I know I have severely been laggin with the blog posts these days but I have not had the time nor energy to convert my ever-changing thoughts into words onto this petty website... until tonight!
It has been a week and a few days since my whole sense of direction skewed from south to north (as well as my sense of weather prediction). No longer in an inexplicable limbo, I am gathering my southern California rhythm of café hopping and used book store binging. Cheers, Berkeley, you are in for one hell of a ginger!
After spending my last four hours here, at People's Cafe, I can truly nod my head in approval for both the ambiance as well as coffee. Okay, so the ambiance definitely makes up for the rather weak coffee (then again, I have a bias, being a binge coffee drinker) and there are plugs situated under each desk... about 20 desks, at least.
What this generally amounts to is a quiet atmosphere where people generally keep to themselves, much like I am doing right now, as they work through the night until good ol' midnight rolls by and they decide to greet the night in it's frigid glory only to wake up for class the next day. Because I guess that's what Berkeley kids do... they study... a lot. Not that I am complaining, or anything, because I am swimming in debt (already) in order to learn. This coffee shop is great though. Especially to get your shit done... and swim in debt- at least the coffee is cheap?
No photos do this place justice. Upon entering, it seems like a typical coffee joint: breakfast menu, salad menu, sandwich menu and, of course, the drink menu. Bar seating is conveniently located right next to the window for perfect people watching, whereas the back is where the spawn of electrical outlets thrives. The small "typical coffee joint" facade quickly shifts from one room to the next, where one is nestled in a more mellow atmosphere, more tucked away from new customers but still not in the very back where computer fanatics sit there, caressing their electronic children.
I am in the back, caressing my electronic child (the only child I ever plan to have thank-you-very-much). Not only am I here to be a hermit and be mildly productive (which, for your information, I have been) but also because it looks like a complete opposite from the innocent front register. THe walls are adorned with beakers, test tubes, atoms of various shapes and sizes painted with none other than spray paint. Is that E= mc2 that I see? Yeah, the inner nerd in me is giddy as ever. In front of me a volcano is erupting and clouds are either ejaculating or producing lighting bolts. I think it's the latter. I might be wrong.
Oh! The upper portion of the wall is adorned with old comic books! Although comic books have never been an obsession of mine, I do give People's a thumbs up for the innovative idea in using classics as a decoration. I guess the people who sit back here are not only to caress their electronic children but refrain from getting too excited by the scientific wall experiments and comic book explosion.
I would totally take a picture if I had a camera.
-x-x-x-
And for everyone who is wondering how Berkeley is thus far - I love it. I love love love love it. The professors are fascinating. The students are inspiring. The city is as beautiful as it is sketch. It is the perfect balance of unpredictability and fascination. There is room for adventure and there is room for growth.
It's time to fart around, like good ol' Vonnegut would say.
-Mon
Monday, August 30, 2010
Monday, August 23, 2010
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Thank You
Just a moment of thought...
This whole year has been a whirlwind, to say the least. A bundle of productivity, idiocy, curiosity, rebellion, and so much more - and I would not have wanted it any other way.
Yet, through the back of my mind, I constantly hear a little man, no more than a centimeter tall, pestering me about "severed ties" or "unfinished business." I suppose in this short amount of time I cannot do much; however, the memories that accompany many friendly faces will continue living on [until my short term/long term memory wilts]. With that in mind, I can happily look at my current time line of life and smile, knowing that I have accomplished quite a bit, whether it be a success or a failure.
But you know what? I have learned.
and...I am ever so thankful for the individuals who have made a significant impact in my life - I truly am. Rather than disclosing a multitude of names, I would much rather have the reader smile and nod, possibly thinking to himself or herself "maybe she is talking about me." You are right, maybe I am talking about you; and, if I am not, then hell, just keep smiling and thinking that you still made an impact in my life. You will never know, and that, my friend, is the beauty of anonymity.
