busride from hell

oh my god, what a day.

i hightailed it to south station to get on an earlier bus, and they put me on a bus leaving in 15 minutes. I rolled my luggage over and quickly bought some water and gum.

On the way, I had to get out off the t train a stop early because my transfer station didn't have an elevator down to the platform. I went above ground and walked.

Back to the fung wah bus. I get on at 1:30. We begin the ride to New York.

The cell phone reception in connecticutt is awful. The bus is cold, and I curl up to sleep. While I sleep, the sun comes out and melts the cookie I put in my pocket. The bus stopped at a mcdonald's to let us pee, and i look down to see what looks like a poop stain on my hand. i looked down further to see the chocolate from my melted cookie overflowing out of my hoodie. ewww.

back on the bus. we are in traffic for nearly 3 hours getting into manhattan.

got off on the lower east side at 8:30. Missed my chance to reprint my e-ticket, and missed the connecting bus that i was supposed to get onto philly at 8pm. I walk the wrong way down canal st.

i've got a lot on my mind.

the chinatown bus station is crazy. things are poorly labeled, people are yelling at me to get on their bus.

i accidentally almost got on a bus to dc.

thank god i asked. i hit my head putting my luggage into the cargo on the right bus.

Once i'm on my philly bus, there was a beeping up front, so i moved to the back, and when the bus was moving, it sounded like clattering floorboards. I feared for my life. i had visions of the frame shifting while we were on the highway.

the people in front of me have their ipods on loud. i can hear their music "it's raining men, halleleujah"

whoa. close to midnight i arrived in philly. . .

There are always more rocks to smoke on

I smoked a cigarette naked on a rock 8700 ft above sea level. In light of this, everything is okay . . .

California was in front of me, and Nevada behind me.

The high-altitude winds blew through my crotch when I took off my pants, cooling the sweat from the hike up to the peak.

A raised column of rock made the perfect seat for my tush. I had a hard time getting my cigarette lit, but once it was I sucked in the smoke as if it was the air my life depended upon.

I stretched my arms up, and the sun crawled towards late afternoon.

This was a non-sexual moment, pure in its intentions. Just a moment to be in tune with my mind, with the scene before me.

Cigarettes

I have this sort of odd obsession with pictures of people smoking. The photos are always so meditative, so ethereal, so lovely. I don't care about it perpetuating a negative habit. I have a flickr feed on my browser homepage that shows me different photos each morning. This is my favorite from today.

Candles flickered on every round table throughout the bar. The man at the piano swung his long hair backward, and emphatically played John Lennon's "Imagine," in an almost ragtime fashion. He began to sing. Cars passed regularly in the background, subtle white noise. Dusk settled.

hidden photo

i dropped my library book the other day, and a hidden photo fell out onto the corner of stanyan and frederick. It's a photo of an older dark haired man with a pot belly in a pair of carharts. He's sitting in a truck against a southwest seat cover. The photo is taken by the person in the driver's seat. He is looking at the photographer in the corner of his eye.

I will scan it later.

Mein Holga

Green Paper Package

I received a long awaited package today, but when I saw how it had been packaged, the wait was entirely worth it.

Scissors for Lefty

My new favorite local band.

Sartorial Joy / Object Appreciation

"No ideas but in things" -- William Carlos Williams

There are those sartorial moments, when something clicks.

In viewing the object, I can see how someone has strived to make a very small moment of my life more involved, more elaborated upon.

It is the perfect mustard yellow handbag, the thrift store scarf that warms your body, and completes your reflection.

One could argue that there is more poetry in a bucket than a high heeled shoe, but that need not diminish the joy one receives from a proper item of clothing--something that fits so well, that enhances one's presence without overwhelming the viewer.

This is the poetry of design.

The message conveyed may be about status, but an item whose poetry rings truer will convey a message of utility, beauty and possibility. The craftsman understands this.

