Just Breathe Out

One of My Turns

2011-11-18T15:37:00.001-08:00

"Day after day, love turns grey
Like the skin of a dying man.
Night after night, we pretend its all right
But I have grown older and
You have grown colder and
Nothing is very much fun any more.
And I can feel one of my turns coming on.
I feel cold as a razor blade,
Tight as a tourniquet,
Dry as a funeral drum."

pitter patter, eh?

-Mon

Because the headlines have been a mess the past few days,

2011-09-08T21:44:00.000-07:00

Art is everywhere - and it can be crafted to be seen at first glance; or rather, noticed with enough time passed. So beautiful! So much potential! Now, off to read...

s/love,
Mon

A Plausible Finish

2011-09-06T08:07:00.000-07:00

A plausible finish by Charles Bukowski

There ought to be a place to go
When you can't sleep
Or you're tired getting drunk
And the grass doesn't work anymore
And I don't mean to go to
Hash or Cocaine
I mean a place to go
Besides a death that's waiting
And a love that doesn't work
Anymore.

There ought to be a place to go
When you can't sleep
Besides a tv set or a movie
Or a newspaper
Or a novel about a woman
With her clit in her throat.

It's not having that place to go
That creates the people in madhouses
And the suicides.

I suppose what most people do
When there isn't any place to go
Is to go to someplace or something
That hardly satisfies them,
And this ritual tends to sandpaper them,
Into a dullness where they can relax
With out hope.

Those faces you see everyday
On the streets
Were not created entirely without
Thought: Be kind to them:
They have
Escaped.

Where is my mind?

2011-08-28T16:11:00.000-07:00

-x-x-x-

somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond
any experience,your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully,mysteriously) her first rose

or if your wish be to close me,i and
my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain, has such small hands

-ee cummings

-x-x-x-

2011-06-26T12:47:00.000-07:00

-x-x-x-

A light breeze, carrying the humid air like a newborn,
cradling it, as if in no time, the newborn will become bearable...
and stop crying tears of heat and muck.

Or maybe that's a little crude...?

Well, crude or not,
it's time for this babe to grow up and become tolerable,
because she's driving me mad.

Only calm when shushed at night,
letting out sighs of perfection,
and smiles of sweet, cool beauty.

Coo, coo?

[Time to be a night owl, perhaps]

................

Also, I sucked at updating my Europe trip, I know. Photos can be seen here: https://picasaweb.google.com/MonicaFinc/

-Mon

Firenze, Italia

2011-05-28T04:37:00.000-07:00

Dia 2 in Italia

Come Monday, I will only have a week left of travelling Europe... what a crazy thought! I have gotten rather used to living the life of a nomad, stopping at a hostel to steal internet and crashing on stranger's couches. This whole experience, though quite surreal, has put a new twist to my daily routine. In a good way though... :)

A short recap, I suppose, of the past week or so is a must.

The adventures began in Berlin, just a little over a week ago, when I landed at the Tegel airport. In hopes of meeting my brother who just so happened to be in Berlin at the same time as I, my hopes were soon tested. Alas! The somewhat-twin-like-but-a-decade-older thing was nowhere to be found.

So I waited... and waited... and hopped on a bus! I thought to myself, 'well, he's just testing me to see if I can get to the hostel...'

However, I had not written down the information for the hostel, which eventually bit me in the ass. Having finally reached Alexanderplatz, what I considered as a good starting point, I began the walk of all walks. What do I mean by that? Well, let's just say I truly understood the enormous bubble of life that is Berlin. (And when I say enormous, I mean it.)

I walked an hour, attempted to hop onto every wifi network imaginable (damn Germans securing your network), and attempted to get to my one hostel (somehow) only remembering a map I glanced at two weeks prior.

(This is when everyone who knows me that is reading this blog will take a sigh, shake their head, smile and say 'oh Monica') I know, guys... I know...

Finally, after many hours, I entered an internet cafe where I heard some Poles chatting. I hop on the net, saw my brother online and he came to my rescue.

-x-x-x-

And yes, the whole trip has kept pretty much the same amount of curiosity, absurdity, luck, and so much more...

From doctor's offices to monk painters sitting beside me at the hostel (that one is happening right as I type this) to Italian horn dogs to phenomenal couchsurfing hosts to bike rides in airports from WWII to a DJ Shadow concert in an abandoned train station to eating nearly every hour of the day to not eating for a day, this has all been so ridiculously enlightening.

And there's only more to come! :)

I do believe, however, that the last day has been the most inspiring of them all. Getting lost in Florence and nearly bawling my eyes out on three occasions has helped me accept my vulnerabilities. Honestly, right as I stood there alone, as the sun set over the river, I took a deep breath and let everything out.

Trusted my gut.

and walked...

Until I saw the street of my hostel(coincidentally, Saint Monica street).

-x-x-x-

It's funny when things work out - no? That is yet another recent realization I have had. Actually, there have been quite a few:

- Don't forget to smile. Everyone will appreciate it. A little kindness will go a long way, and a simple smile can cure a multitude of doubt, unhappiness, anger, etc.
- Learn a little bit of the language! You will be surprised how far you can go with knowing so little... and the locals will love that you give it a shot.
- Stop looking at the clock. It isn't about cramming everything in the city within a given time slot... plus, you need something else to come back to.
- Get lost. Curiosity may have killed the cat but getting lost will not only satisfy your curiosity's desire but force you to think for yourself.
- Step onto the beaten path. Paved roads are boring. Test your instincts and explore something that has some wear and tear.
- Thank everyone who has helped you. If you let them know your gratitude, they will happily help the next passer-by.
- You are no better than any tourist.
- No local is any better than you. Rather, we are all equals, collected in a city expressing our thanks for being here, in this given moment.
- Take a nap in a park. Let the sun's rays tantalize your body and rejuvenate you. Your sanity and legs will thank you. :)
- Talk to people in the bathroom if you're in a hostel. Ask them what their plans are. Exchange ideas. It will give you insight in the most unlikely of places.
- Eat out!
- Eat in! Try to cook a native dish with native ingredients.
- Ask a local where their favourite restaurant is, whenever you feel your stomach turning. A bus stop, a church (well, maybe not there), a park...
Most importantly
- Trust your gut. Your instincts are present for a reason.

I know, I know, i'm becoming extremely idealistic again. I think it goes farther than that though... this trip has forced me to open up. After forcing myself to never get attached to those around me, I am re-evaluating my past decisions.

It's a nice feeling to care. It makes you feel human, y'know?

So, i'm off to my next couchsurfer's home, a little ways away from Florence's city centre, where I hope to meet more inspiring people. The sun is shining. The breeze is light. The birds are chirping. The gelato is melting.

Another day in the Mediterranean...!

Ciao,
Mon

2011-05-25T07:32:00.000-07:00

'ello Brussels !

A better update soon...

-mon

Berlin, the beginning

2011-05-19T03:41:00.000-07:00

And, I manage to get lost in Berlin already. Thankfully, brother dearest is meeting me at this internet cafe-ish (more-like-a-casino) thing.

I must say though, this place is lovely.
-Mon

A Culmination, Almost

2011-05-07T23:35:00.000-07:00

Here's for a brief debriefing, because I cannot study at the moment.

I. Love. Cal.

There are some amazing people here, and I am happy to have made this decision, even though I haven't slept for more than 3 hours each night.

It's truly a magical place. Perhaps the bay area in general? Either way, it's been a fantastic year (give or take a few emotional turmoils).

So, here's to all the beautiful who made this year happen! :) All of you have so much passion and life within you, that inspires me to keep going no matter how much I hate academia more than half of the time. A petty piece of paper is worth it so as to be enduring the same state of flurry you guys are.

So much love, life and light for you guys and this place in general,

Mon

2011-05-06T22:57:00.001-07:00

More on Europa 2011

2011-05-04T12:38:00.001-07:00

Having a personal renaissance in Rome and Florence after Brussels...

:)

-Mon

2011-05-02T22:03:00.000-07:00

It's nice being happy.

-mon

Forget About Your House of Cards

2011-04-28T22:23:00.000-07:00

I don't wanna be your friend
I just wanna be your lover
No matter how it ends
No matter how it starts

Forget about your house of cards
And I'll do mine
Forget about your house of cards
And I'll do mine

And fall off the table, get swept under

Denial, denial

The infrastructure will collapse
Voltage spikes
Throw your keys in the bowl
Kiss your husband goodnight

Forget about your house of cards
And I'll do mine
Forget about your house of cards
And I'll do mine

Fall off the table, get swept under

Denial, denial
Denial, denial

Your ears should be burning
Denial, denial
Your ears should be burning

-x-x-x-

I had dinner with a beautiful individual today. She shared her wisdom as I spilled my soul onto the table amongst, arguably the worst, dining commons dinner imaginable.

A new approach began today: living in the moment [as I used to] and loving freely [as I am not used to].

Here's to appreciating all of the beautiful souls that surround me in Berkeley! <3 You all have been under-appreciated and I sincerely apologize.

So many incomprehensible changes in just a few weeks! I will hopefully be taking plenty of pictures and blogging every aspect of my life when I backpack Europe in 3 weeks.

"Are you ready?" [I ask myself]

... I sure fucking am. I need a vacation, stat! A break from my emotions, routine and current lifestyle. :)

So stoked,
-Mon

2011-04-26T20:39:00.000-07:00

In the stacks

2011-04-22T00:57:00.000-07:00

Such a monotonous routine, in my eyes. Sitting here, amongst a plethora of strangers, as we all scramble to cram as much information as possible in hopes of refuting it all come the next testing period. Surely, this determination is noteworthy, and I am thankful beyond words to have this opportunity; however, as I step out of the bubble, it also makes me laugh how everything seems so cyclical, routinely... patterned?

My mind is all over the place.

... and I don't know what I want.

Back to Los Angeles, tomorrow, for a bit - and jumping back into my old routine if only for 2 days.

A part of me feels almost silly to return for the weekend; as if everything down there is slowly being packaged into a little box labeled "the past," only seconds away from being shelved away. I feel like i may have been moving backwards...

no worry

Time to start running towards something, anything, up here.

Ready. Set. Go!

Soon, so soon.
-Mon

E. E. Cummings: since feeling is first

2011-04-15T20:35:00.000-07:00

since feeling is first
who pays any attention
to the syntax of things
will never wholly kiss you;

wholly to be a fool
while Spring is in the world

my blood approves,
and kisses are a better fate
than wisdom
lady i swear by all flowers. Don't cry
—the best gesture of my brain is less than
your eyelids' flutter which says

we are for each other:then
laugh,leaning back in my arms
for life's not a paragraph

And death i think is no parenthesis

-x-x-x-
... but where comes the period? I guess e.e. cummings never really believed in punctuation.

-Mon

[space]

2011-04-12T08:22:00.000-07:00

Nothing more, nothing less.

-Mon

Nothing to do but Believe

2011-04-09T10:37:00.000-07:00

April 9th
Location: Moffitt Library, 5th floor (because the scenery is aesthetically pleasing)
Headspace: ?

This past year has been a whirlwind, both personally and as a whole...
new places, new faces, new mistakes, new realizations -
more risks, more social unrest, more liberty, more awareness -
everything, both catastrophic and revitalizing, moving rhythmically with one another
like a dance.

And, though the emotions vary from pleasant to tumultuous,
it's a beautiful sort of dance.
One that makes you cry because you know everything will be alright,
one that makes you laugh because you know there's only so much time left.

But how much time is really left?

And that, we never really know-
Both personally and as a whole.

So you just keep dancing,
["as if no one is watching"]
Or maybe you're an observer?
[to which you're watching in an unobtrusive manner]

A waltz of sorts,
with life, in the lead
and you, quickly picking up the pace from behind.

But don't hesitate -since we're all dancing the same waltz,
and tripping over our left feet.
Just take it all in,
and laugh, because you have only so much time left...

before the music stops.

-x-x-x-
Words of wisdom:
"The only means of strengthening one's intellect is to make up one's mind about nothing, to let the mind be a thoroughfare for all thoughts."
John Keats

-Mon

Things Are Turning Up!

2011-03-31T20:22:00.000-07:00

"If you're going to try, go all the way. Otherwise, don't even start. This could mean losing girlfriends, wives, relatives and maybe even your mind. It could mean not eating for three or four days. It could mean freezing on a park bench. It could mean jail. It could mean derision. It could mean mockery--isolation. Isolation is the gift. All the others are a test of your endurance, of how much you really want to do it. And, you'll do it, despite rejection and the worst odds. And it will be better than anything else you can imagine. If you're going to try, go all the way. There is no other feeling like that. You will be alone with the gods, and the nights will flame with fire. You will ride life straight to perfect laughter. It's the only good fight there is."
— Charles Bukowski

Spring calls for new beginnings, no? Alright, it's time for mine. How is there only a month left of this beautiful city...?

-Mon

p.s. Berlin is so soon!

Living in Cloyne next semester - huzzah!

HEY, THE SUN IS BACK!

The Egg By: Andy Weir

2011-03-23T01:27:00.000-07:00

The Egg
By: Andy Weir

You were on your way home when you died.
It was a car accident. Nothing particularly remarkable, but fatal nonetheless. You left behind a wife and two children. It was a painless death. The EMTs tried their best to save you, but to no avail. Your body was so utterly shattered you were better off, trust me.
And that’s when you met me.
“What… what happened?” You asked. “Where am I?”
“You died,” I said, matter-of-factly. No point in mincing words.
“There was a… a truck and it was skidding…”
“Yup,” I said.
“I… I died?”
“Yup. But don’t feel bad about it. Everyone dies,” I said.
You looked around. There was nothingness. Just you and me. “What is this place?” You asked. “Is this the afterlife?”
“More or less,” I said.
“Are you god?” You asked.
“Yup,” I replied. “I’m God.”
“My kids… my wife,” you said.
“What about them?”
“Will they be all right?”
“That’s what I like to see,” I said. “You just died and your main concern is for your family. That’s good stuff right there.”
You looked at me with fascination. To you, I didn’t look like God. I just looked like some man. Or possibly a woman. Some vague authority figure, maybe. More of a grammar school teacher than the almighty.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “They’ll be fine. Your kids will remember you as perfect in every way. They didn’t have time to grow contempt for you. Your wife will cry on the outside, but will be secretly relieved. To be fair, your marriage was falling apart. If it’s any consolation, she’ll feel very guilty for feeling relieved.”
“Oh,” you said. “So what happens now? Do I go to heaven or hell or something?”
“Neither,” I said. “You’ll be reincarnated.”
“Ah,” you said. “So the Hindus were right,”
“All religions are right in their own way,” I said. “Walk with me.”
You followed along as we strode through the void. “Where are we going?”
“Nowhere in particular,” I said. “It’s just nice to walk while we talk.”
“So what’s the point, then?” You asked. “When I get reborn, I’ll just be a blank slate, right? A baby. So all my experiences and everything I did in this life won’t matter.”
“Not so!” I said. “You have within you all the knowledge and experiences of all your past lives. You just don’t remember them right now.”
I stopped walking and took you by the shoulders. “Your soul is more magnificent, beautiful, and gigantic than you can possibly imagine. A human mind can only contain a tiny fraction of what you are. It’s like sticking your finger in a glass of water to see if it’s hot or cold. You put a tiny part of yourself into the vessel, and when you bring it back out, you’ve gained all the experiences it had.
“You’ve been in a human for the last 48 years, so you haven’t stretched out yet and felt the rest of your immense consciousness. If we hung out here for long enough, you’d start remembering everything. But there’s no point to doing that between each life.”
“How many times have I been reincarnated, then?”
“Oh lots. Lots and lots. An in to lots of different lives.” I said. “This time around, you’ll be a Chinese peasant girl in 540 AD.”
“Wait, what?” You stammered. “You’re sending me back in time?”
“Well, I guess technically. Time, as you know it, only exists in your universe. Things are different where I come from.”
“Where you come from?” You said.
“Oh sure,” I explained “I come from somewhere. Somewhere else. And there are others like me. I know you’ll want to know what it’s like there, but honestly you wouldn’t understand.”
“Oh,” you said, a little let down. “But wait. If I get reincarnated to other places in time, I could have interacted with myself at some point.”
“Sure. Happens all the time. And with both lives only aware of their own lifespan you don’t even know it’s happening.”
“So what’s the point of it all?”
“Seriously?” I asked. “Seriously? You’re asking me for the meaning of life? Isn’t that a little stereotypical?”
“Well it’s a reasonable question,” you persisted.
I looked you in the eye. “The meaning of life, the reason I made this whole universe, is for you to mature.”
“You mean mankind? You want us to mature?”
“No, just you. I made this whole universe for you. With each new life you grow and mature and become a larger and greater intellect.”
“Just me? What about everyone else?”
“There is no one else,” I said. “In this universe, there’s just you and me.”
You stared blankly at me. “But all the people on earth…”
“All you. Different incarnations of you.”
“Wait. I’m everyone!?”
“Now you’re getting it,” I said, with a congratulatory slap on the back.
“I’m every human being who ever lived?”
“Or who will ever live, yes.”
“I’m Abraham Lincoln?”
“And you’re John Wilkes Booth, too,” I added.
“I’m Hitler?” You said, appalled.
“And you’re the millions he killed.”
“I’m Jesus?”
“And you’re everyone who followed him.”
You fell silent.
“Every time you victimized someone,” I said, “you were victimizing yourself. Every act of kindness you’ve done, you’ve done to yourself. Every happy and sad moment ever experienced by any human was, or will be, experienced by you.”
You thought for a long time.
“Why?” You asked me. “Why do all this?”
“Because someday, you will become like me. Because that’s what you are. You’re one of my kind. You’re my child.”
“Whoa,” you said, incredulous. “You mean I’m a god?”
“No. Not yet. You’re a fetus. You’re still growing. Once you’ve lived every human life throughout all time, you will have grown enough to be born.”
“So the whole universe,” you said, “it’s just…”
“An egg.” I answered. “Now it’s time for you to move on to your next life.”
And I sent you on your way.

-x-x-x-x-

I like that concept... the fact that you are a part of everything and everything is a part of you. Some may call it a more selfish perspective, yet I feel it's more realistic and practical.

Why?

Well, we know what makes us as happy as a singing songbird, and we damn well know what grabs us by the gut and slowly wrenches out the pain like a wet cloth. Also, all we have is ourselves - one day, maybe sometime soon, a moment will manifest that makes us realize how alone we are. Until then, we're caught catering to the magnificent souls in our lives that may also, one day, let us down. This shouldn't be a sad thought though... we're learning about humanity and what it has to offer, as well as what it has to take away.

So, you helped the old man find his key because you remembered, you too, lost your keys a week ago and therefore, saw a piece of yourself in him. So, you fought with your best friend because you saw the disgusting nuances of yourself in him. And, you even kissed the person you love because not only did it make you well up with happiness, but also a greater sense of self.

It's a comforting thought - to know that we are all so different and embarking on a completely different trail of life, yet somehow, no matter how treacherous the hike, we constantly cross paths with other travelers on the same involuntary adventure. Or, I suppose, maybe we're all on the same trail just at different points?

It all does make me wonder. And think. And ask questions.

And [as a closing thought], I can honestly say, I like the way things have been going lately.

I really do. I like the view from this point in my hike.

