show, which in my opinion, isn't even that good. I cried at Desperate Housewives. I cried. For those of you who know me as Waterworks, my pure achievement at crying at the drop of a hat comes as no surprise. After 26 years of being a "professional" crier, the same issues will trigger the tear ducts: love. Not death. Lost love. Forbidden love. Love just out of reach. Love actualized and love received. Fuck it if it's a stupid Hallmark commercial, my eyes show no prejudice for the tears that they shed.
I am a damn sentimental helpless romantic with a quick tearjerk reaction. It's who I am and there's nothing I want to do to change it.
Impressively, you managed to reveal your currently lackluster life in the time that it takes to exchange cash for change and a receipt.
Then they give you that look. That look that says, "OK, Crazy. Come back and see us again when you've rejoined the human race, Crazy McCrazster."
The best part is when you get home, realize that you bought the wrong kind of cleanser and need to go back into the store of Life Embarrassment, return unwanted Non-Foaming Cleansing Milk for the preferred Gentle Foaming Facial Cleanser, catch glimpse of distorted reflection in uebershiny door as you leave, startle, and think befittingly, "Great. Crazy McCrazster managed to scare even herself."
*****
The gray, unpredictable mood of today contrasts sharply with the lively, jocular mood on Thursday night. Great friends. Great conversations. Great bar. Great beer. All of the necessary ingredients were present, mixed, and baked to perfection. We discussed politics, Virginia Tech shootings, issues on gun control, clinical psychology, abortion, education, life, and death.
Death has been omnipresent. The anniversary of my friend's father's death was on Sunday, 33 people died on Monday, the anniversary of Columbine was on Friday, another friend is scattering his grandmother's ashes today, people continue to perish in the Middle East, and my uncle died on Thursday. Uncle Pat is, er, was the eldest of eight. He served in the Coast Guard, married the love of his life, smoked a pipe, wore a Captain Ahad beard, stepped up as patriach of the family after his father passed away, never wanted to be the center of attention, but was always the first to crack a joke (usually at the expense of one of his siblings). At family reunions, Uncle Pat and his seven siblings (#5 being my Dad) would gather around and sing this old tune from the 40's that my grandmother taught them while she played the piano. The eight "kids" did this ritual even after Grandma passed away. But now, there is only seven. Seven is such a small number compared to eight. People die. And it sucks.
I have successfully avoided feeling any sort of emotion all week until today. I cried. I cried during Grey's Anatomy (nothing really tragic even happened in this episode). I cried during October Road, a show, which in my opinion, isn't even that good. I cried at Desperate Housewives. I cried. For those of you who know me as Waterworks, my pure achievement at crying at the drop of a hat comes as no surprise. After 26 years of being a "professional" crier, the same issues will trigger the tear ducts: love. Not death. Lost love. Forbidden love. Love just out of reach. Love actualized and love received. Fuck it if it's a stupid Hallmark commercial, my eyes show no prejudice for the tears that they shed.
I am a damn sentimental helpless romantic with a quick tearjerk reaction. It's who I am and there's nothing I want to do to change it.
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
...all connections lead to gerbil.
I am in Thesis Land. I have been in Thesis Land for days on end. Thesis Land is Disneyland's evil twin. Thesis Land lurks in the dark corner, waiting to sink its flesh-dripping claws into your supple skin at the very moment when you think you have evaded its presence. Forever. As in already obtaining the degree Thesis Land was intended to grant you. I guess I haven't officially graduated, but let us not be weighed down with details.
Thesis Land eats little children. It's just that evil. Enough procrastinating! The end is oh so near...I see you bright light at the end of the tunnel...you're coming closer...it's getting brighter in here. Almost...done.
I will celebrate with a pint (or four) of Cream Stout at the Lompoc, breathe a sigh of relief and think, I have conquered you Thesis Land. You are dead.
Until then, I must retreat to my personal purgatory.
...I captured robots and orchids
...with a camera. I meant to post these pictures of SF days ago, but I never got around to it. Click to enlarge.
Note the anatomically correct robot. My cousin pointed him out. He--it's definitely a "he"--sits atop this crazy modern feat of architecture in Presidio Heights.
Telegraph Hill
Orchid in bloom
Is that a showerhead or are you just happy to see me?
Golden Gate Bridge
Alcatrazzzzzz
Lombard Street
The Conservatory
Note the anatomically correct robot. My cousin pointed him out. He--it's definitely a "he"--sits atop this crazy modern feat of architecture in Presidio Heights.
Telegraph Hill
Orchid in bloom
Is that a showerhead or are you just happy to see me?
Golden Gate Bridge
Alcatrazzzzzz
Lombard Street
The Conservatory
Friday, April 13, 2007
...I lost something.