For those of you whom I literally fall into the same wavelength with, I am happy to know I am not alone with my ideas, opinions, morals, etc. For those of you whom I can rely on a great laugh or a cup o' joe, I am happy to know my addictions for happiness and caffeine do not go unnoticed. And for those of you on the sidelines, who have always been around but never surpassed the boundaries of small talk and gossip, I am happy to know you made my days better, making me realize there are some consistencies in life.
This thought of leaving "home" (whatever that word means) kept me motivated throughout this duration of time; unfortunately, as comfort began spreading throughout my body, taking over every centimeter of my skin and soul, did I come to realize how much I took for granted. Not that I am scared to start fresh as a stranger in an even stranger city; but I am scared of leaving everything so constructive (or destructive) to my character, here, and returning to an old "home" filled with familiar faces but strangers, nonetheless. Strangers, whom I have known and enjoyed in the past, but who have since treaded onward - whatever that may entail.
And such is life, I know, I know. I am being selfish, over analyzing reality and letting my bits of optimism float away like the seeds of a dandelion. However, as these little parachutes carefully float through the air, they will disperse across a distance and rapidly colonize, cultivating a new sea of optimism.
So, here is my "thank you" to everyone who has [or thinks they have] influenced me this year in even the slightest manner. I am happy, happier than I have ever been and it is thanks to y o u..
-Mon
This whole year has been a whirlwind, to say the least. A bundle of productivity, idiocy, curiosity, rebellion, and so much more - and I would not have wanted it any other way.
Yet, through the back of my mind, I constantly hear a little man, no more than a centimeter tall, pestering me about "severed ties" or "unfinished business." I suppose in this short amount of time I cannot do much; however, the memories that accompany many friendly faces will continue living on [until my short term/long term memory wilts]. With that in mind, I can happily look at my current time line of life and smile, knowing that I have accomplished quite a bit, whether it be a success or a failure.
But you know what? I have learned.
and...I am ever so thankful for the individuals who have made a significant impact in my life - I truly am. Rather than disclosing a multitude of names, I would much rather have the reader smile and nod, possibly thinking to himself or herself "maybe she is talking about me." You are right, maybe I am talking about you; and, if I am not, then hell, just keep smiling and thinking that you still made an impact in my life. You will never know, and that, my friend, is the beauty of anonymity.
For those of you whom I literally fall into the same wavelength with, I am happy to know I am not alone with my ideas, opinions, morals, etc. For those of you whom I can rely on a great laugh or a cup o' joe, I am happy to know my addictions for happiness and caffeine do not go unnoticed. And for those of you on the sidelines, who have always been around but never surpassed the boundaries of small talk and gossip, I am happy to know you made my days better, making me realize there are some consistencies in life.
This thought of leaving "home" (whatever that word means) kept me motivated throughout this duration of time; unfortunately, as comfort began spreading throughout my body, taking over every centimeter of my skin and soul, did I come to realize how much I took for granted. Not that I am scared to start fresh as a stranger in an even stranger city; but I am scared of leaving everything so constructive (or destructive) to my character, here, and returning to an old "home" filled with familiar faces but strangers, nonetheless. Strangers, whom I have known and enjoyed in the past, but who have since treaded onward - whatever that may entail.
And such is life, I know, I know. I am being selfish, over analyzing reality and letting my bits of optimism float away like the seeds of a dandelion. However, as these little parachutes carefully float through the air, they will disperse across a distance and rapidly colonize, cultivating a new sea of optimism.
So, here is my "thank you" to everyone who has [or thinks they have] influenced me this year in even the slightest manner. I am happy, happier than I have ever been and it is thanks to y o u..
-Mon
Sunday, August 8, 2010
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
Stories, Photos and Thoughts
The Lost Decade by F. Scott Fitzgerald
Esquire (December 1939)
All sorts of people came into the offices of the news-weekly and Orrison Brown had all sorts of relations with them. Outside of office hours he was “one of the editors”— during work time he was simply a curly-haired man who a year before had edited the Dartmouth Jack-O-Lantern and was now only too glad to take the undesirable assignments around the office, from straightening out illegible copy to playing call boy without the title.