<3
Mon

Parallel lines

2011-03-12T12:14:00.000-08:00

While walking down the street today, scrambling to get to the Food Collective, I overheard two men talking.

"So, that Jenny girl, are the two of you working out?"
"Yeah. She doesn't think for herself, so I can mold her into whatever I want her to be. She's smitten, but in the best way possible. Nothing will tear her from me."
"And if something does..?"
"Well, then I'll find another girl, as naive as her, that I can craft into perfection."

And, though I wanted to jump into the conversation and share my own opinions, the time clock pulled me into the storefront sooner than my words could make a statement.

So here's to all of the ladies, who occasionally come off "too strongly" or "unapproachable" because of their undeniable interests in literature, music and the arts. Here's to the ladies who won't change for a man - who love themselves for who they are. Having passion is a scary and beautiful thing.

(In Response to Charles Warnke’s You Should Date An Illiterate Girl.)

Date a girl who reads. Date a girl who spends her money on books instead of clothes. She has problems with closet space because she has too many books. Date a girl who has a list of books she wants to read, who has had a library card since she was twelve.

Find a girl who reads. You’ll know that she does because she will always have an unread book in her bag.She’s the one lovingly looking over the shelves in the bookstore, the one who quietly cries out when she finds the book she wants. You see the weird chick sniffing the pages of an old book in a second hand book shop? That’s the reader. They can never resist smelling the pages, especially when they are yellow.

She’s the girl reading while waiting in that coffee shop down the street. If you take a peek at her mug, the non-dairy creamer is floating on top because she’s kind of engrossed already. Lost in a world of the author’s making. Sit down. She might give you a glare, as most girls who read do not like to be interrupted. Ask her if she likes the book.

Buy her another cup of coffee.

Let her know what you really think of Murakami. See if she got through the first chapter of Fellowship. Understand that if she says she understood James Joyce’s Ulysses she’s just saying that to sound intelligent. Ask her if she loves Alice or she would like to be Alice.

It’s easy to date a girl who reads. Give her books for her birthday, for Christmas and for anniversaries. Give her the gift of words, in poetry, in song. Give her Neruda, Pound, Sexton, Cummings. Let her know that you understand that words are love. Understand that she knows the difference between books and reality but by god, she’s going to try to make her life a little like her favorite book. It will never be your fault if she does.

She has to give it a shot somehow.

Lie to her. If she understands syntax, she will understand your need to lie. Behind words are other things: motivation, value, nuance, dialogue. It will not be the end of the world.

Fail her. Because a girl who reads knows that failure always leads up to the climax. Because girls who understand that all things will come to end. That you can always write a sequel. That you can begin again and again and still be the hero. That life is meant to have a villain or two.

Why be frightened of everything that you are not? Girls who read understand that people, like characters, develop. Except in the Twilightseries.

If you find a girl who reads, keep her close. When you find her up at 2 AM clutching a book to her chest and weeping, make her a cup of tea and hold her. You may lose her for a couple of hours but she will always come back to you. She’ll talk as if the characters in the book are real, because for a while, they always are.

You will propose on a hot air balloon. Or during a rock concert. Or very casually next time she’s sick. Over Skype.

You will smile so hard you will wonder why your heart hasn’t burst and bled out all over your chest yet. You will write the story of your lives, have kids with strange names and even stranger tastes. She will introduce your children to the Cat in the Hat and Aslan, maybe in the same day. You will walk the winters of your old age together and she will recite Keats under her breath while you shake the snow off your boots.

Date a girl who reads because you deserve it. You deserve a girl who can give you the most colorful life imaginable. If you can only give her monotony, and stale hours and half-baked proposals, then you’re better off alone. If you want the world and the worlds beyond it, date a girl who reads.

Or better yet, date a girl who writes.

-Rosemarie Urquico

Have a beautiful weekend,
Mon

<3

We Must Supply Our Own Light

2011-03-09T19:41:00.000-08:00

PLAYBOY: If life is so purposeless, do you feel that it’s worth living?

KUBRICK : “Yes, for those of us who manage somehow to cope with our mortality. The very meaninglessness of life forces man to create his own meaning. Children, of course, begin life with an untarnished sense of wonder, a capacity to experience total joy at something as simple as the greenness of a leaf; but as they grow older, the awareness of death and decay begins to impinge on their consciousness and subtly erode their joie de vivre, their idealism — and their assumption of immortality. As a child matures, he sees death and pain everywhere about him, and begins to lose faith in the ultimate goodness of man. But if he’s reasonably strong — and lucky — he can emerge from the twilight of the soul into a rebirth of life’s elan. Both because of and in spite of his awareness of the meaninglessness of life, he can forge a fresh sense of purpose and affirmation. he may not recapture the same pure sense of wonder he was born with, but he can shape something far more enduring ans sustaining. the most terrifying fact about the universe is not that it is hostile but that it is indifferent; but if we can come to terms with this indifference and accept the challenges of life within the boundaries of death — however mutable man may be able to make them — our existence as a species can have genuine meaning and fulfillment. However vast the darkness, we must supply our own light.”

Interviewed by Eric Nordern, Playboy (September 1968); later published in Stanley Kubrick: Interviews (2001)

And some music, which goes accordingly:

[No Title]

2011-02-17T19:23:00.000-08:00

When once you have tasted flight, you will forever walk the earth with your eyes turned skyward, for there you have been, and there you will always long to return. ~Leonardo Da Vinci

Berkeley, in a nutshell

2011-02-11T22:43:00.000-08:00

I began my day with a list of plans, a stratified set of people to see (and not to see) and a static schedule that was never meant to be tampered with.

But it was fucked and twisted and turned into perfection. That is perfection; this is bliss right now, in this very moment, at 10:45 at night. Here. In Berkeley. In this shabby ass room with a terrible mattress, a half assed view, three females in a room the size of a hamster cage.

And I don't mind at all. So why the hell have I been taking this experience for granted?

It has dawned on me that the world is full of so much love. Where does this love stem from, you may ask? A typical answer would simply be: "from the heart," which, surely, has some milage. However, it's more than that - it come from you. You need to love yourself before you can give your absolute self to anyone else: may it be a stranger, family member, friend, or lover. All of those individuals require the assurance that you have the capacity to love - and who better to love than yourself?

I set off on my journey today and stumbled upon a penny facing downward. Naturally, I flipped it right side up and hoped someone would glance at it, smile, and add a slight bounce to their step because of this one silly symbol. It's the little things in life that spark our love. It really is.

Soonafter, I snagged a paycheck larger than anticipated, dropped off a job application, was lectured about selflessness by a man who worked with Tibetan monks, found my equilibrium during Yoga, wrote a few shorts at a cafe, and experienced more love than ever thought conceivable amongst a bunch of familiar faces who still seemed the slightest bit foreign to me.

Now to backtrack!

While sipping my latte, I had a revelation and realized that though this Hallmark holiday is a load of shit, it is the perfect time for self growth. So I wrote, and wrote, and wrote some more. Why should we celebrate loving someone (or the world) only once a year? Why not make it a habit? Why not make it a daily routine, like eating? We all need food. We all need love and strive to be loved.

And then came the service, where I hummed and chanted, channeled a person's soul through the gates of their eyes, and became even more infatuated with humanity. I cannot put tonight into words. Impulse, maybe?

It all ended with a small jam led by the gentleman who was my "soulmate" for the night. And there was so much life and love spewing out of our bodies within that room.

The Beatles, in the distance!

"Hey Jude, don't make it bad
Take a sad song and make it better
Remember to let her under your skin
Then you begin to make it better"

and I scurry away, grab the tambourine, and we scream:

"better, better, better, better, better, oh!

Na na na, na-na na na
Na-na na na, hey Jude
Na na na, na-na na na
Na-na na na, hey Jude..."

Everyone's voice danced with the another and collected into a magnificent roar of passion. And I couldn't stop singing. And I loved it.

I loved everyone around me.

That's what love is, to me. Laughter, life, passion, happiness, serenity, curiosity, and the willingness to put yourself in the most vulnerable position so someone can take advantage of your raw and truest form.

Call me a fucking hippie. I don't care. Berkeley has done me wonders.

<3
Mon

Come As You Are

2011-02-09T11:22:00.000-08:00

Strolled back from class, tended to my caffeine addiction and then spent an hour listening to Nirvana. Not something I would have expected when I rolled out of bed this morning.

WHERE DO ALL THE ROWBOATS GO?

THE INTERVIEW WITH KURT COBAIN - A PLAY

(Kurt adjusting the volume. The only known photo of Kurt Cobain since 1994.)

{After a decade of no Nirvana and a whole lotta strange stories, I decided one night while listening to In Utero to look up Kurt Cobain. It wasn't that hard, he looked exactly the same since I last saw him on TV. So after showing me his collection of tea-bags, we sat down with his guitar, just to see what he thought of Nirvana and what he's been up to all this time...}

Kurt Cobain: No, there's plenty of Nirvana's...I think there still might be some pizza leftover if you want it. {Quickly getting up}

Carson Arnold: Oh, thanks, maybe later. Not sure how long you have to talk, if you've made other plans or something.

KC: No, no plans, we can talk. Now and then a few people have interviewed me since... '94? Yeah. Whenever I died. None of those guys from Rolling Stone have yet, they're all busy- I always give 'em a different story. Could you plug in that cord for me?

CA: ...What are we doing anyway?

KC: This old lamp broke and am replacing it with this one. I don't use any shades, I like the lights just to spread out.

CA: But you don't have any lights on.

KC: I was doing some music {throwing his shoes off}. When I first began playing in Aberdeen in this old barn, I'd borrow equipment from a friend, and we'd set the mics up on lamp-holders as stands and sing. I had an amp that was so burnt-out, there was no sound like it. When we were recording In Utero I'd try to sneak it back on "Scentless Apprentice". When you hear that sharp guitar screech-- that's it. I was fooling around with it before you came actually, trying to get that fuzz on "Territorial Pissings", which was really no more than me screaming through the pick-ups.

CA: Is it true you applied to work in a dog-kennel the week Nevermind was released?

KC: Heh, and I continued to, we went on world tour {Laughs, sitting down, rubbing a hand through his hair}.

CA: I was reading something back then that your guitar would be tuned in row to the first six letters of the alphabet.

KC: Eventually I changed. Butch Vig always cringed, I got suspicious of that guy. He drives around in a big car. Kris would actually tune all of his bass strings to B or something, and it'd triple the effect. I could just play power chords. Never felt the need to go beyond that..."Polly" was probably the hardest, when I think about it, especially electric. We never thought about any of this, though, it just came out. You know, if I were alive, I'd love to play again, as it was, and although people say the dead can revisit, well, that's just not true. {Picks up his guitar} I'm here.

CA: Oh? You can't swoop down and watch people? No special powers?

KC: No, and I like it here, no more chatter. I'm stuck in the space between each song, and that's true. When you listen to those seconds before "Heart Shaped Box", that's me {Begins playing the intro}. For the last ten years I've written "Something In The Way" two thousand times that I don't even remember the real version. I've turned it into a song about sleeping under bridges, eating coconuts, tuning my guitar. I'll sit here and do the whole MTV Unplugged concert front to back, and have recently gone back to playing the drums, but don't own any. You don't keep your royalties after you die. Sometimes I can hear things. In Francis here {rubbing the guitar}. I do a lot of feedback stuff, like I did with William Burroughs, and the amp will tell me certain things about rock music. Where it's at. It's been telling me lately that it ain't happening, that I wouldn't...like it. There's signs, too. You know those big sunglasses I wear in that photo, I accidentally crushed them the other day. {Setting the guitar on his lap and ruffling through his shirt}

CA: Is this what you do all day then?

KC: ...Well. It's kinda the same as it was before Nirvana. Actually reminds me of the winter while I was writing songs for Bleach. I had this girlfriend and used to crash at her place and we'd listen to The Beatles all night which...was really, really great {begins strumming "About A Girl"}. They say I use to shoot the windows of a bank with a bb gun, but I don't remember that. But yeah, today, I dunno, it's taken nearly ten years for my vocal chords to heal from singing "School" across the earth. For years, I had to drink honey and potato chips every morning. I don't play electric guitar, don't see the reason for it, play more acoustic stuff which is where we were kinda going. Like on In Utero, we were more and more shying away from the mainstream and doing kinda Ono Band-like acoustic stuff. At least that's how Dave {Grohl} described it. But I was a mess then. With "Pennyroyal Tea", I was trying so hard to bring across a happiness, but ended up all dreary. Anyway, most of those were written in like ten minutes while watching TV in a hotel room with Courtney.

CA: Speaking of, are you clean?

KC: {Scratching his arm} I am. I know I lied in other interviews years ago, but it's obviously different now. I'm dead, and it's hard to do heroin when you're dead, trust me. I don't know how to describe this either than a lonely afterlife, living out the songs I wrote while alive, sometimes with the same stomach pains. {Nodding his head} Those are gone for the most part. I love it how people used to say that was just an excuse...

CA:What do you feel about being compared to John Lennon?

KC: I didn't know I was...Lennon...Lennon was an entire different thing. I mean, it's not even on the same planet, really. When I was a kid I use to think about all that icon-stuff. I wanted to go down as, you know, John Lennon, but to me, I'm far from him. People know that when The Beatles first threw out their early tunes and went Sgt. Peppers, it was all over right there, it had reached its peak, and when it does that...it sees its entire horizon. Nirvana began to feel that. Me and Kris would exchange certain looks, even if I was slamming my head against an amp-- we'd give a look-- the crowd might feel it, too. What it all meant, though-- I dunno. I hate sounding...melodramatic, but I sometimes wonder what happen to all those kids in the front-row.

CA: I noticed when you sang that song for me earlier, that you still use the British accent which you played around with on In Utero, which always came out on "Radio Friendly Unit Shifter".

KC: I do? That song I just played was "If You Must", an old one off a Nirvana b-side that's out somewhere. B-sides and Other Rarities, I think. Actually, those recordings were some of the better stuff we did, just because they weren't produced...and all that. A lot of the songs had parts that would later bleed into a lot of the songs on Nevermind, which are so easy. {Chuckling} "Smells Like Teen Spirit" you can play with your thumb, except for the solo, which don't ask me to remember how to play. Ask The Melvins.

CA: You were telling me you listen to a lot of Howlin Wolf now. They just released that song "You Know You're Right", which reminded me of-

KC: Wait...they released that?

CA: Yeah, it's on a recent Greatest Hits, I'm not sure of the story behind it, but they made a video with a thousand Nirvana clips all happening at once.

KC: God. {Lights up a cigarette} I don't remember a lot of that song except it was recorded on the spur, I had been humming the verse for a few weeks. I think it was...I think it was suppose to sound more like Fugazi, but instead of being artsy, it was heavy and I never liked it. I always found it funny how we could fill an arena with choruses that just screamed, you know, "Yeah". A lot of those later songs were...uh, symbolical to what I think I was going through and what was happening in music at that point. The problem was, I didn't want people to know what I was feeling like, but we were so big that it undermined anything we (or I at least) believed in originally. I'll have to show you all the revisions of my so-called suicide-note, I have 'em all. See, to this day, I'm not sure why we became so big, and what hurts, is that I indulged in it. 'Nuff about me.

CA: Which isn't something the world would want to admit to. Especially since after you died it was all about you as a martyr, you as a myth, one more rocker who perished at 27.

KC: I heard that they published my journals recently as well as a few other things, which surprised me. Just in that they can only freely sell merchandise until after you're dead. Why I am looked upon as a martyr is ridiculous, I think. The girl who killed herself in her bathroom the following day is no more one than me. Maybe that's why I'm here-- for her. People are in love with the dead artist. When I think about it, it's kinda creepy that I'm on magazine covers still. Me, with a song like "Dumb". I mean, what do you feel?

CA: You're asking me? The one thing I can say about Nirvana is that you both...flowed and had some of the greater lyrics. No, hold on, I'm serious. Even it they were just four words or something, it totally described what was going through in a kid's head during that time that no book, movie, or person could really transmit, you know?

KC: ...{Leaning back} But bands that we came from, like Green River, Tad, or even Mudhoney, were just the same in their own signature. Seven Year Bitch could've easily exploded, or any number of the people that would hang out with us in club dressing rooms getting high.

CA: That movie-

KC: The fact- Oh sorry- {Plucks a chord and stops} The fact that we were commercial, for whatever reason (I guess it doesn't matter now), and that we had a hit lyric like, you know, Here we are now/ entertain us, was sort of a beginning and end to what we were built to be. Another Guns n' Roses or something. People were buying our records to hear that message, and at the same time, them purchasing it, was the same thing that was tearing it down. It's like when I appeared on Rolling Stone...with "Corporate Magazines Still Suck" drawn on my T-shirt, as much as it's true, looking back, it seems so...almost cliche, expected from a guy who's declared as a heroin-addict and making a million dollars, you know? The lyrics that you're talking about, yeah, came from an angst, a dramatic one. Having that and then suddenly put in a position where "bastard-child-becomes-a-celebrity", obviously isn't meant to succeed. I might have too much time to think about this, but that was the point. I wouldn't even be on the magazine if it were now.

CA: So you're saying anything that has a voice is exploited if it becomes famous.

KC: Watch a live show of "Rape Me". As soon as I hit those first chords, everyone starts jumping. No matter what I was singing about-- it could be anything-- everyone would start. As long as we were up there, it didn't matter. It would've been different if it were in someone's basement, but with MTV in front of me, I dunno, it didn't add up. People insist that my frustration was something else. It might've been, I don't know. Frankly, the whole heroin myth, as much as it's true, I think was a ploy to sell more records. But as of 1994, as a star with a big house and my mom with a car, this was it. {Leaning back lightly strumming}

CA: Thus: Here we are now/entertain us.

KC: And that was written long before Nirvana even became successful. We were playing that song in small clubs and nobody thought it meant much, you know? That's when we idolized all the new-wave punk stuff, like Sonic Youth. I was listening to Soundgarden's debut-- are they still together?

CA: No, broke up long ago. Pearl Jam cut off all their hair, too, and Circus magazine wouldn't leave you alone until about '99.

KC: I haven't listened to any of that music for a while now. I still like The Raincoats. I did hear about Courtney's affair with Hollywood, which I think is funny.

CA: What's your feelings about her fighting the whole legal battle between Kris and Dave? Should Nirvana's unreleased material be released, despite what legal documents you signed?

KC: Well...this is what I mean. Whatever I signed back then was in the heat of the moment-- I didn't trust a lot of things, and had faith in Courtney, despite whatever fucked up stuff she was doing as well. (Please don't ask me if she was with Billy Corgan, because I don't know nor care.) Today...it's a combination of...death, what choices Courtney's made since, and however bad the industry is hurting. All rolled into one. {Sets the guitar down} So obviously they point more to be released than not, I say. But it depends also. But you know, I think about more things than this.

CA: For instance?

KC: {Pause} Uhh, if I never bumped in Sub-pop, for one, I'd probably be in Seattle painting or something. That's what I always loved anyway. A lot of the nonsense lyrics that I wrote-- which came to be analyzed as some great importance to rock music-- came from that sorta abstraction I liked in painting. I could lie and say, you know, everything off Insecticide was a punk-rock testimony and we knew exactly what we were doing...in advance... but we didn't-- we were just winging it. {Coughing} I could never really see us doing that today, though.