This time 7 days ago I was walking down a misty Haight Street and window-shopping for oxymoronic in-style vintage clothing to my heart's content. In tow was my cousin, his wife, and their 16-month-old son. This trip to San Francisco has left me empty and I can't place what it is that I lost. I enjoyed spending time with family that didn't revolve around a wedding or a funeral, two common occurrences when dealing with a family of gargantuan proportions. I miss laughing at myself when I would catch a glimpse of my cousin's last name and think, "Oh wow! He has the same name as me!" before realizing my silly faux pas. There's just something to be said about spending quality time with someone whose blood runs through you. There's also something to be said about escaping from a city that holds an amalgamate of emotions, many positive, some negative. San Francisco was a clean slate, one to which I had the freedom to paint my own experiences and create my own memories, sans negativity. As I drove south on I-5 toward the statuesque Tabla Rosa a weight slowly lifted with each passing mile. I do not have the ability to pinpoint exactly from what I was escaping or what has left behind an emptiness because my perspective is muddled with conflicting emotions. Excited. Scared. Lonely. Content. It's like trying to draw a blueprint of a house when you're locked in the hallway closet.
Let's face it. I haven't been single in 6 years. That's a long time. During those 6 years, I fell in love twice, lost myself (twice), regained myself (once), and lost myself again. Now, I am on the path of self-discovery to find myself again in a far far away land. I came up with this brilliant, and I say that with a shade of sarcasm, idea to move far far away from a stable support system--loving family, fast friends, potential lovers, and a rose-scented city that I call home after only 3 years--and, well, to do something. Something different. Brilliant plan, eh? What do I, per say, plan on doing in the Land of Far Far Away? No clue. I have a Masters in Behavioral Neuroscience which has empowered me with invaluable analytical thinking and writing skills, but at this moment all I want to do is play, discover, live, breathe, and create. But not in Behavioral Neuroscience. Something more like Science outreach and education. Hmmm, apparently I found research to be stifling.I guess writing a blog does lead to some clarity.
I do not seek a career hunched over a lab bench, lower back aching. At least not right now. I won't rule out the possibility of Hunched Back Career entirely (Note: I do not intend to impose my rather cynical outlook on scientific research onto others. There are several aspects of research I find titillating, just not enough to make me want to stay). I fear that because I have "lost myself" it is very hard for me to make any permanent decision about my life. Planning my future career is like trying to build a city on quicksand. The city facades may stand tall at first, but inevitably, the foundation will sink, and the city will crumble.
How did I lose myself?
I do not shop for clothes with my eyes, but with my hands. I need to feel the weight and texture of the clothing in order to appreciate its full persona. I stroll down fabric aisles, eyes just barely open, both hands outreached, fingers extended. Silky. Patterned. Velvet. Corduroy. Worn-in T-shirt. Heavy. Weightless. Maybe that's how I have been going through life. Letting my other senses dictate my direction instead of using the best sense that allows perspective.
Let's face it. I haven't been single in 6 years. That's a long time. During those 6 years, I fell in love twice, lost myself (twice), regained myself (once), and lost myself again. Now, I am on the path of self-discovery to find myself again in a far far away land. I came up with this brilliant, and I say that with a shade of sarcasm, idea to move far far away from a stable support system--loving family, fast friends, potential lovers, and a rose-scented city that I call home after only 3 years--and, well, to do something. Something different. Brilliant plan, eh? What do I, per say, plan on doing in the Land of Far Far Away? No clue. I have a Masters in Behavioral Neuroscience which has empowered me with invaluable analytical thinking and writing skills, but at this moment all I want to do is play, discover, live, breathe, and create. But not in Behavioral Neuroscience. Something more like Science outreach and education. Hmmm, apparently I found research to be stifling.I guess writing a blog does lead to some clarity.
I do not seek a career hunched over a lab bench, lower back aching. At least not right now. I won't rule out the possibility of Hunched Back Career entirely (Note: I do not intend to impose my rather cynical outlook on scientific research onto others. There are several aspects of research I find titillating, just not enough to make me want to stay). I fear that because I have "lost myself" it is very hard for me to make any permanent decision about my life. Planning my future career is like trying to build a city on quicksand. The city facades may stand tall at first, but inevitably, the foundation will sink, and the city will crumble.
How did I lose myself?
I do not shop for clothes with my eyes, but with my hands. I need to feel the weight and texture of the clothing in order to appreciate its full persona. I stroll down fabric aisles, eyes just barely open, both hands outreached, fingers extended. Silky. Patterned. Velvet. Corduroy. Worn-in T-shirt. Heavy. Weightless. Maybe that's how I have been going through life. Letting my other senses dictate my direction instead of using the best sense that allows perspective.