He had seen this visitor go into the editor’s office — a pale, tall man of forty with blond statuesque hair and a manner that was neither shy nor timid, nor otherworldly like a monk, but something of all three. The name on his card, Louis Trimble, evoked some vague memory, but having nothing to start on, Orrison did not puzzle over it — until a buzzer sounded on his desk, and previous experience warned him that Mr. Trimble was to be his first course at lunch.
“Mr. Trimble — Mr. Brown,” said the Source of all luncheon money. “Orrison — Mr. Trimble’s been away a long time. Or he feels it’s a long time — almost twelve years. Some people would consider themselves lucky to’ve missed the last decade.”
“That’s so,” said Orrison.
“I can’t lunch today,” continued his chief. “Take him to Voisin or 21 or anywhere he’d like. Mr. Trimble feels there’re lots of things he hasn’t seen.”
Trimble demurred politely.
“Oh, I can get around.”
“I know it, old boy. Nobody knew this place like you did once — and if Brown tries to explain the horseless carriage just send him back here to me. And you’ll be back yourself by four, won’t you?”
Orrison got his hat.
“You’ve been away ten years?” he asked while they went down in the elevator.
“They’d begun the Empire State Building,” said Trimble. “What does that add up to?”
“About 1928. But as the chief said, you’ve been lucky to miss a lot.” As a feeler he added, “Probably had more interesting things to look at.”
“Can’t say I have.”
They reached the street and the way Trimble’s face tightened at the roar of traffic made Orrison take one more guess.
“You’ve been out of civilization?”
“In a sense.” The words were spoken in such a measured way that Orrison concluded this man wouldn’t talk unless he wanted to — and simultaneously wondered if he could have possibly spent the thirties in a prison or an insane asylum.
“This is the famous 21,” he said. “Do you think you’d rather eat somewhere else?”
Trimble paused, looking carefully at the brownstone house.
“I can remember when the name 21 got to be famous,” he said, “about the same year as Moriarity’s.” Then he continued almost apologetically, “I thought we might walk up Fifth Avenue about five minutes and eat wherever we happened to be. Some place with young people to look at.”
Orrison gave him a quick glance and once again thought of bars and gray walls and bars; he wondered if his duties included introducing Mr. Trimble to complaisant girls. But Mr. Trimble didn’t look as if that was in his mind — the dominant expression was of absolute and deep-seated curiosity and Orrison attempted to connect the name with Admiral Byrd’s hideout at the South Pole or flyers lost in Brazilian jungles. He was, or he had been, quite a fellow — that was obvious. But the only definite clue to his environment — and to Orrison the clue that led nowhere — was his countryman’s obedience to the traffic lights and his predilection for walking on the side next to the shops and not the street. Once he stopped and gazed into a haberdasher’s window.
“Crêpe ties,” he said. “I haven’t seen one since I left college.”
“Where’d you go?”
“Massachusetts Tech.”
“Great place.”
“I’m going to take a look at it next week. Let’s eat somewhere along here —” They were in the upper Fifties “— you choose.”
There was a good restaurant with a little awning just around the corner.
“What do you want to see most?” Orrison asked, as they sat down.
Trimble considered.
“Well — the back of people’s heads,” he suggested. “Their necks — how their heads are joined to their bodies. I’d like to hear what those two little girls are saying to their father. Not exactly what they’re saying but whether the words float or submerge, how their mouths shut when they’ve finished speaking. Just a matter of rhythm — Cole Porter came back to the States in 1928 because he felt that there were new rhythms around.”
Orrison was sure he had his clue now, and with nice delicacy did not pursue it by a millimeter — even suppressing a sudden desire to say there was a fine concert in Carnegie Hall tonight.
“The weight of spoons,” said Trimble, “so light. A little bowl with a stick attached. The cast in that waiter’s eye. I knew him once but he wouldn’t remember me.”