And of course this appreciation expands outside of sartorial items, a warm ceramic mug that fits into the palm, a new camera arriving in the mail packaged in green paper and tied up with string, or a new song that one hears offering displacement and pleasure (the idea as an object).

We appreciate these items, and they enhance our lives. Unfortunately, the object can only provide so much. Objects cannot love us back.

Although sometimes, we love an object so much that the love we pour into it bounces back onto us. The pursuit of interests is never to be discontinued. Objects are indelibly tied to our efforts, our emotions, and our lives.

Objects are carriers.

My horoscope today

Optimism and buoyancy
This influence assures a day of good feelings, peace and harmony with others. But you should try to use its energy to accomplish something good and useful for yourself. The temptation is to enjoy the good feelings and let the day slip by without paying any special attention. The enthusiasm, optimism and buoyancy associated with this influence will enable you to project energies into the environment that will help your affairs work out as you want. This may appear to be luck, but it is not really. Consciously or unconsciously, in your daily routine you operate with great understanding of the overall patterns, and you act with more foresight and consideration than usual. If you do benefit from "dumb luck," it is a consequence of something you have done in the recent past.

The interpretation above is for your transit selected for today:Sun Trine Jupiter

activity period from 19 February 2007 to 21 February 2007.

We hadn't spoken in weeks. I ran into Jon at a coffee shop concert; he looked disheveled, untucked mismatched shirt and unshaven stubble. I thought maybe he'd been distraught. We chatted awkwardly. He invited me to his friends house in rural Oregon for the weekend--people were coming out for something of a two day party in the woods.

Secretly, I was thrilled. He'd kiss me in the woods. I was hopeful from the moment that I received the invite.

Lisa, an aquaintance, drove me and her boyfriend in her black suv through the oregon woods to the lakeside house. We arrived early, before Jon. There was a giant trampoline set out in the front yard. We all took turns jumping. Lisa's boyfriend, well sauced, got on the trampoline, jumped around for awhile and fell on his arm, spraining it. Lisa left and took him to the hospital.

I knew the host, Blane, only vaguely. Blane was a wiry looking kid with messy hair and a lazy eye. He was constantly unshaven. Lisa was gone, and it was awkward out in the forest with Blane's friends, a bunch of mal-adjusted townies. Dusk settled, and Jon arrived with some of my classmates. The car rumbled close to the house, and I felt eager to start enjoying myself. They filtered in and Jon walked in, dressed tightly in black, with a giggling happy girl looming near him. I knew immediately. Why did he invite me out to the forest to be presented with this new and unhappy fact? My heart sunk--I couldn't leave.

Lisa returned with her boyfriend, his arm in a sling. The group sat around on the porch drinking Pabst and laughing for a few hours. My classmates teased Jon about his new girlfriend. "Jonny's got a girrrllfriend." Jon sat next to her, and I pretended to look happy. Blane told everyone to come out front.

Blane had constructed a huge pyre, largely composed out of his old paintings, along with pieces of broken furniture, and 2 x 4's. He doused the pyre in gasoline and lit it on fire. He rolled a wheelbarrel out in front of the growing fire. With a shovel, he launched large scoops of sawdust onto the pyre. The flames mushroom clouded into the sky.

What was I watching?

After the sawdust was gone, the crowd filtered back towards the house. I confronted Jon. He stood on the porch facing out from the house. His tall, thin frame illuminated. "Why did you invite me out here to see you and your new girlfriend?"

"I just thought it would be okay."

I don't remember the rest of our conversation. Time passed slowly that night.

I hid out in Blane's guest room, a room separated from the house, with windows on all four sides. I crawled up in Blane's sleeping bag, and cried. I wept in the little one room for quite awhile. Blane came in and tried to console me. He put his arms around me and leaned in for a kiss. I would learn later that Blaine had a history of "kissing crying girls."

I left the tiny room and rejoined the party. The lights inside the house were bright. Alcohol had settled in on the guests. 2 girls and a boy were standing with their arms around each other, taking turns kissing in the triangle.