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
Baby went to Amsterdam
She put a little money into travelling
Now it's so slow, so slow
Baby went to Amsterdam
Four, five days for the big canal
Now it's so slow, so slow
And I was heading up north
To a place that I know
Eating well, sleeping well
But still I was way, way out of line
Amsterdam was stuck in my mind
Oh, it's a kind of stupid groove
That you can't ignore
Oh, it's a kind of natural fact
Sometimes you're just left to be alone
Baby went to Amsterdam
She put a little money into travelling
Now it's so slow, so slow
Baby went to Amsterdam
Four, five days for the big canal
Now it's so slow, so slow
And I got to go away
To a place of my own
Working hard, fill my time
From that day on, till I hit the bed
Amsterdam was stuck in my head
Oh, it's a kind of stupid groove
That you can't ignore
Oh, it's a kind of natural fact
Sometimes you're just left to be alone
Baby went to Amsterdam
She put a little money into travelling
Now it's so slow, so slow
Baby went to Amsterdam
Four, five days for the big canal
Now it's so slow, so slow
Baby went to Amsterdam
She put a little money into travelling
Now it's so slow, so slow
Baby went to Amsterdam
Four, five days for the big canal
Now it's so slow, so slow, slow
--PB&J
She put a little money into travelling
Now it's so slow, so slow
Baby went to Amsterdam
Four, five days for the big canal
Now it's so slow, so slow
And I was heading up north
To a place that I know
Eating well, sleeping well
But still I was way, way out of line
Amsterdam was stuck in my mind
Oh, it's a kind of stupid groove
That you can't ignore
Oh, it's a kind of natural fact
Sometimes you're just left to be alone
Baby went to Amsterdam
She put a little money into travelling
Now it's so slow, so slow
Baby went to Amsterdam
Four, five days for the big canal
Now it's so slow, so slow
And I got to go away
To a place of my own
Working hard, fill my time
From that day on, till I hit the bed
Amsterdam was stuck in my head
Oh, it's a kind of stupid groove
That you can't ignore
Oh, it's a kind of natural fact
Sometimes you're just left to be alone
Baby went to Amsterdam
She put a little money into travelling
Now it's so slow, so slow
Baby went to Amsterdam
Four, five days for the big canal
Now it's so slow, so slow
Baby went to Amsterdam
She put a little money into travelling
Now it's so slow, so slow
Baby went to Amsterdam
Four, five days for the big canal
Now it's so slow, so slow, slow
--PB&J
...I put flowers in my hair.
Post-defense I took a little celebratory trip to San Francisco. It was one of the best solo trips I have taken in a long, long time. This trip rivals even the notorious 4-day excursion through blue-cowed Brugge and haze-laden Amsterdam. We'll save that story for another time.
The drive down I-5 S was breathtaking and if I had a camera with me, I would share the views of baa-baa black sheep, lonely snow-capped Mt. Shasta, California orange farms, Daliesque "melted" green hills, sun-reflected bays, and a city skyline ensconced by fog. I loved every minute of the cloudless blue skies, the burning sensation from the sun on the left half of my face and left arm, a 65 degree brisk breeze funneling through the open sunroof, and the music blaring from my totally kick-ass stock Honda Civic sound system.
Because I feel I express myself better through music--that would be other people's music, not my own--than through words, I have included a selection of musicians that provided the soundtrack to the sublime sights seen through my car window.
Tschuess Portland!
Peter Bjorn and John "Writer's Block"
Pete Yorn "Nightcrawler"
Grant's Pass
Aqualung "Memory Man"
The Clash "Combat Rock"
Ashland, OR
Compilation made by k. "this suit is not black" (I'm diggin' Deerhunter and Cold War Kids)
Stereophonics "Live from Dakota"
The Postal Service "Give Up"
Weed, CA
Stars of Track and Field "Centuries Before Love and War"
Winterpills "The Light Divides"
Coldplay "X&Y"
Radiohead "The Bends"
Death Cab "The Photo Album" and "Plans"
Redding, CA
Smashing Pumpkins "Mellon Collie and Infinite Sadness" (Blue)
Thom Yorke "The Eraser"
Vacaville, CA
The Bravery (on repeat)
Thievery Corporation
I-80 W
Oasis "Be Here Now"
The Fratellis "Costello Music"
Crossing the Bay Bridge
Citizen Cope "The Clarence Greenwood Recordings"
The Killers "Sam's Town"
Song #1 Pete Yorn
Song #2 Thom Yorke
Song #3 Stereophonics (live in London)
Pictures to follow.