CA: That's the thing. To me, as a kid, the industry's incredibly boring. Not that it ever wasn't, yet it seems like, yeah, you may play music, but all the surroundings seem empty. It's all about going in, getting your feed, coming home.

KC: See, I remember playing a show once in Rome and this kid came back stage and said something about how he was grateful we were huge because at least he didn't have to suffer through all the hair-band eighties. It was one of the best things I heard and didn't make me feel ashamed to have left all my friends back in Seattle for...popularity, not that I did, but at 24 and homeless-- what else? Because all that eighties stuff was what we and anybody like us were reacting against. We might not have known it then, but it was an evolution. When we recorded In Utero I began to see more and more people taking advantage of the sound, which is why I hated Pearl Jam at first-- everything became "grunge" overnight. It was all labeled. Like playing at the Reading Festival-- just a mass venue. Somehow they got the notion...that all the eighties pop was going nowhere and decided to dig out the underground as their next commodity. Alice In Chains and so forth. I just wanted to play punk-rock without all this.

CA: You sound as though you never liked Nirvana, never even enjoyed a moment of it.

KC: {Tuning his guitar now} Well, the beginning were the best days. On tour three hundred nights a year, there wasn't a communication between any of us, whereas playing at parties and sleeping in your car was totally different. Now that I think of it {staring to the right}, if we were to have kept Chad Channing as our drummer on Bleach...none of this might have happened.

CA: Your death?

KC: Everything. Stardom, attention, careers. For all I know, Nirvana's albums would be in a discount bin and I'd be staring at them on lunch-hour.

CA: Would this be more appropriate?

KC: I guess, but then I remember I had two other members who had their own pursuits. As you can see Dave went off and did his own thing and is hard to believe he's the same guy that'd be behind me, you know, playing "Come As You Are", which is a song I once heard a wedding-band play nearly better than us. As far as Kris goes...I mean, so much has been talked about the band, it's hard to relate to anybody who've only known us through the photos they've seen, you know?

CA: Earlier on you said you gave people a different story when they interview you. Is this about your death?

KC: My death was quick, yeah. I don't remember much of it. {Lights up another cigarette}

CA: Right. But there's a lot of speculation around it. Some say you were murdered. That Courtney possibly had something to do with it.

KC: You mean that documentary that Nick Broomfield did? Naw, that wasn't accurate, to tell you the truth. (Can you hand me that ash-tray?) Most of the suspects he interviewed were all these whack-outs from a few Seattle bands that were around us. Real burn-outs. I mean, I wouldn't doubt if she {Courtney} was trying to put a price on my head or anything-- I read Jimi Hendrix once sought out a hit-man. But...you know. I've given a few versions of the story to a few people who ask. There's the one that I shot myself with my toe, which is what most people believe. There's one that, yeah, Courtney did me in. There's also one that fans broke in and killed me, maybe those homophobes who bullied me in school, even. One that Billy Corgan did the job in a jealous rage for Courtney. It'd make sense-- that lyric of his: May the king of gloom be forever doomed. So...you never know which one to believe. If you watch the Unplugged concert everything was pained. You might not see it but I totally do. I wanted to jump over Pat Smear midway and run for it. {Begins gently playing George Harrison's "My Sweet Lord"}

CA: It sounds as though you don't want people to find out. That you want the myth, Kurt. Does it keep selling your records?

KC: {Stops playing} Why do I care if it keeps selling records? I'm dead. I don't want people to know what actually happened that night, frankly, because everyone's chosen to interpret it in their own way. Let 'em do it, I'm dead, you found me, others have, too. Why a reason? I left my daughter, but...{Sighing} I loved music in a odd way, that most normal people couldn't relate to, or maybe they could and that's why Nirvana made such a sudden impact. And now we're just another poster on the wall. {Long pause} You hear this one?

{Kurt begins playing "All Apologies" in a yodeling version I've never heard before. It took me a minute to remember how to get back home, and after the song ended, he pointed in the direction I came from. Walking, I turned around to ask another question, but he wasn't there. And so I waved and moved on.}

--Carson Arnold

Some Poe[try]

2011-02-02T00:33:00.000-08:00

Lately, I have been crashing a few hours before the sun pulls away night's blanket... Why? Because I cannot savor literature unless I am burnt-out, strung-out and craving for substance. Thus, the result is an exhausted me, in front of an electronic pandora's box.

Oh, technology.

So here's to Edgar Allan Poe, a favorite of mine, and hopefully someone you can grow to appreciate as well.

A Dream Within A Dream

by Edgar Allan Poe
(published 1850)

Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow --
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.

I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand --
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep -- while I weep!
O God! can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?

- Mon

My life up north

2011-01-31T13:28:00.000-08:00

is consumed by this organization.

And I don't regret any bit of it.

Check out all of these beautiful people: here!

Jibber jabber down the ladder

2011-01-26T19:49:00.000-08:00

...

and all she did was fall, fall down the steps, back to the beginning.

With all of the experience, bruises and memories of the time she once was at the top,
only to be back doing the same monotonous routine, from the bottom.

Bottom or top?
Top or bottom?

What's your preference?

-Mon

[Berlin]

[City Unknown]

[Jose Rivas]

[Jose Rivas]

[Jose Rivas]

[joints...]

[and trips?]

[drugs]

[justice]

[contemplation]

[or simply mere relaxation?]

Too many options.

Impulse

2011-01-19T21:39:00.000-08:00

Berlin in May.

I repeat, I just bought a ticket to Berlin in May.

-Mon

Photos, because sometimes you don't need words...

2011-01-16T13:47:00.000-08:00

[?]

[NYC, Shark Toof]

[Eugene Plotnikov]

[Dennis McNett]

[Tattoo, Know Hope]

[New Orleans, Black Label Bicycle Club]

[Lunar Eclipse, 2011]

[Lunar Eclipse]

[Haiti, 1 year after the earthquake]

[India, Marriage]

[Cafe in ?]

C'est la vie... Berkeley bound, eh?

Los Angeles, you are slowly uncovering different beautiful aspects of your existence. Soon, we will rendezvous again; but, until then, I will be northbound.

-Mon

2011-01-15T15:39:00.000-08:00

... and just like that,
the sun sets and greets the other side of the world,
the moon takes the spotlight and emanates its radiance,
and I pack my bags, ready to keep on with this willy thing called life.

With no direction
maybe a path or two

and a whole lot of curiosity.

It may have killed the cat, but there's more to this feline.

-Mon

Pixies: Where is My Mind?

2011-01-11T08:47:00.000-08:00

Insignificance and little voices -
everywhere, talking up a storm.

Look! A dinner table!
There goes the wine, flying across the way, performing a ballet of sorts before splattering all over the gentlemen, as if Jack the Ripper returned to experiment with the other gender.

More wine, more food, more voices.

Debauchery ensues, with every character making a mess out of my mind. No matter, they can clean it up? Wishful thinking...

But there goes more wine! What the fuck are they doing? Why are they doing this?

My lack of control has never been more evident. All emotions pervade the area and there is still nothing I can do about it. So I stand there, in complete silence, and watch. I try to understand the different actions and different decisions these little shits decide to make. Watching and waiting with nothing to say...

Then, everyone just stops and a blanket of silence covers the room. Not a peep executed; all eyes resembling a deer gawking at a vehicle before death. People stand up, straighten their clothes, wipe their stains, and exit the room.

-x-x-x-

And that's the best way I can describe what happens when my mind runs a mile a minute and attempts to process everything that has gone on, is going on, and will go on. A messy scene with every figment basking for the limelight. Yet, when one catches my attention, another motherfucker is already on a table, stripping his clothes off and causing the initial, piece of shit, to become insignificant.

However, it only takes a second to take a deep breath and stop it all - stop thinking completely. Then, you don't single one out, but rather collectively ignore the whole scene. No more limelight, just calmness.

Just serenity.

[A droplet drips off of the table]

...did they stop because there was no more wine?

I hear a roar outside of my door. Chanting.
Here they come, with a case, and with a certain kind of passion in their eyes that might eat me alive.

Or merely drink me to sleep?

Cheers!
-Mon

Rants and Politics

2011-01-04T12:29:00.000-08:00

Stationed at Starbucks, the same one that I had spent countless nights, on [x], in preparation for AP exams. It's funny how things have the potential to change; now, instead of pulling my hair out about government and the like, I am doing busy work and planning for the new semester.

It almost makes me feel like all of that studying was pointless. It taught me nothing but to finish what I started. Which, I suppose in retrospect, is a good habit to adopt, but you can learn it in a far better manner.

My rant will end there.

As for more important things! Now with the new year buzzing in, the Food Collective is becoming a reality once more. For anyone who is mildly interested in food politics and whatnot, take a peak at these two links that Yassi sent over to me.

and

http://www.freshthemovie.com/

There's something about these topics that draws me in - not too sure what yet, but I know there's something fascinating about this movement.

-Mon

Delightful Months To Come

2011-01-02T02:05:00.000-08:00

A day late, but equally as thankful.

I met some beautiful souls in 2010 and had some of the most memorable times as well. Here's to 2011 - to more beautiful people and more uncanny experiences.

Cheers to a New Year.

Life is but a garden, a garden of earthly delights...

-Mon

Endless Thoughts

2010-12-19T20:42:00.000-08:00

So i've been back in Los Angeles since Thursday night and I have already encountered certain circumstances that are worth sharing whereas others that are better left looming in the back of my mind. Why is that? You wouldn't want to know...

Looking back on this past semester at Berkeley, I have learned far more than I had anticipated; from socializing to academia. It all just took a deep, piercing bite into me, chewed me for a second, and then spit me out - wounded, a bit, but prepared for the next moment of desire. For some people it strikes them over the course of a few weeks, and they slowly progress in understanding what the fuck has been savoring them. Others, more aloof, go about their daily life attempting to take everything at face value, and "voilà," an incisor tears your heart in two. No one left to sew it back together other than yourself. Maybe you don't have a heart? Well, shit, then maybe your brain was just chewed out. Regardless, it was unexpected.

I have met some beautiful people, taken on some inspiring responsibilities and challenged myself to the point of near insanity. I don't regret anything.

-x-x-x-

So, I packed all of my belongings within a rather large backpack and waited for my future to roll by right in front of me. I kept asking myself "what the fuck were you thinking" and then would curb those negative thoughts with "this is all an experience." It was as if yin and yang had been left dormant within my soul and they had all of a sudden come back to life, and my optimism was being tested by fear and doubt. No matter - fortunately yang took my future by the stronghold and soon enough I was sitting in a car, yoga mat between my legs, backpack piled in the trunk, and smile gleaming across my face in a car of strangers.

"No turning back now..." I thought.

And I wouldn't have turned back even if I could. The first brief conversation that blossomed after I entered the vehicle set off a sense of reassurance and comfort; this was an environment that I felt safe in. Sure, I was going to be in this car for six hours with people whom I possibly shared no interests with, but it did not matter anymore. My overanalyzing nature was better left ludicrous...

Conversations slowly grew, personalities began to flourish, auras began emanating through each person's soul as we all shared this collective journey to the southern part of our "home."

I don't want to get into details because some things are better left said in person or merely kept within ourselves, but this 6 hour experience was something at a loss for words. As I wrote on a spare sheet of paper sprawled near my desk, the four of us were asking questions about the world, mankind, things, nonsense, everything. But, the difference between what happened in that strange vehicle on that strange night with those strange people was we were not only asking questions, but trying to find answers.

Trying to find answers to the unanswerable.

We came up to so many varying conclusions and couldn't help but keep talking - keep asking more questions and looking for more answers.

A lot of things that we went over that day stuck with me... much like the conversations I have had with a few people back here, in Los Angeles. I can't pick a favorite quote nor favorite question. I'll simply leave one that I still remember to the best of my abilities:

"Have you ever stopped and wondered about how humanity either questions everything or remains silent? You have philosophy, where you have questions with no answers. You have religion, where you have answers that you can't question. Then, you have science, where you have questions and answers but they are all subject to further questions and answers."
"So we're all just going in circles?"
"Long, vicious, circles in an attempt to get to the middle which we call 'the meaning of life.'"

I came back to L.A that day with a new perspective - for better of for worse, but different nonetheless.

-mon

2010-12-16T08:38:00.001-08:00

Well I'll be damned.

Leaving for L.A in 3 hours...

2010-12-12T10:35:00.001-08:00

Everything is more complicated than you think. You only see a tenth of what is true. There are a million little strings attached to every choice you make; you can destroy your life every time you choose. But maybe you won’t know for twenty years. And you may never ever trace it to its source. And you only get one chance to play it out. Just try and figure out your own divorce. And they say there is no fate, but there is: it’s what you create. And even though the world goes on for eons and eons, you are only here for a fraction of a fraction of a second. Most of your time is spent being dead or not yet born. But while alive, you wait in vain, wasting years, for a phone call or a letter or a look from someone or something to make it all right. And it never comes or it seems to but it doesn’t really. And so you spend your time in vague regret or vaguer hope that something good will come along. Something to make you feel connected, something to make you feel whole, something to make you feel loved. And the truth is I feel so angry, and the truth is I feel so fucking sad, and the truth is I’ve felt so fucking hurt for so fucking long and for just as long I’ve been pretending I’m OK, just to get along, just for, I don’t know why, maybe because no one wants to hear about my misery, because they have their own. Well, fuck everybody. Amen.
Synecdoche, New York
(written and directed by Charlie Kaufman)

2010-12-11T21:50:00.001-08:00

I want to maximize the 24 hours in my day. Starting ... now.

-Mon

Coachella 2011 lineup

2010-12-10T22:06:00.001-08:00

Count me in!
-chortle-

-Mon

Current Location: Main Stacks

2010-12-06T20:00:00.000-08:00

Something about being underground, in a library, with no windows...

not my favorite ambiance.

Dead silence, except for my coughs here and there - or a sniffle.

Such a disconcerting lifestyle; if only for a week's time.

-Mon

Silly World

2010-12-05T21:45:00.001-08:00

... imagine a puddle waking up one morning and thinking, 'This is an interesting world I find myself in - an interesting hole I find myself in - fits me rather neatly, doesn't it? In fact it fits me staggeringly well, must have been made to have me in it!' This is such a powerful idea that as the sun rises in the sky and the air heats up and as, gradually, the puddle gets smaller and smaller, it's still frantically hanging on to the notion that everything's going to be alright, because this world was meant to have him in it, was built to have him in it; so the moment he disappears catches him rather by surprise. Douglas Adams

Don't be so foolish to think that this world was made for you - there are billions of people, here, sharing this earth.

Billions of people sharing this collection of experiences.

So, stop dwelling in your puddle of thoughts because just like you had no say of if you wanted in this world, means you have no say when you get out.

Well, you somewhat do, but that sort of a route is morbid... and a cop out.

-Mon

Dali

2010-11-30T19:50:00.000-08:00

Some days I feel so alive and human...

and others, I pretend to be.

Maybe it's the sickness talking; or, this may be my honesty. I need a vacation.

-Mon

New York Times: Focus

2010-11-28T12:51:00.000-08:00

Focus!

Because, a mind that wanders is not a wise mind at all...

FINDINGS
When the Mind Wanders, Happiness Also Strays
By JOHN TIERNEY
Published: November 15, 2010

A quick experiment. Before proceeding to the next paragraph, let your mind wander wherever it wants to go. Close your eyes for a few seconds, starting ... now.

And now, welcome back for the hypothesis of our experiment: Wherever your mind went — the South Seas, your job, your lunch, your unpaid bills — that daydreaming is not likely to make you as happy as focusing intensely on the rest of this column will.

I’m not sure I believe this prediction, but I can assure you it is based on an enormous amount of daydreaming cataloged in the current issue of Science. Using an iPhone app called trackyourhappiness, psychologists at Harvard contacted people around the world at random intervals to ask how they were feeling, what they were doing and what they were thinking.

The least surprising finding, based on a quarter-million responses from more than 2,200 people, was that the happiest people in the world were the ones in the midst of enjoying sex. Or at least they were enjoying it until the iPhone interrupted.

The researchers are not sure how many of them stopped to pick up the phone and how many waited until afterward to respond. Nor, unfortunately, is there any way to gauge what thoughts — happy, unhappy, murderous — went through their partners’ minds when they tried to resume.

When asked to rate their feelings on a scale of 0 to 100, with 100 being “very good,” the people having sex gave an average rating of 90. That was a good 15 points higher than the next-best activity, exercising, which was followed closely by conversation, listening to music, taking a walk, eating, praying and meditating, cooking, shopping, taking care of one’s children and reading. Near the bottom of the list were personal grooming, commuting and working.

When asked their thoughts, the people in flagrante were models of concentration: only 10 percent of the time did their thoughts stray from their endeavors. But when people were doing anything else, their minds wandered at least 30 percent of the time, and as much as 65 percent of the time (recorded during moments of personal grooming, clearly a less than scintillating enterprise).

On average throughout all the quarter-million responses, minds were wandering 47 percent of the time. That figure surprised the researchers, Matthew Killingsworth and Daniel Gilbert.

“I find it kind of weird now to look down a crowded street and realize that half the people aren’t really there,” Dr. Gilbert says.

You might suppose that if people’s minds wander while they’re having fun, then those stray thoughts are liable to be about something pleasant — and that was indeed the case with those happy campers having sex. But for the other 99.5 percent of the people, there was no correlation between the joy of the activity and the pleasantness of their thoughts.

“Even if you’re doing something that’s really enjoyable,” Mr. Killingsworth says, “that doesn’t seem to protect against negative thoughts. The rate of mind-wandering is lower for more enjoyable activities, but when people wander they are just as likely to wander toward negative thoughts.”

Whatever people were doing, whether it was having sex or reading or shopping, they tended to be happier if they focused on the activity instead of thinking about something else. In fact, whether and where their minds wandered was a better predictor of happiness than what they were doing.

“If you ask people to imagine winning the lottery,” Dr. Gilbert says, “they typically talk about the things they would do — ‘I’d go to Italy, I’d buy a boat, I’d lay on the beach’ — and they rarely mention the things they would think. But our data suggest that the location of the body is much less important than the location of the mind, and that the former has surprisingly little influence on the latter. The heart goes where the head takes it, and neither cares much about the whereabouts of the feet.”

Still, even if people are less happy when their minds wander, which causes which? Could the mind-wandering be a consequence rather than a cause of unhappiness?

To investigate cause and effect, the Harvard psychologists compared each person’s moods and thoughts as the day went on. They found that if someone’s mind wandered at, say, 10 in the morning, then at 10:15 that person was likely to be less happy than at 10 , perhaps because of those stray thoughts. But if people were in a bad mood at 10, they weren’t more likely to be worrying or daydreaming at 10:15.

“We see evidence for mind-wandering causing unhappiness, but no evidence for unhappiness causing mind-wandering,” Mr. Killingsworth says.

This result may disappoint daydreamers, but it’s in keeping with the religious and philosophical admonitions to “Be Here Now,” as the yogi Ram Dass titled his 1971 book. The phrase later became the title of a George Harrison song warning that “a mind that likes to wander ’round the corner is an unwise mind.”