But as they left the restaurant the same waiter looked at Trimble rather puzzled as if he almost knew him. When they were outside Orrison laughed:
“After ten years people will forget.”
“Oh, I had dinner there last May —” He broke off in an abrupt manner.
It was all kind of nutsy, Orrison decided — and changed himself suddenly into a guide.
“From here you get a good candid focus on Rockefeller Center,” he pointed out with spirit “— and the Chrysler Building and the Armistead Building, the daddy of all the new ones.”
“The Armistead Building,” Trimble rubber-necked obediently. “Yes — I designed it.”
Orrison shook his head cheerfully — he was used to going out with all kinds of people. But that stuff about having been in the restaurant last May . . .
He paused by the brass entablature in the cornerstone of the building. “Erected 1928,” it said.
Trimble nodded.
“But I was taken drunk that year — every-which-way drunk. So I never saw it before now.”
“Oh.” Orrison hesitated. “Like to go in now?”
“I’ve been in it — lots of times. But I’ve never seen it. And now it isn’t what I want to see. I wouldn’t ever be able to see it now. I simply want to see how people walk and what their clothes and shoes and hats are made of. And their eyes and hands. Would you mind shaking hands with me?”
“Not at all, sir.”
“Thanks. Thanks. That’s very kind. I suppose it looks strange — but people will think we’re saying good-by. I’m going to walk up the avenue for awhile, so we will say good-by. Tell your office I’ll be in at four.”
Orrison looked after him when he started out, half expecting him to turn into a bar. But there was nothing about him that suggested or ever had suggested drink.
“Jesus,” he said to himself. “Drunk for ten years.”
He felt suddenly of the texture of his own coat and then he reached out and pressed his thumb against the granite of the building by his side.
Contagious laughter causing tears to stream down my face.
A good combination, though the culprits of such situations will soon change.
Comfort - a doubled edged sword.
-Mon
Esquire (December 1939)
All sorts of people came into the offices of the news-weekly and Orrison Brown had all sorts of relations with them. Outside of office hours he was “one of the editors”— during work time he was simply a curly-haired man who a year before had edited the Dartmouth Jack-O-Lantern and was now only too glad to take the undesirable assignments around the office, from straightening out illegible copy to playing call boy without the title.
He had seen this visitor go into the editor’s office — a pale, tall man of forty with blond statuesque hair and a manner that was neither shy nor timid, nor otherworldly like a monk, but something of all three. The name on his card, Louis Trimble, evoked some vague memory, but having nothing to start on, Orrison did not puzzle over it — until a buzzer sounded on his desk, and previous experience warned him that Mr. Trimble was to be his first course at lunch.
“Mr. Trimble — Mr. Brown,” said the Source of all luncheon money. “Orrison — Mr. Trimble’s been away a long time. Or he feels it’s a long time — almost twelve years. Some people would consider themselves lucky to’ve missed the last decade.”
“That’s so,” said Orrison.
“I can’t lunch today,” continued his chief. “Take him to Voisin or 21 or anywhere he’d like. Mr. Trimble feels there’re lots of things he hasn’t seen.”
Trimble demurred politely.
“Oh, I can get around.”
“I know it, old boy. Nobody knew this place like you did once — and if Brown tries to explain the horseless carriage just send him back here to me. And you’ll be back yourself by four, won’t you?”
Orrison got his hat.
“You’ve been away ten years?” he asked while they went down in the elevator.
“They’d begun the Empire State Building,” said Trimble. “What does that add up to?”
“About 1928. But as the chief said, you’ve been lucky to miss a lot.” As a feeler he added, “Probably had more interesting things to look at.”
“Can’t say I have.”
They reached the street and the way Trimble’s face tightened at the roar of traffic made Orrison take one more guess.
“You’ve been out of civilization?”
“In a sense.” The words were spoken in such a measured way that Orrison concluded this man wouldn’t talk unless he wanted to — and simultaneously wondered if he could have possibly spent the thirties in a prison or an insane asylum.