Blane burst out of the house, throwing his blankets onto the ground. Yelling, screaming, he picked up a guitar and smashed it on the ground. A girl that he wanted was in his bed with someone else. We all just watched as he destroyd the guitar.

I walked along the perimeter of the estate along the wooden fence, and ran into Gunther, one of Jon's old friends. I pretended to be french. My act was shoddy, and he quickly got bored, but he was drunk enough to believe me for a moment.

I went out near the firepit, and listened to people talk. The scene was more innocuous. Jon and his girlfriend were gone. It was very late and I had to try to sleep.

I went into the house and found a place on the floor. There was a loft bedroom in the middle of the huge living room. My place on the floor was right underneath the loft. I knew that Jon and his girlfriend were sleeping there. I tried to sleep. Occasionally, I would hear little kissing and sucking noises come down from the loft. Dawn was lifting.

I got up again, and went to the firepit. Joe was still awake. We talked about books. He was a good conversation in contrast to the insanity of the evening.

The morning dawned, and the group went about making breakfast for the 15 or so people that were there. It took forever. I wanted to leave soo badly. No one could confirm for me when they were leaving.

The sun was high in the sky. Blane turned on music. I remember the Strokes "This Is It" and Elliott Smith drifting through the large living room and onto the deck. Jon used to tell me that he hated pop music like that. I resented the music in that moment.

Finally Lisa said she was leaving. We all got in the Black SUV and we started to head out the driveway. The car lurched--flat tire--unbelievable. We all got of the car. It took a while for Lisa to figure out how to unscrew the spare from the bottom of the car. While Lisa and her boyfriend were fiddlling with getting the wheel out from under the car, I stood and watched. I brushed my hand against the back of my head and felt a sting--a bee sting. I went back inside the house for a bandaid.

The car was ready to go. The drive seemed very long, and I remember walking slowly back into my house. I went upstairs and lay down on the bed without taking the covers off.

Breakfast

I love breakfast. It's a wonderful beginning to any great day. It's a time for communication, contemplation, and appreciation. I love eggs. I love toast. I love coffee. These are all inspiring objects to me. I dream about breakfast all day.

Nostalgia

I think back to my past relationships with rose colored glasses. This perspective isn't totally unrealistic though. I'm able to appreciate my past separated from my old pain. The memories are sweet. I can listen to records associated with old boyfriends without having to skip tracks.

This isn't to say that I am free from sad thoughts, but certain individuals have transformed from something to pine over to something that I fondly remember.

Patience

My ability to be patient is high right now.

Man on the train

My favorite passenger got on the L taraval bus today. I don't know who he is. I never talk to him. He is an older business man, maybe in his mid-40's, but he's so handsome to me. I admire him from afar.

And he looks just like someone I slept with in the past. He has salt and pepper hair, big brow bones, and a diminutive chin. He is tall, scrawny, and his lean stature makes the bones in his face very prominent.

I want to kiss his cheeks, nibble on his ears, and run my hands in his hair. It's utterly innappropriate. My far out fantasties have us exit the train to find a hotel, or just a park bench where I would make out with him in a shameful fury. Until now, I'll just admire the veins and bones in his hands while he refolds the paper to read the comics.

My dream from this morning.

In the dream, I am trying to sleep in my twin bed with my co-workers and Sam. Sam and I lay next to each other. We chatted pillow talk and giggled next to each other's heat. It is a soft warm girly feeling that I am having in the dream.

Later, Sam and I are watching television, clutching thighs and laughing. He turns his head to me and puts his hand over his mouth. He whispers, "I love you"

I am taken aback and surprised to hear such words come out of his mouth. Sam wouldn't ever say such a thing to me. I safely reply "I care about you very much and if you ever need me, I'm there for you." It was a happy feeling.