What psychologists call “flow” — immersing your mind fully in activity — has long been advocated by nonpsychologists. “Life is not long,” Samuel Johnson said, “and too much of it must not pass in idle deliberation how it shall be spent.” Henry Ford was more blunt: “Idleness warps the mind.” The iPhone results jibe nicely with one of the favorite sayings of William F. Buckley Jr.: “Industry is the enemy of melancholy.”

Alternatively, you could interpret the iPhone data as support for the philosophical dictum of Bobby McFerrin: “Don’t worry, be happy.” The unhappiness produced by mind-wandering was largely a result of the episodes involving “unpleasant” topics. Such stray thoughts made people more miserable than commuting or working or any other activity.

But the people having stray thoughts on “neutral” topics ranked only a little below the overall average in happiness. And the ones daydreaming about “pleasant” topics were actually a bit above the average, although not quite as happy as the people whose minds were not wandering.

There are times, of course, when unpleasant thoughts are the most useful thoughts. “Happiness in the moment is not the only reason to do something,” says Jonathan Schooler, a psychologist at the University of California, Santa Barbara. His research has shown that mind-wandering can lead people to creative solutions of problems, which could make them happier in the long term.

Over the several months of the iPhone study, though, the more frequent mind-wanderers remained less happy than the rest, and the moral — at least for the short-term — seems to be: you stray, you pay. So if you’ve been able to stay focused to the end of this column, perhaps you’re happier than when you daydreamed at the beginning. If not, you can go back to daydreaming starting...now.

Or you could try focusing on something else that is now, at long last, scientifically guaranteed to improve your mood. Just make sure you turn the phone off.

Northside, oh Northside

2010-11-18T13:54:00.001-08:00

We are not special. We are not crap or trash, either. We just are. We just are, and what happens just happens.
—Chuck Palahniuk

Hamlet, you will be the death of me.

Ashley arrives today! This weekend is going to be one hell-of-a-riot.

-x-x-x-

For anyone in Berkeley reading this blog, if you're getting sick of Southside trek over to Northside. Brewed Awakening is a quaint little coffee shop that seems to attract plenty of EECs students as well as the co-op residents. I find this atmosphere far better than Strada and the coffee is definitely a step up. The price point is a little expensive, but this is coming from a girl who needs her soy latte. There are great lulls after 2 p.m where you can get serious stuff done and if you're not into working, most people I have run into here have had great insight and enjoy a short chat.

Ohhh, Berkeley.

-Mon

Mid-November

2010-11-15T08:40:00.000-08:00

It's mid-November here and the weather has still remained at a phenomenal 75 degrees in northern California. The sun is out, basking with an inviting smile that prevents anyone from a negative outlook (or, well, almost anyone). The semester is seemingly winding down to a close and I can honestly say this school is kicking my ass - totally manageable, don't get me wrong, but kicking my ass nonetheless. A lot has happened in this small amount of time and I feel that a month from now, when I return to southern California, many things will just be noted as the past rather than the potential future.

There is something up here, and I cannot particularly put my finger on it, that really makes me feel fantastic. It may be the curriculum, it may be my weekend rendezvous, it may be new yoga ventures and gym hopping, or, simply, just something in the air. Oh, the people here are amazing too. So, so, so amazing.

Not until Saturday night, when I was walking back with my roommate did I realize how thankful I am to be here, right where I am. I worked my ass off and slaved for three years, goofed off for one, and now I'm here, amongst thousands of other students who had the same fate as I. Some may become doctors, some lawyers, others drop outs, and plenty more have yet to still determine their path. Yet, every student here has something about them, a little glimmer in their eyes - a sense of belonging, perhaps?

Now that I've picked up on reading for pleasure again the little hamster in my brain has finally started up again. He's running, faster than ever before, and my thirst for creativity is being countered by my hunger for knowledge. I would have never thought that this would be the never-ending brawl that would ensue within my thoughts; to be creative, or to focus on knowledge? Surely, they coincide oftentimes, but you always put a focus on one or the other. One, is always (and unfortunately) a priority.

I'm rambling. I know. I jut haven't been carrying my journal around and have therefore come to updating my blog instead.

The sun is out and shining. I have two research papers due, a midterm on Wednesday, and a quiz as well - but, it's all okay, because the sun is out and shining.

“To live for some future goal is shallow. It's the sides of the mountain that sustain life, not the top.”
Robert M. Pirsig quote

Oh, am I living.

-x-x-x-

&, before i'm off, Id like to share this:

"I keep thinking about something you said.

Something I said?

Yeah. About how you often feel like you're observing your life from the perspective of an old woman about to die. You remember that?

Yeah. I still feel that way sometimes. Like I'm looking back on my life. Like my waking life is her memories.

Exactly. I heard that Tim Leary said as he was dying that he was looking forward to the moment when his body was dead but his brain was still alive. You know they say that there's still six to twelve minutes of brain activity after everything else is shutdown. And a second of dream consciousness, right, well, that's infinitely longer than a waking second. You know what I'm saying?

Oh, yeah, definitely. For example, I wake up and it is 10:12, and then I go back to sleep and I have those long, intricate, beautiful dreams that seem to last for hours, and then I wake up and it's ... 10:13.

Yeah, exactly. So then six to twelve minutes of brain activity, I mean, that could be your whole life. I mean, you are that woman looking back over everything.

Okay, so what if I am? Then what would you be in all that?

Whatever I am right now. I mean, yeah, maybe I only exist in your mind. I'm still just as real as anything else.

Yeah. I've been thinking also about something you said.

What's that?

Just about reincarnation and where all the new souls come from over time. Everybody always say that they've been the reincarnation of Cleopatra or Alexander the Great. I always want to tell them they were probably some dumb **** like everybody else. I mean, it's impossible. Think about it. The world population has doubled in the past 40 years, right? So if you really believe in that ego thing of one eternal soul, then you have only 50% chance of your soul being over 40. And for it to be over 150 years old, then it's only one out of six.

Right, so what are you saying? That reincarnation doesn't exist, or that we're all young souls like where half of us are first round humans?

No, no. What I'm trying to say is that somehow I believe reincarnation is just a - a poetic expression of what collective memory really is. There was this article by this biochemist that I read not long ago, and he was talking about how when a member of our species is born, it has a billion years of memory to draw on. And this is where we inherit our instincts.

I like that. It's like there's this whole telepathic thing going on that we're all a part of, whether we're conscious of it or not. That would explain why there are all these, you know, seemingly spontaneous, worldwide, innovative leaps in science, in the arts. You know, like the same results poppin' up everywhere independent of each other. Some guy on a computer, he figures something out, and then almost simultaneously a bunch of other people all over the world figure out the same thing. They did this study. They isolated a group of people over time, and they monitored their abilities at crossword puzzles, right, in relation to the general population. And they secretly gave them a day-old crossword, one that had already been answered by thousands of other people, right. And their scores went up dramatically, like 20 percent. So it's like once the answers are out there, people can pick up on 'em. It's like we're all telepathically sharing our experiences."

-Mon

Pablo Honey

2010-11-09T13:03:00.000-08:00

Oh oh, Pablo Honey.

Pull me through these research papers...

"Deessstiny, Destiny protect me from the world
Deessstiny, hold my hand protect me from the world

Here we are, with our running and confusion
And I don't see no confusion anywhere

And if the world does turn, and if London burns
I'll be standing on the beach with my guitar
I want to be in a band, when I get to heaven
Anyone can play guitar
And they won't be a nothing anymore

Growwww my hair, Grow my hair I am Jim Morrison
Growwww my hair, I wannabe wannabe wannabe Jim Morrison

Here we are with our running and confusion
And I don't see no confusion anywhere

And if the world does turn, and if London burns
I'll be standing on a beach with my guitar
I want to be in a band, when I get to heaven
Anyone can play guitar
And they won't be a nothing anymore"

-Mon

Saturday Nights

2010-11-07T14:46:00.001-08:00

Rolled a j and set out for the night, iced soy latte in one hand and a ball of energy in the other.

"Hey, gorgeous, come stand with us - we'll show you a good time."

Strangers are peculiar individuals. On the one hand, they are creepy as can be, surreptitiously crouching at the most unexpected of places; however, they are also human beings, making "friends" in the most peculiar of manners. Regardless, there was no way in hell I would be caught dead with the two "gentlemen" who offered me a good time (with a forty).

So I set out alone, because sometimes that's the best way to really experience things.

It wasn't until the sitar began reverberating through my body, until that sweet sound entered my ears, that my hips began rolling back and forth to this unheard of rhythm. Beat poetry.

Beats.

The crowd was wild with energy. Every few minutes a puff of smoke would come my way, only to enjoy the sweet scent of marijuana. A collective enjoyment, across the crowd. The crowd was a cloud of smoke. Puff-puff; passsss. It was swaying back and forth, to the beats. Beat poetry.

A goooooooooooood time.

And those lights! Oh, the lights were spectacular. Every emotional lyric resulted in a new color and a new texture. Yes! There were textures. At one point, the crowd was just a mass tide, swaying back and forth. No longer a cloud of marijuana smoke, but a ripple in the water. The whole crowd was one - a collective experience. But, that's a given (a Gibbons?). No, a given.

So, I lit my joint, respectively, to enrich my experience. All I could do was laugh. Giggle, chortle, chuckle.

Was this really happening?

And it was. Soon enough a wink came my way. I swam through the crowd. New people. New experiences.

"Hello, my name is Chazzzzzzz." She looks at me, intently, with beautiful blue orbs that embrace childish frivolity in a gorgeous mid-forties body. You are as young as you want to be.

So we danced, Chaz and I, as the winker stayed next to me.

Another puff of smoke!

Two girls, to the right, dressed up as new-age hippies smoking from a miniature piece, passing the pipe around. A sense of community! I laugh again, because Chaz and I are dancing and the new-age hippies are asking the whole crowd to smoke. The cute interracial couple takes a hit, and they keep dancing. But their dance is a little different than mine, or his, or hers. You could see their chemistry emanating out of their souls.

Bass drum. Oh the fucking bass drum.

With every hit of the bass drum my hips kept swaying. Michelle and Phil introduce themselves, the ones whose chemistry is remarkable. Another hit? Why not!

Of the bass drum, of course. Or the pipe? I forget. They all seem interchangeable.

So Phil, Chaz, Nicole, Michelle, Tim, Noy, and even more strangers are in a circle. Dancing and enjoying the rhythms. The crowd is a wave of movement as much as it is a wave of emotion. A collection of strangers, who have all come together in hopes of having a good time. Which we were. We were, oh oh oh.

Hands on my hips! More strangers. More love. More dancing. Ohhh the beats.

Rasp, sass. Vocals.

Everything was so smooth: the music and the movement. Who the fuck is this guy? More hands on my hips.
[I said, who the fuck is this guy?]

My hands in the air, swaying to the synth. Heads bobbing to the bass.

Another hit - I swear it's the last!

But I feel like nothing really "hit" me. Just an experience. Not stoned, but aware. Open.

And, the colors slowly drift away and the tide rolls out. It is a crowd of individuals again. No more smoke. No more music. Simply a batch of strangers, at the same place at the same time, ready to go about the rest of their night.

It's funny, you have this great experience and share it with hundreds of people, but rather than taking that all into perspective you run back into your schedule. Places to be; things to do.

Just aware, and open. I walked the streets of Berkeley to my ladies and we, too, went about the rest of our night (which will not be disclosed).

Live music is something truly phenomenal. Strangers are friends in the making. And, the words of that lovely lady, from earlier in the night whose sass emphasized the intensity of the rap, stayed with me...

"we must turn insanity into humanity."

And that is what we did, as a crowd, before we went about our Saturday night schedules. Hu-man-i-ty !

It was time to enjoy the rest of the night. Insane strangers are just friends in the making of humanity.

-Mon

Words from the wise

2010-11-03T13:20:00.000-07:00

I have a low key crush on my philosophy professor, regardless of his age.

&, I am not the only one!

back to work, but I felt like sharing that quote.

-Mon

2010-11-01T09:09:00.000-07:00

I sat thinking how terribly sad it was that people are made in such a way that they get used to something as incredible as living. One day we suddenly take the fact that we exist for granted - and then, yes, then we don’t think about it anymore until we are about to leave the world again.
—Jostein Gaarder, The Solitaire Mystery

Well, there's a thought.

-x-x-x-
November is finally here! I had one hell of a weekend and need a fresh start.

One hell of a fucking weekend.

-Mon

The World As I See It : Albert Einstein

2010-10-22T11:16:00.000-07:00

"How strange is the lot of us mortals! Each of us is here for a brief sojourn; for what purpose he knows not, though he sometimes thinks he senses it. But without deeper reflection one knows from daily life that one exists for other people -- first of all for those upon whose smiles and well-being our own happiness is wholly dependent, and then for the many, unknown to us, to whose destinies we are bound by the ties of sympathy. A hundred times every day I remind myself that my inner and outer life are based on the labors of other men, living and dead, and that I must exert myself in order to give in the same measure as I have received and am still receiving...

"I have never looked upon ease and happiness as ends in themselves -- this critical basis I call the ideal of a pigsty. The ideals that have lighted my way, and time after time have given me new courage to face life cheerfully, have been Kindness, Beauty, and Truth. Without the sense of kinship with men of like mind, without the occupation with the objective world, the eternally unattainable in the field of art and scientific endeavors, life would have seemed empty to me. The trite objects of human efforts -- possessions, outward success, luxury -- have always seemed to me contemptible.

"My passionate sense of social justice and social responsibility has always contrasted oddly with my pronounced lack of need for direct contact with other human beings and human communities. I am truly a 'lone traveler' and have never belonged to my country, my home, my friends, or even my immediate family, with my whole heart; in the face of all these ties, I have never lost a sense of distance and a need for solitude..."

"My political ideal is democracy. Let every man be respected as an individual and no man idolized. It is an irony of fate that I myself have been the recipient of excessive admiration and reverence from my fellow-beings, through no fault, and no merit, of my own. The cause of this may well be the desire, unattainable for many, to understand the few ideas to which I have with my feeble powers attained through ceaseless struggle. I am quite aware that for any organization to reach its goals, one man must do the thinking and directing and generally bear the responsibility. But the led must not be coerced, they must be able to choose their leader. In my opinion, an autocratic system of coercion soon degenerates; force attracts men of low morality... The really valuable thing in the pageant of human life seems to me not the political state, but the creative, sentient individual, the personality; it alone creates the noble and the sublime, while the herd as such remains dull in thought and dull in feeling.
"This topic brings me to that worst outcrop of herd life, the military system, which I abhor... This plague-spot of civilization ought to be abolished with all possible speed. Heroism on command, senseless violence, and all the loathsome nonsense that goes by the name of patriotism -- how passionately I hate them!

"The most beautiful experience we can have is the mysterious. It is the fundamental emotion that stands at the cradle of true art and true science. Whoever does not know it and can no longer wonder, no longer marvel, is as good as dead, and his eyes are dimmed. It was the experience of mystery -- even if mixed with fear -- that engendered religion. A knowledge of the existence of something we cannot penetrate, our perceptions of the profoundest reason and the most radiant beauty, which only in their most primitive forms are accessible to our minds: it is this knowledge and this emotion that constitute true religiosity. In this sense, and only this sense, I am a deeply religious man... I am satisfied with the mystery of life's eternity and with a knowledge, a sense, of the marvelous structure of existence -- as well as the humble attempt to understand even a tiny portion of the Reason that manifests itself in nature."

- Albert Einstein
The essay was originally published in "Forum and Century."

There is something remarkable to be emphasized about that last paragraph. If such a philosophy was ingrained into everyone's daily life (though that would constitute less individuality) would result in a society that appreciates the world's offerings as opposed to anticipating what might come to be. I am all for being a dreamer - embarking on such a path results in discovering a cornucopia of ideas; however, you need to acknowledge that fact that your dreams are only real and thriving within your mind and the physical, tangible world is real and thriving right in front of you.

Breathing.

Letting you pass it by.

So, what is more important: seeing the beautiful within your thoughts or seeing the beautiful right before your eyes? It all boils down to a matter of philosophy... a matter of perception. Me? Well, I guess I might be a cheater because I see it on both ends.

I believe in Reason. And I guess that is where I derive all of these ideas within my life.

This empty chair in front of me at Cafe Med has Einstein written all over it. We could share a pastry and sip some espresso (because I am not a fan of their drip coffee).

I am letting the world pass me by in these few seconds because Einstein just walked in, and we are in dire need of a re-cap. Time to rekindle our flame - maybe not in this reality.

-Mon

Existentialism Up North

2010-10-15T09:45:00.000-07:00

This hits close to home:
"We are all alone, born alone, die alone, and — in spite of True Romance magazines — we shall all someday look back on our lives and see that, in spite of our company, we were alone the whole way. I do not say lonely — at least, not all the time — but essentially, and finally, alone. This is what makes your self-respect so important, and I don’t see how you can respect yourself if you must look in the hearts and minds of others for your happiness.
—Hunter S. Thompson"

My midterms end on Wednesday, finally. And, after my brain bursts into a multitude of glass-like shards, I am going to get started on my side project.

I spoke to my philosophy professor on Wednesday and he really got me thinking...
"why do you write in journals and blogs when you have such a different perspective on life? Why not sing, or dance, or play the guitar?"
I stood there, stumped, because I did not have an answer.
"Writing is always there, and since I do it so much, it's simply easier."A shitty answer, I thought, but an honest one at that.

I think I need some musical intervention.

Unpredictability at its finest. Being surrounded by happy individuals rubs off on me; however, even without them, I would be elated.

I might be an optimist, or maybe my caffeine addiction and marijuana consumption is getting to me.

-Mon

Radiohead

2010-10-12T09:58:00.000-07:00

My nights are bordering insanity and I'm not even using questionable drugs.

What the fuck?

A real entry soon - I promise; for now, just this. Too many thoughts that shouldn't be released on the net.
Not on the net.
Not just yet.

-Mon

?

2010-10-02T14:23:00.000-07:00

Where am I going?

Keep on keepin' on.

-Mon

Oh shit,

2010-09-26T20:12:00.000-07:00

Things just got interesting.

Things just got overwhelming.

I forgot how much I missed juggling the world - juggling a variety of different aspects that make up my puzzling life.
Dead ends and pathways. When I run into a dead end, I climb a tree.

When there's no trees, I dig a hole.

And, if I'm in the water, I dive right in, because there's only so much fun you can have just wading through the water.

I am thirsting for more all nighters and thirsting to become a part of something big. Larger than me. Lasting.

Freaking out, in the best way possible, because I am pushing myself over the edge.

The view is prettier this way. It's only dangerous if you make it so.

-Mon

Aldous Huxley's Last Trip [to the unknown]

2010-09-21T23:12:00.001-07:00

Transcript
6233 Mulholland Highway
Los Angeles 28, California
December 8, 1963

Dearest Julian and Juliette:

There is so much I want to tell you about the last week of Aldous' life and particularly the last day. What happened is important not only for us close and loving but it is almost a conclusion, better, a continuation of his own work, and therefore it has importance for people in general.