Wednesday, April 04, 2007
...I fell in love with Alanis all over again.
Reason #76 Why I Love Europe: From thou darkest corners cometh great music.
Courtesy of Chloraphil?? More like Bore-a-phil!. Thank you for showing me the light.
...I got a job with the Feds.
Ha, I wish!
Unfortunately, I work under the not-so-glamorous umbrella of Department of Veterans Affairs. This is quite a change from when I was pursing a PhD. If I had received a PhD then I would have signed my life away and become a slave to NIH, the God of Grants and Money Minion to the Federal Government. In my current position, I skipped the NIH middleman and just signed my life away to the Federal Government.
During our New Employee Orientation, we watched a video of an aging War World II veteran, his life story told in a mosaic of baby, family and war pictures set to incredibly bad music sung by Don McLean's retarded brother. "Oooh, who do you think I am? What do you seeee? A cranky old man? Oooh, take a good look at meee!"
The video was only 5 minutes long and by golly, I had tears in my eyes by the end. Then, I felt really bad for saying Don McLean had a retarded brother.
Why the weepy reaction? Sure, I could chalk it up to the uncontested talent of my "waterworks"--I can cry anywhere, anytime--but the fact is, the featured curmudgeon of an old man reminded me of my grandfather, also a WWII vet. I never had a chance to meet him.
I miss a man whom I have never met. He is a direct link to the past that I can only learn through torn pictures and staccato stories. Trying to piece together the stories of my grandfather as told by my aunts and uncles is nearly impossible when they are in the same room. At least 20 conversations between 8 individuals are going on simultaneously. I think it's an age old family tactic so that only those with the highest multi-tasking ability (or shortest attention span) can reign and bear future multi-tasking and short-attentioned generations. If that's really a desired trait and all...
Alright, enough with the tangents. Back to Grandpa and the whole Link to the Past spiel.
I wish I could have asked my grandfather what the war was like. I wish I could have asked him about what life was like growing up in the 20s, 30s, and 40s.
My grandmother was alive when I was born and even then I never asked her much about her life. It's a shame to have wasted an opportunity to connect with the past. I didn't find out until she died that she drove from Michigan to California. By herself. In a Ford Model T. At age 20. This could be likened to my own adventure coming up in July.
Ok, I can't concentrate on this post anymore because I have Peter Bjorn and John's "Young Folks" stuck in my head. God, short attention span.
Now you will, too.
Unfortunately, I work under the not-so-glamorous umbrella of Department of Veterans Affairs. This is quite a change from when I was pursing a PhD. If I had received a PhD then I would have signed my life away and become a slave to NIH, the God of Grants and Money Minion to the Federal Government. In my current position, I skipped the NIH middleman and just signed my life away to the Federal Government.
During our New Employee Orientation, we watched a video of an aging War World II veteran, his life story told in a mosaic of baby, family and war pictures set to incredibly bad music sung by Don McLean's retarded brother. "Oooh, who do you think I am? What do you seeee? A cranky old man? Oooh, take a good look at meee!"
The video was only 5 minutes long and by golly, I had tears in my eyes by the end. Then, I felt really bad for saying Don McLean had a retarded brother.
Why the weepy reaction? Sure, I could chalk it up to the uncontested talent of my "waterworks"--I can cry anywhere, anytime--but the fact is, the featured curmudgeon of an old man reminded me of my grandfather, also a WWII vet. I never had a chance to meet him.
I miss a man whom I have never met. He is a direct link to the past that I can only learn through torn pictures and staccato stories. Trying to piece together the stories of my grandfather as told by my aunts and uncles is nearly impossible when they are in the same room. At least 20 conversations between 8 individuals are going on simultaneously. I think it's an age old family tactic so that only those with the highest multi-tasking ability (or shortest attention span) can reign and bear future multi-tasking and short-attentioned generations. If that's really a desired trait and all...
Alright, enough with the tangents. Back to Grandpa and the whole Link to the Past spiel.
I wish I could have asked my grandfather what the war was like. I wish I could have asked him about what life was like growing up in the 20s, 30s, and 40s.
My grandmother was alive when I was born and even then I never asked her much about her life. It's a shame to have wasted an opportunity to connect with the past. I didn't find out until she died that she drove from Michigan to California. By herself. In a Ford Model T. At age 20. This could be likened to my own adventure coming up in July.
Ok, I can't concentrate on this post anymore because I have Peter Bjorn and John's "Young Folks" stuck in my head. God, short attention span.
Now you will, too.
Sunday, April 01, 2007
...I discovered FutureMe.
Write an email to yourself in the future or read other people's public emails to their futureselves.
FutureMe
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