Flash forward in the dream. I discover that in my sleep I have I sent an email titled "Hot Chocolate" to him. There is an Olsen Twin on the television (You think I would know at this point that it is a dream). I am horrified with the content of the email. I think the email recounted my dream and was sent to the real life Sam. At this point, I am lucidly dreaming, afraid that the real world has discoverd my fantasies.

I remember this dream feeling particularly like one I had in high school about a boy named Nicholas Holsopple. Utter fufillment followed by tragedy, a faster and more sublime version than that in real life.

Handsome

The meaning of handsome. What constitutes rugged male beauty? not from a romance novel perspective, but from a loving female perspective. What makes the mystique of attraction for me?

Merriam Webster says this:

handsome
One entry found for handsome.
Main Entry: hand·some
Pronunciation: 'han(t)-s&m
Function: adjective
Inflected Form(s): hand·som·er; -est
Etymology: Middle English handsom easy to manipulate
1 chiefly dialect : APPROPRIATE, SUITABLE
2 : moderately large : SIZABLE
3 : marked by skill or cleverness : ADROIT
4 : marked by graciousness or generosity : LIBERAL
5 : having a pleasing and usually impressive or dignified appearance
synonym see BEAUTIFUL
- hand·some·ly adverb
- hand·some·ness noun

so that would be sizable, clever, gracious, and both pleasing, and dignified in appearance.

i love the word handsome. i much prefer it to beautiful. it's so much more of a solid word.

active examples for me are

romain duris
gael garcia bernal

for me handsome is a smoky quality. i am driven to extremes by dark hair and radiant skin.

here are visual examples.

The lovely Romain Duris, the rugged Peter Krause, the big eyes and imposing jaws of Gael Garcia Bernal.

But beyond imposing bone structures and large eyeballs, something else makes a man rugged, makes a man attractive.

Obviously, this is attitude. It is not utterly composed of confidence. Aloof is too cold of a word.

It's a distinctive attitude that makes the difference. I fall for distinctive personalities.

This would be why someone like Jonathan Richman or David Byrne rises to the same ranks as the above mentioned pretty boys.

Attitude makes imperfect features into platonic features. All of a sudden Owen Wilson's crooked nose is perfect.

Flawed and therefore perfect. We don't want the objects of our attraction to be too perfect. Being too perfect would be an even greater flaw than any literal flaws. We want the objects of our attraction to be ideal, but always human.

Writing About Love

It's much easier to write about love in hindsight. We are unsafe in speaking about the present and the future. Decisions can be made about the past to little effect.

I often question the ethics of what I consider writing publicly. I've written things, reconsidered, and then destroyed/deleted the entry. Would the person this is about be hurt if they read it? Would they ever find it? How will it affect me if I were to discuss this material with the persons involved?

One encounters the same problems in writing auto-biographically about anyone close to them whether it be family, friends, co-workers, or lovers. When one gives writing to an audience one expects an effect, even if it is only a subtle reaction on the part of the author.

I want to write honestly and openly, but matters of harm often prevent me from being truly honest. When I say harm, I include the possible harm I may do to myself in publicizing my opinions, the decisions I may make in the text that I might regret later.

Dear Love

I'm giving up on you for now.

Love,
Me

Self-Respect and Selection

I've been meaning to make a post for a really long time. I've been thinking a lot about the meaning of self-love and self respect. There is a beautiful essay by Joan Didion I read a few weeks ago on the topic. The power of the idea we have of ourselves in affecting our behavior and perspective.
It's a hard thing to carry. Sometimes, it just happens. One has a firm idea of who they are, and little regret alongside of it. Sometimes, it is a struggle.

I've also been thinking about the process of selection. Selection as a service. I am sure this relates to love in some way. Our ability to love. Most immediatley, our available energy to love is given to selection, and the process of selection can be a loving one. It all boils down to choices.

Choosing to love ourselves. Choosing what parts of ourselves to love, and those parts that we choose to ignore to make it easier to love what we have embraced.