First of all I must confirm to you with complete subjective certainty that Aldous had not consciously looked at the fact that he might die until the day he died. Subconsciously it was all there, and you will be able to see this for yourselves because beginning from November 15th until November 22nd I have much of Aldous' remarks on tape, For these tapes I know we shall all be immensely grateful. Aldous was never quite willing to give up his writing and dictate or makes notes on a recorder. He used a Dictograph, only to read poetry or passages of literature; he would listen to these in his quite moments in the evening as he was going to sleep. I have had a tape recorder for years, and I tried to use it with him sometimes, but it was too bulky, and particularly now when we were always in the bedroom and the bed had so much hospital equipment around it. (We had spoken about buying a small one, but the market here is flooded with transister tape recorders, and most of them are very bad. I didn't have time to look into it, and this remained just one of those things like many others that we were going to do.) In the beginning of November, when Aldous was in the hospital, my birthday occurred, so Jinny looked carefully into all the machines, and presented me with the best of them - a small thing, easy manageable and practically unnoticeable. After having practiced with it myself a few days, I showed it to Aldous, who was very pleased with it, and from the 15th on we used it a little every day recording his dreams and notes for future writing.

The period from the 15th to the 22nd marked, it seems to me, a period of intense mental activity for Aldous. We had diminished little by little the tranquillizers he had been taking four times a day a drug called Sperine which is akin, I understand, to Thorazin. We diminished it practically to nothing only used painkillers like Percodon a little Amitol , and something for nausea. He took also a few injections of 1/2 cc of Dilaudid, which is a derivative of morphine, and which gave him many dreams, some of which you will hear on the tape. The doctor says this is a small intake of morphine.

Now to pick up my point again, in these dreams as well as sometimes in his conversation, it seemed obvious and transparent that subconsciously he knew that he was going to die. But not once consciously did he speak of it. This had nothing to do with the idea that some of his friends put forward, that he wanted to spare me. It wasn't this, because Aldous had never been able to play a part, to say a single lie; he was constitutionall unable to lie, and if he wanted to spare me, he could certainly have spoken to Jinny.

During the last two months I gave him almost daily an opportunity, an opening for speaking about death, but of course this opening was always one that could have been taken in two ways - either towards life or towards death, and he always took it towards life. We read the entire manual of Dr. Leary extracted from The Book of the Dead. He could have, even jokingly said don't forget to remind me his comment instead was only directed to the way Dr. Leary conducted his LSD sessions, and how he would bring people, who were not dead, back here to this life after the session. It is true he said sometimes phrases like, "If I get out of this," in connection to his new ideas for writing, and wondered when and if he would have the strength to work. His mind was very active and it seems that this Dilaudid had stirred some new layer which had not often been stirred in him.

The night before he died, (Thursday night) about eight o'clock, suddenly an idea occurred to him. "Darling," he said, "it just occurs to me that I am imposing on Jinny having somebody as sick as this in the house with the two children, this is really an imposition." Jinny was out of the house at the moment, and so I said, "Good, when she comes back I will tell her this. It will be a nice laugh." "No," he said with unusual insistence, "we should do something about it." "Well," I replied, keeping it light, "all right, get up. Let's go on a trip." "No", he said, "It is serious. We must think about it. All these nurses in the house. What we could do, we could take an apartment for this period. Just for this period." It was very clear what he meant. It was unmistakeably clear. He thought he might be so sick for another three of four weeks, and then he could come back and start his normal life again. This fact of starting his normal life occurred quite often. In the last three or four weeks he was several times appalled by his weakness, when he realized how much he had lost, and how long it would take to be normal again. Now this Thursday night he had remarked about taking an apartment with an unusual energy, but a few minutes later and all that evening I felt that he was going down, he was losing ground quickly. Eating was almost out of the question. He had just taken a few spoonsful of liquid and puree, in fact every time that he took something, this would start the cough. Thursday night I called Dr. Bernstein, and told him the pulse was very high - 140, he had a little bit of fever and whole feeling was one of immanence of death. But both the nurse and the doctor said they didn't think this was the case, but that if I wanted him the doctor would come up to see him that night. Then I returned to Aldous' room and we decided to give him an injection of Dilaudid. It was about nine o'clock, and he went to sleep and I told the doctor to come the next morning. Aldous slept until about two a.m. and then he got another shot, and I saw him again at six-thirty. Again I felt that life was leaving, something was more wrong than usual, although I didn't know exactly what, and a little later I sent you and Matthew and Ellen and my sister a wire. Then about nine a.m. Aldous began to be so agitated, so uncomfortable, so desperate really. He wanted to be moved all the time. Nothing was right. Dr. Bernstein came about that time and decided to give him a shot which he had given him once before, something that you give intravenously, very slowly - it takes five minutes to give the shot, and it is a drug that dilates the bronchial tubes, so that respiration is easier.

This drug made him uncomfortable the time before, it must have been three Fridays before, when he had that crisis I wrote you about. But then it helped him. This time it was quite terrible. He couldn't express himself but he was feeling dreadul, nothing was right, no position was right. I tried to ask him what was occurring. He had difficulty in speaking, but he managed to say, "Just trying to tell you makes it worse." He wanted to be moved all the time - "Move me." "Move my legs." "Move my arms." "Move my bed." I had one of those push-button beds, which moved up and down both from the head and the feet, and incessantly, at times, I would have him go up and down, up and down by pushing buttons. We did this again, and somehow it seemed to give him a little relief. but it was very, very little.

All of a sudden, it must have been then ten o'clock, he could hardly speak, and he said he wanted a tablet to write on, and for the first time he wrote - "If I die," and gave a direction for his will. I knew what he meant. He had signed his will as I told you about a week before, and in this will there was a transfer of a life insurance policy from me to Matthew. We had spoken of getting these papers of transfer, which the insurance company had just sent, and that actually arrived special delivery just a few minutes before. Writing was very, very difficult for him. Rosalind and Dr. Bernstein were there trying also to understand what he wanted. I said to him, "Do you mean that you want to make sure that the life insurance is transferred from me to Matthew?" He said, "Yes." I said, "The papers for the transfer have just arrived, if you want to sign them you can sign them, but it is not necessary because you already made it legal in your will. He heaved a sigh of relief in not having to sign. I had asked him the day before even, to sign some important papers, and he had said, "Let's wait a little while," this, by the way, was his way now, for him to say that he couldn't do something. If he was asked to eat, he would say, "Let's wait a little while," and when I asked him to do some signing that was rather important on Thursday he said, "Let's wait a little while" He wanted to write you a letter - "and especially about Juliette's book, is lovely," he had said several times. And when I proposed to do it, he would say, "Yes, just in a little while" in such a tired voice, so totally different from his normal way of being. So when I told him that the signing was not necessary and that all was in order, he had a sigh of relief.

"If I die." This was the first time that he had said that with reference to NOW. He wrote it. I knew and felt that for the first time he was looking at this. About a half an hour before I had called up Sidney Cohen, a psychiatrist who has been one of the leaders in the use of LSD. I had asked him if he had ever given LSD to a man in this condition. He said he had only done it twice actually, and in one case it had brought up a sort of reconciliation with Death, and in the other case it did not make any difference. I asked him if he would advise me to give it to Aldous in his condition. I told him how I had offered it several times during the last two months, but he always said that he would wait until he was better. Then Dr. Cohen said, "I don't know. I don't think so. What do you think?" I said, "I don't know. Shall I offer it to him?" He said, "I would offer it to him in a very oblique way, just say 'what do you think about taking LSD [sometime again]?'" This vague response had been common to the few workers in this field to whom I had asked, "Do you give LSD in extremes?" ISLAND is the only definite reference that I know of. I must have spoken to Sidney Cohen about nine-thirty. Aldous' condition had become so physically painful and obscure, and he was so agitated he couldn't say what he wanted, and I couldn't understand. At a certain point he said something which no one here has been able to explain to me, he said, "Who is eating out of my bowl?" And I didn't know what this meant and I yet don't know. And I asked him. He managed a faint whimsical smile and said, "Oh, never mind, it is only a joke." And later on, feeling my need to know a little so I could do something, he said in an agonizing way, "At this point there is so little to share." Then I knew that he knew that he was going. However, this inability to express himself was only muscular - his brain was clear and in fact, I feel, at a pitch of activity.

Then I don't know exactly what time it was, he asked for his tablet and wrote, "Try LSD 100 intramuscular." Although as you see from this photostatic copy it is not very clear, I know that this is what he meant. I asked him to confirm it. Suddenly something became very clear to me. I knew that we were together again after this torturous talking of the last two months. I knew then, I knew what was to be done. I went quickly into the cupboard in the other room where Dr. Bernstein was, and the TV which had just announced the shooting of Kennedy. I took the LSD and said, "I am going to give him a shot of LSD, he asked for it." The doctor had a moment of agitation because you know very well the uneasiness about this drug in the medical mind. Then he said, "All right, at this point what is the difference." Whatever he had said, no "authority," not even an army of authorities could have stopped me then. I went into Aldous' room with the vial of LSD and prepared a syringe. The doctor asked me if I wanted him to give him the shot - maybe because he saw that my hands were trembling. His asking me that made me conscious of my hands, and I said, "No I must do this." I quieted myself, and when I gave him the shot my hands were very firm. Then, somehow, a great relief came to us both. I believe it was 11:20 when I gave him his first shot of 100 microgrammes. I sat near his bed and I said, "Darling, maybe in a little while I will take it with you. Would you like me to take it also in a little while?" I said a little while because I had no idea of when I should or could take it, in fact I have not been able to take it to this writing because of the condition around me. And he indicated "yes." We must keep in mind that by now he was speaking very, very little. Then I said, "Would you like Matthew to take it with you also? And he said, "Yes." "What about Ellen?" He said, "Yes." Then I mentioned two or three people who had been working with LSD and he said, "No, no, basta, basta." Then I said, "What about Jinny?" And he said, "Yes," with emphasis. Then we were quiet. I just sat there without speaking for a while. Aldous was not so agitated physically. He seemed - somehow I felt he knew, we both knew what we were doing, and this has always been a great relief to Aldous. I have seen him at times during his illness very upset until he knew what he was going to do, then even if it was an operation or X-ray, he would make a total change. This enormous feeling of relief would come to him, and he wouldn't be worried at all about it, he would say let's do it, and we would go to it and he was like a liberated man. And now I had the same feeling - a decision had been made, he made the decision again very quickly. Suddenly he had accepted the fact of death; he had taken this moksha medicine in which he believed. He was doing what he had written in ISLAND, and I had the feeling that he was interested and relieved and quiet.

After half an hour, the expression on his face began to change a little, and I asked him if he felt the effect of LSD, and he indicated no. Yet, I think that a something had taken place already. This was one of Aldous' characteristics. He would always delay acknowledging the effect of any medicine, even when the effect was quite certainly there, unless the effect was very, very stong he would say no. Now, the expression of his face was beginning to look as it did every time that he had the moksha medicine, when this immense expression of complete bliss and love would come over him. This was not the case now, but there was a change in comparison to what his face had been two hours ago. I let another half hour pass, and then I decided to give him another 100 mg. I told him I was going to do it, and he acquiesced. I gave him another shot, and then I began to talk to him. He was very quiet now; he was very quiet and his legs were getting colder; higher and higher I could see purple areas of cynosis. Then I began to talk to him, saying, "Light and free," Some of these thing I told him at night in these last few weeks before he would go to sleep, and now I said it more convincingly, more intensely - "go, go, let go, darling; forward and up. You are going forward and up; you are going towards the light. Willing and consciously you are going, willingly and consciously, and you are doing this beautifully; you are doing this so beautifully - you are going towards the light; you are going towards a greater love; you are going forward and up. It is so easy; it is so beautiful. You are doing it so beautifully, so easily. Light and free. Forward and up. You are going towards Maria's love with my love. You are going towards a greater love than you have ever known. You are going towards the best, the greatest love, and it is easy, it is so easy, and you are doing it so beautifully." I believe I started to talk to him - it must have been about one or two o'clock. It was very difficult for me to keep track of time. The nurse was in the room and Rosalind and Jinny and two doctors - Dr. Knight and Dr. Cutler. They were sort of far away from the bed. I was very, very near his ears, and I hope I spoke clearly and understandingly. Once I asked him, "Do you hear me?" He squeezed my hand. He was hearing me. I was tempted to ask more questions, but in the morning he had begged me not to ask any more question, and the entire feeling was that things were right. I didn't dare to inquire, to disturb, and that was the only question that I asked, "Do you hear me?" Maybe I should have asked more questions, but I didn't.

Later on I asked the same question, but the hand didn't move any more. Now from two o'clock until the time he died, which was five-twenty, there was complete peace except for once. That must have been about three-thirty or four, when I saw the beginning of struggle in his lower lip. His lower lip began to move as if it were going to be a struggle for air. Then I gave the direction even more forcefully. "It is easy, and you are doing this beautifully and willingly and consciously, in full awareness, in full awareness, darling, you are going towards the light." I repeated these or similar words for the last three or four hours. Once in a while my own emotion would overcome me, but if it did I immediately would leave the bed for two or three minutes, and would come back only when I could dismiss my emotion. The twitching of the lower lip lasted only a little bit, and it seemed to respond completely to what I was saying. "Easy, easy, and you are doing this willingly and consciously and beautifully - going forward and up, light anf free, forward and up towards the light, into the light, into complete love." The twitching stopped, the breating became slower and slower, and there was absolutely not the slightest indication of contraction, of struggle. it was just that the breathing became slower - and slower - and slower, and at five-twenty the breathing stopped.

I had been warned in the morning that there might be some up-setting convulsions towards the end, or some sort of contraction of the lungs, and noises. People had been trying to prepare me for some horrible physical reaction that would probably occur. None of this happened, actually the ceasing of the breathing was not a drama at all, because it was done so slowly, so gently, like a piece of music just finishing in a sempre piu piano dolcemente. I had the feeling actually that the last hour of breathing was only the conditioned reflex of the body that had been used to doing this for 69 years, millions and millions of times. There was not the feeling that with the last breath, the spirit left. It had just been gently leaving for the last four hours. In the room the last four hours were two doctors, Jinny, the nurse, Rosalind Roger Gopal - you know she is the great friend of Krishnamurti, and the directress of the school in Ojai for which Aldous did so much. They didn't seem to hear what I was saying. I thought I was speaking loud enough, but they said they didn't hear it. Rosalind and Jinny once in a while came near the bed and held Aldous' hand. These five people all said that this was the most serene, the most beautiful death. Both doctors and nurse said they had never seen a person in similar physical condition going off so completely without pain and without struggle.

We will never know if all this is only our wishful thinking, or if it is real, but certainly all outward signs and the inner feeling gave indication that it was beautiful and peaceful and easy.

And now, after I have been alone these few days, and less bombarded by other people's feelings, the meaning of this last day becomes clearer and clearer to me and more and more important. Aldous was, I think (and certainly I am) appalled at the fact that what he wrote in ISLAND was not taken seriously. It was treated as a work of science fiction, when it was not fiction because each one of the ways of living he described in ISLAND was not a product of his fantasy, but something that had been tried in one place or another and some of them in our own everyday life. If the way Aldous died were known, it might awaken people to the awareness that not only this, but many other facts described in ISLAND are possible here and now. Aldous'asking for moksha medicine while dying is a confirmation of his work, and as such is of importance not only to us, but to the world. It is true we will have some people saying that he was a drug addict all his life and that he ended as one, but it is history that Huxleys stop ignorance before ignorance can stop Huxleys.

Even after our correspondence on the subject, I had many doubts about keeping Aldous in the dark regarding his condition. It seemed not just that, after all he had written and spoken about death, he should be let to go into it unaware. And he had such complete confidence in me - he might have taken it for granted that had death been near I certainly would have told him and helped him. So my relief at his sudden awakening at his quick adjusting is immense. Don't you feel this also.

Now, is his way of dying to remain our, and only our relief and consolation, or should others also benefit from it? What do you feel?

-x-x-x-
A letter written by his wife, Laura.

...

A beautiful, genuine letter written by his equally beautiful and genuine wife, Laura.

-Mon

San Francisco Art (right off of Market St)

2010-09-21T00:57:00.000-07:00

até mais,
Mon

San Francisco: Creek Cafe

2010-09-17T16:27:00.000-07:00

A nice balance of social interaction and reclusive netbooking. Three paintings hang above the 3 larger tables that accomodate parties of 4.
Abstract, with subtle blues and purples, as if the piece had been dipped in the mediterranean, and the crisp blues intertwined with the previous colors.
There is also a lady, no older than forty, with a voluptuous figure, greeting the second table with her enormous breasts. Yet again, the blues... the blues...
Botero, is that you hiding under the painter's imagination?

And back to abstract!

All in all, a great space to get "work" done. What I thoroughly enjoy about this space, however, is the people it seems to attract. Individuals in their mid to late twenties, desiring for success but not afraid to share a smile or nod. Spent an hour with a gentleman speaking about Jorge Luis Borges which, eventually, led to digressions about Brazil and life itself. Yet, I never caught his name, not because I didn't care, but because I was far more curious about his insight and perspective.

Talking to strangers is becoming a habit (amongst other things).

With regards to the coffee and food: I had a delicious soy latte paired with a veggie sandwich. I preferred the former over the latter, but that's fine, since I drink more coffee than eat actual food.
-x-x-x-

Dreary beginnings in San Francisco that eventually become beautiful sunny skies paint a smile across my face and resonate a sense of assurance that "all will be well, eventually." Things are now slowly falling into place, but I am trying not to get too ahead of myself.

People are clicking, intentions are arising, and I am here, as an onlooker, analyzing each situation (whether idiotic or intelligent) in hopes of understanding. And it feels good to be back on track and out of a rut.

A man who doesn’t know he’s in prison can never escape. As soon as you realise the planet and your body constitute an almost escape-proof jail, as soon as you know you are in prison - you have a possibility to escape.
—William S. Burroughs

Burroughs and I are inmates, escaping together with the assistance of as many illegal possibilities as necessary.
-x-x-x-
All I heard was that rasp; that sass; that..
"why don't we do it in the road...?"
and the door shut behind me;
the coffee shop, or penitentiary?

-Mon

The Guardian: The Price of Love?

2010-09-15T13:25:00.000-07:00

[Artist: Get Up; Berkeley, CA]

The price of love? Losing two of your closest friends
Research reveals that, on average, having a new romantic partner pushes out two close friends from your inner circle

Falling in love comes at the cost of losing close friends, because romantic partners absorb time that would otherwise be invested in platonic relationships, researchers say.

A new partner pushes out two close friends on average, leaving lovers with a smaller inner circle of people they can turn to in times of crisis, a study found.

The research, led by Robin Dunbar, head of the Institute of Cognitive and Evolutionary Anthropology at Oxford University, showed that men and women were equally likely to lose their closest friends when they started a new relationship.

Previous research by Dunbar's group has shown that people typically have five very close relationships – that is, people whom they would turn to if they were in emotional or financial trouble.

"If you go into a romantic relationship, it costs you two friends. Those who have romantic relationships, instead of having the typical five 'core set' of relationships only have four. And of those, one is the new person who's come into their life," said Dunbar.

The study, submitted to the journal Personal Relationships, was designed to investigate how people trade off spending time with one person over another and suggests that links with family and closest friends suffer when people start a romantic relationship.

Dunbar's team used an internet-based questionnaire to quiz 428 women and 112 men about their relationships. In total, 363 of the participants had romantic partners. The findings suggest that a new love interest has to compensate for the loss of two close friends.

Speaking at the British Science Festival in Birmingham, Professor Dunbar said: "This was a surprise for us. We hadn't expected it.