“This is the famous 21,” he said. “Do you think you’d rather eat somewhere else?”
Trimble paused, looking carefully at the brownstone house.
“I can remember when the name 21 got to be famous,” he said, “about the same year as Moriarity’s.” Then he continued almost apologetically, “I thought we might walk up Fifth Avenue about five minutes and eat wherever we happened to be. Some place with young people to look at.”
Orrison gave him a quick glance and once again thought of bars and gray walls and bars; he wondered if his duties included introducing Mr. Trimble to complaisant girls. But Mr. Trimble didn’t look as if that was in his mind — the dominant expression was of absolute and deep-seated curiosity and Orrison attempted to connect the name with Admiral Byrd’s hideout at the South Pole or flyers lost in Brazilian jungles. He was, or he had been, quite a fellow — that was obvious. But the only definite clue to his environment — and to Orrison the clue that led nowhere — was his countryman’s obedience to the traffic lights and his predilection for walking on the side next to the shops and not the street. Once he stopped and gazed into a haberdasher’s window.
“Crêpe ties,” he said. “I haven’t seen one since I left college.”
“Where’d you go?”
“Massachusetts Tech.”
“Great place.”
“I’m going to take a look at it next week. Let’s eat somewhere along here —” They were in the upper Fifties “— you choose.”
There was a good restaurant with a little awning just around the corner.
“What do you want to see most?” Orrison asked, as they sat down.
Trimble considered.
“Well — the back of people’s heads,” he suggested. “Their necks — how their heads are joined to their bodies. I’d like to hear what those two little girls are saying to their father. Not exactly what they’re saying but whether the words float or submerge, how their mouths shut when they’ve finished speaking. Just a matter of rhythm — Cole Porter came back to the States in 1928 because he felt that there were new rhythms around.”
Orrison was sure he had his clue now, and with nice delicacy did not pursue it by a millimeter — even suppressing a sudden desire to say there was a fine concert in Carnegie Hall tonight.
“The weight of spoons,” said Trimble, “so light. A little bowl with a stick attached. The cast in that waiter’s eye. I knew him once but he wouldn’t remember me.”
But as they left the restaurant the same waiter looked at Trimble rather puzzled as if he almost knew him. When they were outside Orrison laughed:
“After ten years people will forget.”
“Oh, I had dinner there last May —” He broke off in an abrupt manner.
It was all kind of nutsy, Orrison decided — and changed himself suddenly into a guide.
“From here you get a good candid focus on Rockefeller Center,” he pointed out with spirit “— and the Chrysler Building and the Armistead Building, the daddy of all the new ones.”
“The Armistead Building,” Trimble rubber-necked obediently. “Yes — I designed it.”
Orrison shook his head cheerfully — he was used to going out with all kinds of people. But that stuff about having been in the restaurant last May . . .
He paused by the brass entablature in the cornerstone of the building. “Erected 1928,” it said.
Trimble nodded.
“But I was taken drunk that year — every-which-way drunk. So I never saw it before now.”
“Oh.” Orrison hesitated. “Like to go in now?”
“I’ve been in it — lots of times. But I’ve never seen it. And now it isn’t what I want to see. I wouldn’t ever be able to see it now. I simply want to see how people walk and what their clothes and shoes and hats are made of. And their eyes and hands. Would you mind shaking hands with me?”
“Not at all, sir.”
“Thanks. Thanks. That’s very kind. I suppose it looks strange — but people will think we’re saying good-by. I’m going to walk up the avenue for awhile, so we will say good-by. Tell your office I’ll be in at four.”
Orrison looked after him when he started out, half expecting him to turn into a bar. But there was nothing about him that suggested or ever had suggested drink.
“Jesus,” he said to himself. “Drunk for ten years.”
He felt suddenly of the texture of his own coat and then he reached out and pressed his thumb against the granite of the building by his side.
Contagious laughter causing tears to stream down my face.
A good combination, though the culprits of such situations will soon change.
Comfort - a doubled edged sword.
-Mon
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