"If you don't see people, your emotional engagement with them drops off and does so quickly. What I suspect is that your attention is so wholly focused on the romantic partner you don't get to see the other folks you had a lot to do with before, and so some of those relationships start to deteriorate."

The questionnaire allowed people to mention whether any of their closest confidants were "extra romantic partners". In all, 32 of those quizzed mentioned having an extra love interest in their life, but these people did not lose four friends as might be expected. Instead, the extra person in their life bumped their original romantic partner out of their innermost circle of friends.

In a separate study, Dunbar's team looked at how men and women maintained friendships on the social networking website Facebook. They found that women's Facebook friends were more often friends from everyday life that they spent time with, while men tended to collect as many friends as they could, even if they hardly knew them.

"Boys seem to be in a competition to see who can have the most Faccebook friends and that could be a form of mate advertisting. One of the cues women use for male quality as a mate is the number of other girls chasing them, so signing up lots of girls as Facebook friends seems to be a good idea," said Dunbar.

-x-x-x-

How silly...

Welcome, to the "new" age.

Har-har

-Mon

Courtesy of Beirut on my iPod

2010-09-13T11:25:00.000-07:00

It was at that very moment, when the air slowly caressed my face and the few cyclists pedaled away, that loose pieces began falling into place. Two worlds, two very different worlds, slowly began developing immeasurable parallels (yet, neither was distinguished as "better" than the other). Lines began intertwining these axes and I stood there, waiting for the cars to dart away before my body did the same, in the opposite direction, regardless of the street signal. I stood there, thinking.

Thinking.

Comfort zones are ironic. They make one feel good, maybe even happy; but we lose a sense of living in the process. The thrill of living. The thrill of losing? Because, one cannot live without losses; nor can one lose without living. So... I found a few of these lost pieces, floating in the air near Bancroft and Telegraph, and I grabbed them, because sudden realizations are only good when remembered.

And I put them in my pocket...

My pockets are full of sudden realizations - good and bad. And, in turn, they are slowly growing in size and magnitude. They hit me harder, make me think longer, and drag me out into the most uncomfortable of situations.

yet...yet... I am alive.

And this pushing and pulling in my pocket that eventually enters my body and sets off a multitude of emotions throughout my bloodstream feels - good. Hurting is sometimes a good feeling, as is pleasure. But then...

sometimes pleasure and pain coincide as does happiness and sadness and so much more. All of these non-cognitive functions that are not explained by scientific means just, erupt. Just like that, they erupt.

My comfort zone has lost its place in my worlds. I say worlds since I have two, of course. I was lost, and still am; but, I am in no way confused (about myself, at least). I am stretching immensely.

Now, if this makes no sense to you, which it sure as hell might, paint this picture in your imagination
"Growing is stretching right? Isn't it true that regardless of how flexible you are, when you stretch more it hurts. You are out of your comfort zone. Then you reach and that stretch doesn't hurt anymore. And so it goes on.

Sadness and Happiness are part of the stretch, as the pain and the pleasure a muscle feels when stretching and reaching.
They are both natural.

Nothing to feel bad about in sadness.

But no confusion.

Understanding."

So I continued walking, because I had class in five minutes and a pocket full of understanding; loose particles coming together on an x and y axis where there is still so much room for discovery but enough points to begin crafting an image of something - anything.

Of life and living.

-Mon

Truths

2010-09-07T12:18:00.001-07:00

Hamlet to Rosencrantz.
Since nothing can be perceived except through the senses—and since all individuals sense, and therefore perceive, things differently—there is no absolute truth, only relative truth.

-x-x-x-

I have been running into this philosophy so often these days. So often it makes my head spin and thoughts burst.

Not, because I cannot handle the intangible objectivity of this world, but more so because I want to see through the glasses of another onlooker.

I want to try on a variety of shoes, beginning with you (and ending with your lover).

Maybe not to that extreme, but I do I do I do want to broaden my perceptions and appreciate the variety of angles that make up buildings, cities, concepts, realities, human beings, and more.

?
-Mon

New Hot Spot: People's Cafe

2010-08-30T22:44:00.000-07:00

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

!

2010-08-23T18:35:00.000-07:00

Good evening, Berkeley.

-Mon

Thank You

2010-08-18T23:40:00.001-07:00

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

Random Post

2010-08-08T19:17:00.000-07:00

Carpe diem, quam minimum credula postero...

-Mon

Stories, Photos and Thoughts

2010-08-04T22:41:00.000-07:00

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

2010-07-26T00:15:00.000-07:00

[after a long argument about society and my idealistic nature]
"You'll be disappointed with the world," he said to me as I patiently sipped my coffee.
I looked up and smiled.
"All it takes is a change of perspective. The beauty of idealism is everything is possible. You have no limits; no boundaries. Happiness is actually attainable... With realism, you oftentimes set yourself up for disaster, especially emotionally. And, when things fail to turn out the way you had hoped for, rather than moving forward, many dwell in their dilemmas... drowning in a pool of negativity."
"You're going to realize this whole world is a mess..."
"I already know, sir. This world is certainly a mess... a beautiful, unpredictable mess."

and I walked away.

Anonymous

2010-07-17T21:55:00.000-07:00

Just finished reading an article from The Guardian about a woman by the name of Kate Monro collecting the stories of many individuals and their most vulnerable moment - losing their virginity. A fun little read; however, what caught my attention was the snippet of her project:

"I was in college, working at a bookstore. I had a key and often worked late at night and this meant that I and the girl I loved had a place where we could go and be away from our roommates. To say that I loved her would be a pale word. I savoured her. Every angle, every facet of her mind and her words and her eyes seemed to infuse me with an energy that I had never experienced before.
One night, late in the dark store, after talking about Joseph Conrad novels, we kissed more and more deeply, and everything began to spin around me; all the square angles of the books and shelves blurred like a cartoon as I removed the lace from the curves of her body. We were laying on the floor between shelves of old books. I remember how her heat surprised me. I remember how her legs felt when they moved up around my ribs. I remember something she whispered to me — a whisper I sometimes still hear at night. I remember playing with her hair afterwards, as we lay together panting and hot. And most of all I remember the feeling much later, as the sun was rising and we left the store. She was wearing my coat. And everything in the world was different. I noticed it instantly — as though everyone had been speaking in a foreign accent and now suddenly switched to my own."

Beautifully written (and executed)!

"...as though everyone had been speaking in a foreign accent and now suddenly switched to my own."
Ah, so good.

'tis all,

-Mon

Art Show: San Deigo

2010-07-16T09:17:00.000-07:00

This Saturday, July 17th, the Museum of Contemporary Art in San Diego will be celebrating the opening of Viva la Revolucion: A Dialogue with the Urban Landscape!

Looks to be a really interesting show. Unfortunately, the price tag of 20 dollars is a bit much for a soon-to-be starving college student and, not to mention, there is a limited supply of non-member tickets.

With that said, if you have nothing to do this Saturday from 7-10 and do not mind spending 20 dollars to see some killer art and meet interesting people (also, enjoy a DJ set by Shepard Fairey) then check it out!

Website here...

Até mais,
-Mon

Cal

2010-07-13T21:54:00.000-07:00

I guess it is safe to say that I feel prepared for everything now - this whole moving up north and leaving my whole comfort zone behind thing.

Berkeley has so much to offer as a whole and the individuals that thrive there have an unmistakable brilliance resonating both inside and out.

I am intimidated, vulnerable, and thrilled.

Thrilled to be a part of a vibrant community.
Thrilled to be a stranger in a new land.
Thrilled to be amongst a sea of cutthroat competitive students.

Thrilled to, finally, just breathe out and live.

-Mon

Artist: Jean-Michel Basquiat

2010-07-09T23:26:00.001-07:00

Colors and confusion
angst and angles
breathless yet alive.

Plunging down the spiral of life and enjoying every waking second of it.
Visual stimulations
body contortions
and the air, to remind us of our vitality.

Tentative vitality?

Colors.

Choose:
Hold on

or

Let go

.......
....
.

.
.

..
.

.

!

Now what?

-Mon

Artist: Burgess Franklin Collins

2010-07-06T20:06:00.001-07:00

A Little Fable

"Alas," said the mouse, "the whole world is growing smaller every day. At the beginning it was so big that I was afraid, I kept running and running, and I was glad when I saw walls far away to the right and left, but these long walls have narrowed so quickly that I am in the last chamber already, and there in the corner stands the trap that I must run into."

"You only need to change your direction," said the cat, and ate it up.

-Franz Kafka

-x-x-x-

The world is as big or small as you want it to be.

-Mon

A More Personal Entry...

2010-06-30T21:45:00.000-07:00

So follow me into the dark (or light) and question your own bane existence. Let every thread of your mind, body and soul unravel into the mouth of crude reality; only to have this thread be devoured, savored or ignored.

Only, my existence has been far from bane these days...
and... and... reality has been far from crude as well.

My questions are optimistic and, sure, things sometimes run in circles, but hell, is that not but one of the key points in life? We are all animals, running from something, pacing ourselves to something, avoiding someone, and therefore, in turn, running in circles from all the facts and misconceptions life has brought to the table.

Running in circles has only brought me to meet some great people and, coincidentally, resulted in stumbling upon some wonderful treasures amongst the sea of culture within Los Angeles. Now, I use the word "sea" for a reason, due to the size of Los Angeles; other cities (take San Francisco) cover a smaller distance and therefore require less scurrying than good ol' L.A.

Coming from L.A, you know that merely stating "oh, I'm from L.A" means absolute bullshit to a fellow Angelino, because what soon follows is "me too! What part?" So, of course, we must dissect Los Angeles into different sections (and plenty of them) in order to embrace the various eccentricities stretching miles upon miles of smog infested loveliness. -chortle-

A few months ago my brother asked if I was going to miss Los Angeles, to which I quickly scowled and said "hell no." I take that statement back. The more I delve into the different personalities of Los Angeles, the more I realize how much culture is brimming at its fingertips. There are the bars, pubs, clubs, etc. where mild intoxication really means getting shit faced but just down the way you have art gallery upon art gallery, parks, DELICIOUS food, a music scene encompassing any genre you desire, and so much more. Everything has a sense of personality, just some places are easier to overlook than others.

So, [now my existentialist self is speaking] maybe I will not make it to 52 days from now when I move up to northern California, but if I do, man have I slowly taken a liking to this place. Ladies and gentlemen, the human being without a heart [myself] will actually miss the people, places and possibilities of "home." Some individuals whom I have met stick out more than others, but hot damn has this been one hell of an experience!

A brilliant friend recently told me: "when you live in the present and then must look to the future because you're leaving, you realize you're no longer really there. Everyone knows you're tentative, so you become the past whilst you're still in the present. You just... disappear." I may be leaving, and I may be overlooked soon, but there is no way I will let myself disappear. I might physically leave, but emotionally and mentally, I hope to subconsciously stay here as little memory particles, that you acknowledge and appreciate. That hopefully, inadvertently, make you smile.

And if they do not, then at least I tried; and at least I had a damn good time trying.

-x-x-x-

Now, onto a more conventional blog post, there are a few art galleries with stellar work going on in the Culver City area until the 3rd!

Carmichael Gallery

Escif

Shepard Fairey (better known as Obey)

Dave Kinsey

Stelios Faitakis

Of course there were so many other wonderful pieces and I left my camera at a friend's place, so online photos should suffice. Sometimes things are better left as a memory though, because it forces you to rely on yourself rather than technological mediums.

Thinkspace
Side note: Super cool and cute lady by the name of Alora at the front desk (which is debatable since it was in the back).

Ekundayo

Ekundayo

Ekundayo

Audrey Kawasaki prints were located in the back as well! That made my heart skip a bit...

LeBasse Projects

Yoskay Yamamoto

Yoskay Yamamoto
LOVED this one in person

Koplin Del Rio
"Kink"

Laurie Hogin

Zokosky

Fred Stonehouse

Norman Lundin
Also a favorite

There were quite a few more galleries, but this gives a you a nice snippet as to how you can spend a lazy summer day in L.A. Best part? Everything was free!

Also, if you would like to see street art where it has gained its credibility, check out Labrona! Literally a block away from the Carmichael...

(Photo credit from www.unurth.com)

Now, not to mention, there was an absolutely baffling Eastern furniture/garden/Icannotdescribethisinaword place down the way from Graphaids. We literally walked in, looked at one another, and said "what the hell just happened?" Gorgeous fountains to the left and right of you, bird cages made of wood with brilliantly colored birds singing happy afternoon tunes, and the deeper we went, the more beautiful the items. Large and ornate, armoires, beds, tables, statues, shelves from across the seas. So, with our mouths wide open, we let the sounds from the sitar fornicate with our ears as we questioned (and contemplated) reality, insanity, and the combination of the two.

These past few weeks have been unpredictable, and I have loved every moment of them.

-x-x-x-

Now, let these memory particles blossom and, hopefully, grow exponentially. I am here to stay.

I am here to have a good time.

-Mon

2010-06-24T11:17:00.000-07:00

Thirsting for a sense of autonomy from society,
I sit here and linger.
Sit here in front of a coffee cup and linger.

The coffee is cold,
I am still trapped
and realities continue to rape my rudimentary schedules.

Headaches. Oversleeping. Black coffee.

Sometimes I wake up in the morning feeling free,
other times, the opposite.
A bird, singing in hopes to enjoy the fresh fruits of life,
but only receiving dried fruit from bird feed.
A caged bird wanting to fly
only to realize her wings are clipped and opportunity just left the premises.

Rants and headaches.
I overslept.

Black coffee cures all.

-Mon

2010-06-21T19:11:00.000-07:00

Don’t Die With Your Music Still In You
January 8th, 2005 by Steve Pavlina

What if you currently live a very comfortable lifestyle and you have a lot of assets? How can you justify running off to do what truly makes you happy if it might put all your current assets at risk?

Here’s my take on this….

To abandon a comfortable lifestyle that isn’t deeply fulfilling is to abandon nothing. There’s nothing of real substance there to protect. An income, a car, a house, or a lifestyle are not worth protecting if the cost of such protection is your own fulfillment and happiness. People who achieve some of the external trappings of success without internal fulfillment are only living an illusion when they tell themselves they have something of value to protect. In most cases the feeling that there’s something to protect is just an excuse used to avoid facing the real fear — that maybe all this stuff isn’t really worth anything compared to what’s being lost… that maybe I should be living more boldly and not be so concerned about what happens to all my stuff.

I currently have some material stuff in my life. I have a business, computers, a car that’s fully paid for, and my wife and I are closing escrow on a new home we’ve bought. But that’s all just stuff. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t have any real value. I’d gladly give it all up and live in a shack if that was the price I’d have to pay to live my mission. I want my life to have had more value than just acquiring stuff and living comfortably. I may die rich, or I may die broke. But I won’t die with my music still in me.

After all, why are we here? Is it to acquire stuff, live a comfortable lifestyle, make our families as comfortable as possible, and then die? Whether there’s an afterlife or not, one thing is clear — we can’t take any of that stuff with us. Our comfortable lifestyle has no power to endure.

And here’s the worst part. While you’re working so hard to acquire and protect all that stuff, you could die unexpectedly. You might die today. You might die tomorrow. Maybe you won’t die for another 70 years. Maybe your consciousness will be transferred into an android body a few decades from now, but you could still be destroyed in an accident, even if you make a backup of yourself. At least in the present, you’re still vulnerable. Death happens to people every day. 150,000+ people died from the quake and tsunami in Southeast Asia. How many of them knew at the beginning of December 2004 that they only had a few weeks left to live? And look what happened to all the stuff those people acquired — destroyed. Fisherman or tourist — it doesn’t matter. We all end up the same way.

So what is the point of a life dedicated to the acquisition and protection of stuff? All of your money and possessions can be taken away from you by forces outside your control. No matter how many asset protection techniques you apply, you can never guarantee full security of your stuff. It’s perpetually vulnerable. There can be no true security then in a life based on the acquisition and protection of stuff.

So what have you got to lose? What are you truly risking if you go after your dreams? If your current lifestyle is unfulfilling, then you’re starting broke, no matter how much money you have. It doesn’t matter if you start with $0 or $1 million. You have nothing to lose either way. Money and material assets are just resources to use while you’re here — you can’t take them with you. You’re only a temporary steward of the money and possessions that pass through your life. So when you risk money, you don’t risk anything of any enduring value. Earn money, lose money, invest money. But don’t make material objects more important than your own fulfillment and happiness.

If you’re sitting behind a desk working at a job you hate in order to protect your current lifestyle, you are protecting nothing. Isn’t there a part of you, deep inside, that wants to just walk away from all of that junk and start really living? Can you feel how empty and hollow your days are, how devoid of meaning? Have you forgotten what it’s like to really live a day that fulfills you deeply as a human being? Look around your home at all your stuff. Recognize that in the long run, it will all eventually end up as dust. None of it will endure. It’s all temporary. Your house will eventually crumble. Your car will wind up in a junkyard. You cannot permanently keep any of this stuff. Eventually you’re going to lose it all. Or it will lose you.

So what kind of life is that — one that’s dedicated to the guarding of dust? Is that what you want your life to be about? If you feel there’s any purpose to your existence as a human being, then is this it?

Life is just too precious to waste. If you are spending your days working at a job that isn’t deeply fulfilling to you, then you’re spending your days guarding dust. There’s no real value there. Stuff cannot fulfill you. Ultimately it will only distract you from living on purpose.

What does it mean to really live? Deep down, you already have a sense of the direction where this answer lies for you. Ultimately, it’s a choice. You’re totally free to live the kind of life you want. But you’ll know you’re really living when you would live pretty much the same way even if you knew you only had 18 months left. If you would make some big changes in your life upon learning that you only had 18 months to live, then why not make those changes now? Someone reading this blog entry probably has less than 18 months to live. Maybe it’s you.

Live for what is real to you. Live for what truly matters to you.

What matters to me — what is real to me — is inspiring and helping people. Directly or indirectly, whenever I’m able to help someone solve a really tough problem or to motivate someone to finally push past a big obstacle, that is something I find tremendously fulfilling. And the fulfillment I get from doing this is so great that it trumps all the external stuff. It doesn’t matter how much money I make. It doesn’t matter if people reject my ideas or poke fun at what I enjoy doing. This blog entry may be read by over 1000 people, but it may be such that the ideas within are only able to help one person in a very small way. The other 999 may conclude I’m nuts and unsubscribe. And that’s fine. It’s that one person I’m writing for.

But at the same time, starting from the point of spending each day doing something that fulfills me, I’m building this work into a business that can support and sustain me and my family. This will ultimately include paid speaking engagements, and information products like books and audio programs. So I’m starting with doing what I love and building it into a source of income. The more money the business generates, the more people I’m ultimately able to reach. So making money is aligned with my own personal fulfillment — they aren’t at odds with each other. If you do what you love, then you can surely find a way to turn it into an income stream — then the more money you make, the more you expand your capacity to continue doing what you love in bigger and bigger ways.

Taking what you love to do and turning it into a source of income, either as an employee or an entrepreneur, seems hard to resist. If you’re going to spend so much time working to make money, why not make that money in the pursuit of your dreams instead of in the protection of dust?

What does your current to do list look like? Is it filled with tasks that aren’t even real to you? Are you typing stuff that doesn’t matter, going to soulless meetings, shuffling papers and filling out forms to appease computers, while sitting in a Dilbert-style cage all day? Why do you continue to choose that life each day? You’re always free to stop at any time. You make the rules.

What percentage of the tasks on your to do list will fulfill you deeply to do them? What kind of to do list would be real to you? What items might it contain? Compose a new piece of music. Write something inspiring and share it with others. Give your spouse a massage. Exercise. Play with your kids. Make a snowman in Las Vegas (my wife did this one yesterday). Clear out some clutter. Read a really great book. Audition for a local play. Start your own business. Tell your boss, “Talk to the hand. I don’t do soulless work anymore.” Do something that leaves you feeling at the end of the day that you really contributed the best of yourself. Don’t die with your music still in you.

Art: Magritte

2010-06-13T00:53:00.000-07:00

Late night conversations cause my mind to wander...

At least there are some spaces in the valley where we can loiter and keep drinking coffee 'til midnight. 'Tis a shame I have had 7 shots of espresso in the last three hours. Why do I do this to myself?

-Mon

Movies: Documentaries

2010-06-06T23:06:00.000-07:00

Lyrics: Motion Picture Soundtrack

2010-05-29T17:16:00.000-07:00

A record player in my mind kept this song on repeat at work today. I figured I would be the culprit of dawning everyone else with a similar situation.

"Red wine and sleeping pills
Help me get back to your arms
Cheap sex and sad films
Help me get where I belong

I think you're crazy, maybe
I think you're crazy, maybe

Stop sending letters
Letters always get burned
It's not like the movies
They fed us on little white lies

I think you're crazy, maybe
I think you're crazy, maybe

I will see you in the next life"

My thoughts are racing and continue reproducing exponentially. It is as if my thoughts, those figurative little shits, have finally unlocked the wonders of sexual intercourse and have therefore, in turn, begun fucking any other thought that crosses their way. The bi-product is yet another, little shit, that just sucks away at my day, milking off of everything possible.

Reproduction is a terrifying thing.

-Mon

Photos: Berkeley

2010-05-25T22:00:00.000-07:00

The "oh shit" factor has definitely settled in, and it is in no way, shape or form in the mood to leave.

Two more months and some...

So, the question is, what trouble can I get myself into?

Courtesy of Flickr, some shots of my backyard come August...

Psyching myself out for who knows what reason!

Now, a few minutes/hours with Hofstadter...

Author: Vonnegut: 2 B R 0 2 B

2010-05-17T20:20:00.000-07:00

We acknowledged one another today. He had his list of priorities, and I, my own.

A shiver ran down my spine as the copy machine choked on its last meal, blaring the most unsettling of sounds - an outcry for help. The gears in my mind kept constantly turning, continuously repeating our recognition like a silent movie where each action correlates to an important element. A shriek considered unnecessary; an expletive considered risque; yet a simple nod of the head, sunken shoulders and slow walk away from the confrontation invoking just as much emotion as ten minutes of dialogue. The silent movie was broken. All that kept repeating in my theatre of thought was he and I. A piercing stare. That, piercing stare...

Once I focused my time on sorting out the problems between the copy machine and myself, his gleaming, incandescent azure eyes escaped my memory.

I hate the memory game. Just when you feel that everything you desire is locked away in a file cabinet for safe keeping, you elbow your coffee of dilemmas all across the desk. Then you try to soak everything up with one paper towel, because dwelling in the overflow of botheration only leads to cynicism. And sometimes, if you do soak everything up with one paper towel, you think to yourself "what the fuck was I thinking? I cannot handle cleaning everything all at once." So, you remain sulking in acrimony for more time than it took to establish it in the first place.

When the clock struck six and my eyes began resembling the beauty of a basset hound, I hauled my way over to the elevator hoping to reunite with my coral reef of a couch. Sprawling my aching body on any surface seemed lovely at that point.

"Bing!" The elevator door opened. I saw them. His eyes. His brilliant blue, unmistakable eyes. We stood next to one another in the elevator.

"Going home?" he murmured. I nodded.
"Going to the second floor?" I sighed. He and I reverted back to our silent movie encounter, where words became more troublesome than truthful. I knew his answer as I stepped out of the elevator. I felt his eyes looking at me as I walked out, down the hallway and into the foggy evening.

Death and I ran into one another today. All I remember were his eyes staring at me as I left the parking lot, her lifeless body, still and serene, behind him.

-Mon

-x-x-x-

"Everything was perfectly swell.

There were no prisons, no slums, no insane asylums, no cripples, no poverty, no wars.

All diseases were conquered. So was old age.

Death, barring accidents, was an adventure for volunteers.

The population of the United States was stabilized at forty-million souls.

One bright morning in the Chicago Lying-in Hospital, a man named Edward K. Wehling, Jr., waited for his wife to give birth. He was the only man waiting. Not many people were born a day any more.

Wehling was fifty-six, a mere stripling in a population whose average age was one hundred and twenty-nine.

X-rays had revealed that his wife was going to have triplets. The children would be his first.

Young Wehling was hunched in his chair, his head in his hand. He was so rumpled, so still and colorless as to be virtually invisible. His camouflage was perfect, since the waiting room had a disorderly and demoralized air, too. Chairs and ashtrays had been moved away from the walls. The floor was paved with spattered dropcloths.

The room was being redecorated. It was being redecorated as a memorial to a man who had volunteered to die.

A sardonic old man, about two hundred years old, sat on a stepladder, painting a mural he did not like. Back in the days when people aged visibly, his age would have been guessed at thirty-five or so. Aging had touched him that much before the cure for aging was found.

The mural he was working on depicted a very neat garden. Men and women in white, doctors and nurses, turned the soil, planted seedlings, sprayed bugs, spread fertilizer.

Men and women in purple uniforms pulled up weeds, cut down plants that were old and sickly, raked leaves, carried refuse to trash-burners.

Never, never, never—not even in medieval Holland nor old Japan—had a garden been more formal, been better tended. Every plant had all the loam, light, water, air and nourishment it could use.

A hospital orderly came down the corridor, singing under his breath a popular song:

If you don't like my kisses, honey,
Here's what I will do:
I'll go see a girl in purple,
Kiss this sad world toodle-oo.
If you don't want my lovin',
Why should I take up all this space?
I'll get off this old planet,
Let some sweet baby have my place.

The orderly looked in at the mural and the muralist. "Looks so real," he said, "I can practically imagine I'm standing in the middle of it."

"What makes you think you're not in it?" said the painter. He gave a satiric smile. "It's called 'The Happy Garden of Life,' you know."

"That's good of Dr. Hitz," said the orderly.

He was referring to one of the male figures in white, whose head was a portrait of Dr. Benjamin Hitz, the hospital's Chief Obstetrician. Hitz was a blindingly handsome man.

"Lot of faces still to fill in," said the orderly. He meant that the faces of many of the figures in the mural were still blank. All blanks were to be filled with portraits of important people on either the hospital staff or from the Chicago Office of the Federal Bureau of Termination.

"Must be nice to be able to make pictures that look like something," said the orderly.

The painter's face curdled with scorn. "You think I'm proud of this daub?" he said. "You think this is my idea of what life really looks like?"

"What's your idea of what life looks like?" said the orderly.

The painter gestured at a foul dropcloth. "There's a good picture of it," he said. "Frame that, and you'll have a picture a damn sight more honest than this one."

"You're a gloomy old duck, aren't you?" said the orderly.

"Is that a crime?" said the painter.

The orderly shrugged. "If you don't like it here, Grandpa—" he said, and he finished the thought with the trick telephone number that people who didn't want to live any more were supposed to call. The zero in the telephone number he pronounced "naught."

The number was: "2 B R 0 2 B."

It was the telephone number of an institution whose fanciful sobriquets included: "Automat," "Birdland," "Cannery," "Catbox," "De-louser," "Easy-go," "Good-by, Mother," "Happy Hooligan," "Kiss-me-quick," "Lucky Pierre," "Sheepdip," "Waring Blendor," "Weep-no-more" and "Why Worry?"

"To be or not to be" was the telephone number of the municipal gas chambers of the Federal Bureau of Termination.

The painter thumbed his nose at the orderly. "When I decide it's time to go," he said, "it won't be at the Sheepdip."

"A do-it-yourselfer, eh?" said the orderly. "Messy business, Grandpa. Why don't you have a little consideration for the people who have to clean up after you?"

The painter expressed with an obscenity his lack of concern for the tribulations of his survivors. "The world could do with a good deal more mess, if you ask me," he said.

The orderly laughed and moved on.

Wehling, the waiting father, mumbled something without raising his head. And then he fell silent again.

A coarse, formidable woman strode into the waiting room on spike heels. Her shoes, stockings, trench coat, bag and overseas cap were all purple, the purple the painter called "the color of grapes on Judgment Day."

The medallion on her purple musette bag was the seal of the Service Division of the Federal Bureau of Termination, an eagle perched on a turnstile.

The woman had a lot of facial hair—an unmistakable mustache, in fact. A curious thing about gas-chamber hostesses was that, no matter how lovely and feminine they were when recruited, they all sprouted mustaches within five years or so.

"Is this where I'm supposed to come?" she said to the painter.

"A lot would depend on what your business was," he said. "You aren't about to have a baby, are you?"

"They told me I was supposed to pose for some picture," she said. "My name's Leora Duncan." She waited.

"And you dunk people," he said.

"What?" she said.

"Skip it," he said.

"That sure is a beautiful picture," she said. "Looks just like heaven or something."

"Or something," said the painter. He took a list of names from his smock pocket. "Duncan, Duncan, Duncan," he said, scanning the list. "Yes—here you are. You're entitled to be immortalized. See any faceless body here you'd like me to stick your head on? We've got a few choice ones left."

She studied the mural bleakly. "Gee," she said, "they're all the same to me. I don't know anything about art."

"A body's a body, eh?" he said, "All righty. As a master of fine art, I recommend this body here." He indicated a faceless figure of a woman who was carrying dried stalks to a trash-burner.

"Well," said Leora Duncan, "that's more the disposal people, isn't it? I mean, I'm in service. I don't do any disposing."

The painter clapped his hands in mock delight. "You say you don't know anything about art, and then you prove in the next breath that you know more about it than I do! Of course the sheave-carrier is wrong for a hostess! A snipper, a pruner—that's more your line." He pointed to a figure in purple who was sawing a dead branch from an apple tree. "How about her?" he said. "You like her at all?"

"Gosh—" she said, and she blushed and became humble—"that—that puts me right next to Dr. Hitz."

"That upsets you?" he said.

"Good gravy, no!" she said. "It's—it's just such an honor."

"Ah, You admire him, eh?" he said.

"Who doesn't admire him?" she said, worshiping the portrait of Hitz. It was the portrait of a tanned, white-haired, omnipotent Zeus, two hundred and forty years old. "Who doesn't admire him?" she said again. "He was responsible for setting up the very first gas chamber in Chicago."

"Nothing would please me more," said the painter, "than to put you next to him for all time. Sawing off a limb—that strikes you as appropriate?"

"That is kind of like what I do," she said. She was demure about what she did. What she did was make people comfortable while she killed them.

And, while Leora Duncan was posing for her portrait, into the waitingroom bounded Dr. Hitz himself. He was seven feet tall, and he boomed with importance, accomplishments, and the joy of living.

"Well, Miss Duncan! Miss Duncan!" he said, and he made a joke. "What are you doing here?" he said. "This isn't where the people leave. This is where they come in!"

"We're going to be in the same picture together," she said shyly.

"Good!" said Dr. Hitz heartily. "And, say, isn't that some picture?"

"I sure am honored to be in it with you," she said.

"Let me tell you," he said, "I'm honored to be in it with you. Without women like you, this wonderful world we've got wouldn't be possible."

He saluted her and moved toward the door that led to the delivery rooms. "Guess what was just born," he said.

"I can't," she said.

"Triplets!" he said.

"Triplets!" she said. She was exclaiming over the legal implications of triplets.

The law said that no newborn child could survive unless the parents of the child could find someone who would volunteer to die. Triplets, if they were all to live, called for three volunteers.

"Do the parents have three volunteers?" said Leora Duncan.

"Last I heard," said Dr. Hitz, "they had one, and were trying to scrape another two up."

"I don't think they made it," she said. "Nobody made three appointments with us. Nothing but singles going through today, unless somebody called in after I left. What's the name?"

"Wehling," said the waiting father, sitting up, red-eyed and frowzy. "Edward K. Wehling, Jr., is the name of the happy father-to-be."

He raised his right hand, looked at a spot on the wall, gave a hoarsely wretched chuckle. "Present," he said.

"Oh, Mr. Wehling," said Dr. Hitz, "I didn't see you."

"The invisible man," said Wehling.

"They just phoned me that your triplets have been born," said Dr. Hitz. "They're all fine, and so is the mother. I'm on my way in to see them now."

"Hooray," said Wehling emptily.

"You don't sound very happy," said Dr. Hitz.

"What man in my shoes wouldn't be happy?" said Wehling. He gestured with his hands to symbolize care-free simplicity. "All I have to do is pick out which one of the triplets is going to live, then deliver my maternal grandfather to the Happy Hooligan, and come back here with a receipt."

Dr. Hitz became rather severe with Wehling, towered over him. "You don't believe in population control, Mr. Wehling?" he said.

"I think it's perfectly keen," said Wehling tautly.

"Would you like to go back to the good old days, when the population of the Earth was twenty billion—about to become forty billion, then eighty billion, then one hundred and sixty billion? Do you know what a drupelet is, Mr. Wehling?" said Hitz.

"Nope," said Wehling sulkily.

"A drupelet, Mr. Wehling, is one of the little knobs, one of the little pulpy grains of a blackberry," said Dr. Hitz. "Without population control, human beings would now be packed on this surface of this old planet like drupelets on a blackberry! Think of it!"

Wehling continued to stare at the same spot on the wall.

"In the year 2000," said Dr. Hitz, "before scientists stepped in and laid down the law, there wasn't even enough drinking water to go around, and nothing to eat but sea-weed—and still people insisted on their right to reproduce like jackrabbits. And their right, if possible, to live forever."

"I want those kids," said Wehling quietly. "I want all three of them."

"Of course you do," said Dr. Hitz. "That's only human."

"I don't want my grandfather to die, either," said Wehling.

"Nobody's really happy about taking a close relative to the Catbox," said Dr. Hitz gently, sympathetically.

"I wish people wouldn't call it that," said Leora Duncan.

"What?" said Dr. Hitz.

"I wish people wouldn't call it 'the Catbox,' and things like that," she said. "It gives people the wrong impression."

"You're absolutely right," said Dr. Hitz. "Forgive me." He corrected himself, gave the municipal gas chambers their official title, a title no one ever used in conversation. "I should have said, 'Ethical Suicide Studios,'" he said.

"That sounds so much better," said Leora Duncan.

"This child of yours—whichever one you decide to keep, Mr. Wehling," said Dr. Hitz. "He or she is going to live on a happy, roomy, clean, rich planet, thanks to population control. In a garden like that mural there." He shook his head. "Two centuries ago, when I was a young man, it was a hell that nobody thought could last another twenty years. Now centuries of peace and plenty stretch before us as far as the imagination cares to travel."

He smiled luminously.

The smile faded as he saw that Wehling had just drawn a revolver.

Wehling shot Dr. Hitz dead. "There's room for one—a great big one," he said.

And then he shot Leora Duncan. "It's only death," he said to her as she fell. "There! Room for two."

And then he shot himself, making room for all three of his children.

Nobody came running. Nobody, seemingly, heard the shots.

The painter sat on the top of his stepladder, looking down reflectively on the sorry scene.

The painter pondered the mournful puzzle of life demanding to be born and, once born, demanding to be fruitful ... to multiply and to live as long as possible—to do all that on a very small planet that would have to last forever.

All the answers that the painter could think of were grim. Even grimmer, surely, than a Catbox, a Happy Hooligan, an Easy Go. He thought of war. He thought of plague. He thought of starvation.

He knew that he would never paint again. He let his paintbrush fall to the drop-cloths below. And then he decided he had had about enough of life in the Happy Garden of Life, too, and he came slowly down from the ladder.

He took Wehling's pistol, really intending to shoot himself.

But he didn't have the nerve.

And then he saw the telephone booth in the corner of the room. He went to it, dialed the well-remembered number: "2 B R 0 2 B."

"Federal Bureau of Termination," said the very warm voice of a hostess.

"How soon could I get an appointment?" he asked, speaking very carefully.

"We could probably fit you in late this afternoon, sir," she said. "It might even be earlier, if we get a cancellation."

"All right," said the painter, "fit me in, if you please." And he gave her his name, spelling it out.

"Thank you, sir," said the hostess. "Your city thanks you; your country thanks you; your planet thanks you. But the deepest thanks of all is from future generations."'

-x-x-x-

Death is a curious concept. As unnerving as it may sometimes be, I almost enjoy it as much as life itself. That rush when you and him are in the same elevator, or the arousing encounter you experience when his toy, like a revolver, is settled between your hands as it is just about ready to fuck you.

"I flirt with danger," I tend to say.

I guess you can say I enjoy flirting with death as well.

Rant/Link: Boston Globe - The Big Picture

2010-05-02T23:57:00.000-07:00

I cannot fathom the credibility (or lack thereof) within the media these days. Not only am I unsatisfied with the "issues" society undeniably thirsts for (currently the "most viewed" article on the Daily News is titled: "USC freshman running back Baxter gets into spin zone") but also with how writers, being the craftspeople that they are, mold our headlines, articles and the like into beasts. These ravenous beasts, though occasionally tamed, tarnish the majority's opinion by existing as the only opinion he or she is exposed to. This monster, therefore, roams across a human being's most cherished possession, the mind, in hopes of never crossing paths with another of his kind - dare I say, another opinion?

Images, too, reproduce their own creatures - maybe even more so than articles themselves. Blinded by what one feels is "the truth," images invoke a sense of trust between the viewer and photographer. Yet, that little brooding demon by the name of Perspective triggers the emotions that we feel (or do not feel). Almost in an instant, what one considers valid, transfigures into a furtive fiend - both text and photography possessing their own form of unmistakable notions.

Of course, one may counter "the media is not credible" with "nothing in life is credible;" to which, I wholeheartedly agree. Unfortunately, our experiences subsume the only rationalities of life itself; even the refutations, regardless of the fragmented honesty they may proclaim, have a spin catering to our own favorable outcome.

Therefore, in order to formulate a compelling opinion, one must illuminate various vantage points. Rather than nurturing a single beast that embraces a mere glimpse of yesterday's, today's and tomorrow's happenings, one must tame various brutes that compose the fundamentals of human opinion. Only then, after dedicating a plethora of time to [at least somewhat] comprehend the reasoning behind such masterminds, is one left with a definite feel for an "opinion." At that moment, rather than cloning beast after beast, one manifests his or her own.

The Boston Globe has a great collection of images from current events. Take a gander and begin conceiving your own, atypical, animal.

-Mon

Rant: "It's too late to change your mind..."

2010-04-29T14:56:00.000-07:00

"To each his own."

But when his own does not provide enough satisfaction, who is to say we are allowed to stumble back to the drawing board?

And just what happens when we overlook someone or something in this each?

To each his own.
To each his own.

Seems a bit limiting in my book...

My preference, you ask?

A board composed of multifarious "his owns"
and looked at seldom, if auspicious.

-Mon

Music: Laura Marling

2010-04-10T21:59:00.000-07:00

"but my mind has fucked me over more times than any man could ever know."

In essence, this lady has such talent. With the faintest movement of her lips, a powerful voice emerges. I truly adore female singers - so much variation.

Rant: And it all becomes a game

2010-04-08T19:46:00.000-07:00

“I've got bad news baby, and you're the first to know...” bellows above my head as I scramble for...
Nothing seems to make sense these days, and as I feel this sense at the tip of my tongue,
it becomes a mere figment of my own passionate imagination -
the intense, sensual encounter you experience, ever so perfectly, but never through physical means.

That's the price you pay for an imagination...
your mind paints everything a shade of gray;
you question yourself everyday
you wonder where the fuck you are going with your life
you fail to realize that the thing, staring right back at you, is an opportunity
or, a fallacy.

Not that I mind or anything, because chances are, Pocahontas, you worry more about the black and white than I ever will contemplate the gray.
I play this constant game of chance; a constant, unpredictable, game that may be seen as impractical, but satisfies the expansive hunger my beast of an imagination envelops.

So, continue attempting to kick some “sense” into my life, sweets.
This insane life I seem to lead will only expand into new horizons,
new cities, states, countries, worlds.
Nothing will ever make sense; everything will only be.

Nothing more, nothing less.

Hurry up, August.

Author: Jorge Luis Borges

2010-04-02T23:42:00.001-07:00

The Lottery in Babylon

Like all the men of Babylon, I have been proconsul; like all, I have been a slave. I have known omnipotence, ignominy, imprisonment. Look here-- my right hand has no index finger. Look here--through this gash in my cape you can see on my stomach a crimson tattoo--it is the second letter, Beth. On nights when the moon is full, this symbol gives me power over men with the mark of Gimel, but it subjects me to those with the Aleph, who on nights when there is no moon owe obedience to those marked with the Gimel. In the half-light of dawn, in a cellar, standing before a black altar, I have slit the throats of sacred bulls. Once, for an entire lunar year, I was declared invisible--I would cry out and no one would heed my call, I would steal bread and not be beheaded. I have known that thing the Greeks knew not--uncertainty. In a chamber of brass, as I faced the strangler's silent scarf, hope did not abandon me; in the river of delights, panic has not failed me. Heraclides Ponticus reports, admiringly, that Pythagoras recalled having been Pyrrhus, and before that, Euphorbus, and before that, some other mortal; in order to recall similar vicissitudes, I have no need of death, nor even of imposture.

I owe that almost monstrous variety to an institution--the Lottery-- which is unknown in other nations, or at work in them imperfectly or secretly. I have not delved into this institution's history. I know that sages cannot agree. About its mighty purposes I know as much as a man untutored in astrology might know about the moon. Mine is a dizzying country in which the Lottery is a major element of reality; until this day, I have thought as little about it as about the conduct of the indecipherable gods or of my heart. Now, far from Babylon and its beloved customs, I think with some bewilderment about the Lottery, and about the blasphemous conjectures that shrouded men whisper in the half-light of dawn or evening.

My father would tell how once, long ago--centuries? years?--the lottery in Babylon was a game played by commoners. He would tell (though whether this is true or not, I cannot say) how barbers would take a man's copper coins and give back rectangles made of bone or parchment and adorned with symbols. Then, in broad daylight, a drawing would be held; those smiled upon by fate would, with no further corroboration by chance, win coins minted of silver. The procedure, as you can see, was rudimentary.

Naturally, those so-called "lotteries" were a failure. They had no moral force whatsoever; they appealed not to all a man's faculties, but only to his hopefulness. Public indifference soon meant that the merchants who had founded these venal lotteries began to lose money. Someone tried something new: including among the list of lucky numbers a few unlucky draws. This innovation meant that those who bought those numbered rectangles now had a twofold chance: they might win a sum of money or they might be required to pay a fine--sometimes a considerable one. As one might expect, that small risk (for every thirty "good" numbers there was one ill-omened one) piqued the public's interest. Babylonians flocked to buy tickets. The man who bought none was considered a pusillanimous wretch, a man with no spirit of adventure. In time, this justified contempt found a second target: not just the man who didn't play, but also the man who lost and paid the fine. The Company (as it was now beginning to be known) had to protect the interest of the winners, who could not be paid their prizes unless the pot contained almost the entire amount of the fines. A lawsuit was filed against the losers: the judge sentenced them to pay the original fine, plus court costs, or spend a number of days in jail. In order to thwart the Company, they all chose jail. From that gauntlet thrown down by a few men sprang the Company's omnipotence--its ecclesiastical, metaphysical force.

Some time after this, the announcements of the numbers drawn began to leave out the lists of fines and simply print the days of prison assigned to each losing number. That shorthand, as it were, which went virtually unnoticed at the time, was of utmost importance: It was the first appearance of nonpecuniary elements in the lottery. And it met with great success--indeed, the Company was forced by its players to increase the number of unlucky draws.

As everyone knows, the people of Babylon are great admirers of logic, and even of symmetry. It was inconsistent that lucky numbers should pay off in round silver coins while unlucky ones were measured in days and nights of jail. Certain moralists argued that the possession of coins did not always bring about happiness, and that other forms of happiness were perhaps more direct.

The lower-caste neighborhoods of the city voiced a different complaint. The members of the priestly class gambled heavily, and so enjoyed all the vicissitudes of terror and hope; the poor (with understandable, or inevitable, envy) saw themselves denied access to that famously delightful, even sensual, wheel. The fair and reasonable desire that all men and women, rich and poor, be able to take part equally in the Lottery inspired indignant demonstrations--the memory of which, time has failed to dim. Some stubborn souls could not (or pretended they could not) understand that this was a novus ordo seclorum, a necessary stage of history.... A slave stole a crimson ticket; the drawing determined that that ticket entitled the bearer to have his tongue burned out. The code of law provided the same sentence for stealing a lottery ticket. Some Babylonians argued that the slave deserved the burning iron for being a thief, others, more magnanimous, that the executioner should employ the iron because thus fate had decreed. There were disturbances, there were regrettable instances of bloodshed, but the masses of Babylon at last, over the opposition of the well-to-do, imposed their will; they saw their generous objectives fully achieved. First, the Company was forced to assume all public power. (The unification was necessary because of the vastness and complexity of the new operations.) Second, the Lottery was made secret, free of charge, and open to all. The mercenary sale of lots was abolished; once initiated into the mysteries of Baal, every free man automatically took part in the sacred drawings, which were held in the labyrinths of the god every sixty nights and determined each man's destiny until the next drawing. The consequences were incalculable. A lucky draw might bring about a man's elevation to the council of the magi or the imprisonment of his enemy (secret, or known by all to be so), or might allow him to find, in the peaceful dimness of his room, the woman who would begin to disturb him, or whom he had never hoped to see again; an unlucky draw: mutilation, dishonor of many kinds, death itself. Sometimes a single event--the murder of C in a tavern, B's mysterious apotheosis--would be the inspired outcome of thirty or forty drawings. Combining bets was difficult, but we must recall that the individuals of the Company were (and still are) all--powerful, and clever. In many cases, the knowledge that certain happy turns were the simple result of chance would have lessened the force of those outcomes; to forestall that problem, agents of the Company employed suggestion, or even magic. The paths they followed, the intrigues they wove, were invariably secret. To penetrate the innermost hopes and innermost fears of every man, they called upon astrologers and spies. There were certain stone lions, a sacred latrine called Qaphqa, some cracks in a dusty aqueduct--these places, it was generally believed, gave access to the Company, and well- or ill-wishing persons would deposit confidential reports in them. An alphabetical file held those dossiers of varying veracity.

Incredibly, there was talk of favoritism, of corruption. With its customary discretion, the Company did not reply directly; instead, it scrawled its brief argument in the rubble of a mask factory. This apologia is now numbered among the sacred Scriptures. It pointed out, doctrinally, that the Lottery is an interpolation of chance into the order of the universe, and observed that to accept errors is to strengthen chance, not contravene it. It also noted that those lions, that sacred squatting-place, though not disavowed by the Company (which reserved the right to consult them), functioned with no official guarantee.

This statement quieted the public's concerns. But it also produced other effects perhaps unforeseen by its author. It profoundly altered both the spirit and the operations of the Company. I have but little time remaining; we are told that the ship is about to sail--but I will try to explain.

However unlikely it may seem, no one, until that time, had attempted to produce a general theory of gaming. Babylonians are not a speculative people; they obey the dictates of chance, surrender their lives, their hopes, their nameless terror to it, but it never occurs to them to delve into its labyrinthine laws or the revolving spheres that manifest its workings. Nonetheless, the semiofficial statement that I mentioned inspired numerous debates of a legal and mathematical nature. From one of them, there emerged the following conjecture: If the Lottery is an intensification of chance, a periodic infusion of chaos into the cosmos, then is it not appropriate that chance intervene in every aspect of the drawing, not just one? Is it not ludicrous that chance should dictate a person's death while the circumstances of that death--whether private or public, whether drawn out for an hour or a century--should not be subject to chance? Those perfectly reasonable objections finally prompted sweeping reform; the complexities of the new system (complicated further by its having been in practice for centuries) are understood by only a handful of specialists, though I will attempt to summarize them, even if only symbolically.

Let us imagine a first drawing, which condemns a man to death. In pursuance of that decree, another drawing is held; out of that second drawing come, say, nine possible executors. Of those nine, four might initiate a third drawing to determine the name of the executioner, two might replace the unlucky draw with a lucky one (the discovery of a treasure, say), another might decide that the death should be exacerbated (death with dishonor, that is, or with the refinement of torture), others might simply refuse to carry out the sentenceÖ. That is the scheme of the Lottery, put symbolically. In reality, the number of drawings is infinite. No decision is final; all branch into others. The ignorant assume that infinite drawings require infinite time; actually, all that is required is that time be infinitely subdivisible, as in the famous parable of the Race with the Tortoise. That infinitude coincides remarkably well with the sinuous numbers of Chance and with the Heavenly Archetype of the Lottery beloved of Platonists. Some distorted echo of our custom seems to have reached the Tiber: In his Life of Antoninus Heliogabalus, Aelius Lampridius tells us that the emperor wrote out on seashells the fate that he intended for his guests at dinner--some would receive ten pounds of gold; others, ten houseflies, ten dormice, ten bears. It is fair to recall that Heliogabalus was raised in Asia Minor, among the priests of his eponymous god.

There are also impersonal drawings, whose purpose is unclear. One drawing decrees that a sapphire from Taprobana be thrown into the waters of the Euphrates; another, that a bird be released from the top of a certain tower; another, that every hundred years a grain of sand be added to (or taken from) the countless grains of sand on a certain beach. Sometimes, the consequences are terrible.

Under the Company's beneficent influence, our customs are now steeped in chance. The purchaser of a dozen amphorae of Damascene wine will not be surprised if one contains a talisman, or a viper; the scribe who writes out a contract never fails to include some error; I myself, in this hurried statement, have misrepresented some splendor, some atrocity perhaps, too, some mysterious monotony.... Our historians, the most perspicacious on the planet, have invented a method for correcting chance; it is well known that the outcomes of this method are (in general) trust-worthy--although, of course, they are never divulged without a measure of deception. Besides, there is nothing so tainted with fiction as the history of the Company.... A paleographic document, unearthed at a certain temple, may come from yesterday's drawing or from a drawing that took place centuries ago. No book is published without some discrepancy between each of the edition's copies. Scribes take a secret oath to omit, interpolate, alter. Indirect falsehood is also practiced.

The Company, with godlike modesty, shuns all publicity. Its agents, of course, are secret; the orders it constantly (perhaps continually) imparts are no different from those spread wholesale by impostors. Besides--who will boast of being a mere impostor? The drunken man who blurts out an absurd command, the sleeping man who suddenly awakes and turns and chokes to death the woman sleeping at his side--are they not, perhaps, implementing one of the Company's secret decisions? That silent functioning, like God's, inspires all manner of conjectures. One scurrilously suggests that the Company ceased to exist hundreds of years ago, and that the sacred disorder of our lives is purely hereditary, traditional; another believes that the Company is eternal, and teaches that it shall endure until the last night, when the last god shall annihilate the earth. Yet another declares that the Company is omnipotent, but affects only small things: the cry of a bird, the shades of rust and dust, the half dreams that come at dawn. Another, whispered by masked heresiarchs, says that the Company has never existed, and never will. Another, no less despicable, argues that it makes no difference whether one affirms or denies the reality of the shadowy corporation, because Babylon is nothing but an infinite game of chance.

Lyrics: Fiona Apple

2010-03-23T18:49:00.000-07:00

"I let the beast in too soon,
I don't know how to live
Without my hand on his throat;
I fight him always & still
O darling, it's so sweet, you think you know how crazy
-How crazy I am..."

Fast as you can, baby run-free yourself of me fast as you can

Author: Alan Lightman

2010-03-18T16:50:00.000-07:00

Came home for a moment in hopes of sharing this article from 1993 -

By Alan Lightman
Published: February 8, 1993

"Suppose that people live forever.

Strangely, the population of each city splits in two: the Laters and the Nows.

The Laters reason that there is no hurry to begin their classes at the university, to learn a second language, to read Voltaire or Newton, to seek promotion in their jobs, to fall in love, to raise a family. In endless time, all things can be accomplished. Thus all things can wait. Indeed, hasty actions breed mistakes. And who can argue with their logic? The Laters can be recognized in any shop or promenade. They walk an easy gait and wear loose-fitting clothes. They take pleasure in reading whatever magazines are open or rearranging furniture in their homes, or slipping into conversation the way a leaf falls from a tree. The Laters sit in cafes sipping coffee and discussing the possibilities of life.

The Nows note that with infinite lives, they can do all they can imagine. They will have an infinite number of careers, they will marry an infinite number of times, they will change their politics infinitely. Each person will be a lawyer, a bricklayer, a writer, an accountant, a painter, a physician, a farmer. The Nows are constantly reading new books, studying new trades, new languages. In order to taste the infinities of life, they begin early and never go slowly. And who can question their logic? The Nows are easily spotted. They are the owners of the cafes, the college professors, the doctors and nurses, the politicians, the people who rock their legs constantly whenever they sit down. They move through a succession of lives, eager to miss nothing. When two Nows chance to meet at the hexagonal pilaster of the Zahringer Fountain, they compare the lives they have mastered, exchange information, and glance at their watches. When two Laters meet at the same location, they ponder the future and follow the parabola of the water with their eyes.

The Nows and Laters have one thing in common. With infinite life comes an infinite list of relatives. Grandparents never die, nor do great-grandparents, great-aunts and great-uncles, great-great-aunts, and so on, back through the generations, all alive and offering advice. Sons never escape from the shadows of their father. Nor do daughters of their mothers. No one ever comes into his own.

When a man starts a business, he feels compelled to talk it over with his parents and grandparents and great-grandparents, ad infinitum, to learn from their errors. For no new enterprise is new. All things have been attempted by some antecedent in the family tree. Indeed, all things have been accomplished. But at a price. For in such a world, the multiplication of achievements is partly divided by the diminishment of ambition.

And when a daughter wants guidance from her mother, she cannot get it undiluted. Her mother must ask her mother, who must ask her mother, and so on forever. Just as sons and daughters cannot make decisions themselves, they cannot turn to parents for confident advice. Parents are not the source of certainty. There are one million sources.

Where every action must be verfified one million times, life is tentative. Bridges thrust halfway over rivers and then abruptly stop. Buildings rise nine stories high but have no roofs. The grocer's stocks of ginger, salt, cod, and beef change with every change of mind, every consultation. Sentences go unfinished. Engagements end just days before weddings. And on the avenues and streets, people turn their heads and peer behind their backs, to see who might be watching.

Such is the cost of immortality. No person is whole. No person is free. Over time, some have determined that the only way to live is to die. In death, a man or a woman is free of the weight of the past. These few souls, with their dear relatives looking on, dive into Lake Constance or hurl themselves from Monte Lema, ending their infinite lives. In this way, the finite has conquered the infinite, millions of autumns have yielded to no autumns, millions of snowfalls have yielded to no snowfalls, millions of admonitions have yielded to none."

That is all.

x

[x] : [x]

2010-03-09T20:22:00.000-08:00

I feel it resonating through my body.
Bubbling.
Radiating.
Surreptitiously conquering me,
Centimeter by centimeter.
It laughs as I cave in.
Physically.
Emotionally.
This is my tipping point...
this is "too much..."

Then again, I suppose I will not learn from my mistakes,
because, shit, I am simply running in circles.
Running nowhere,
going everywhere,
powered by pure ecstasy.

So take a bow because I have dropped this tab of perfection.
Resonate, bubble and radiate, sweets - I want to cave in.

-Mon

Art: Otto Dix

2010-03-07T20:29:00.000-08:00

"Develop interest in life as you see it; in people, things, literature, music - the world is so rich - simply throbbing with rich treasures, beautiful souls and interesting people. Forget yourself."
-Henry Miller

Art: Vladimir Kush

2010-02-28T20:03:00.000-08:00

Put your hands together for sir Vladimir Kush, talented artist not only tantalizing our eyes with breathtaking images, but allowing us to step away from reality and journey into a completely new realm.

Enjoy,

[Wardrobe]

[Tide of Time]

[Ripples on the Ocean]

[Red Wood Cutting]

[Play With Fire]

[Ocean Sprout]

[Lovely Plant]

[Heavenly Fruits]

[Garden of Eden]

[Chess]

[Dream Catcher]

[Anticipation of a Night’s Shelter]

[Arrow of Time]
Thanks for the talks last night, Ev.

-Mon

2010-02-21T21:09:00.000-08:00

Expired

Classification: insane

Do with it what you will...

And this is what happens when you go insane. You swell up like a balloon, reach the size of a blimp, and shatter into bits and shards of broken glass. Then, no matter how hard anyone tries to pick up the pieces, a battle ensues between a million against one. Yet, unless a supreme individual stirs up enough courage to take on the challenge, the majority will prevail.

Short Story: Holes

2010-02-16T20:01:00.001-08:00

He whispers "are you ready?"
She nods.
In a split second they fall - fall down a hole of possibilities.
"When does it end?" she asks.
"It is only beginning."

New beginnings. New mistakes. New discoveries.
Much deserved and highly anticipated.

Such is life.

I merely stand at the opening, observing.
A nearby hole emanates my name as the gentleman Prince bellows from below: "you're a sinner, I don't care."

I am ready for my beginning, and I don't care either, dear Prince. Maybe you can make some time? Until then, Prince can serenade me.

"Woah, woah, Woah, woah..."

-Mon

Short Story: Eyes of a Blue Dog (Garcia Marquez)

2010-02-15T12:19:00.000-08:00

I'm finding flaws in everyone.
I've reached the point where all I want,
Is to sleep around in hopes that I will catch back up.
----
"Then she looked at me. I thought that she was looking at me for the first time. But then, when she turned around behind the lamp and I kept feeling her slippery and oily look in back of me, over my shoulder, I understood that it was I who was looking at her for the first time. I lit a cigarette. I took a drag on the harsh, strong smoke, before spinning in the chair, balancing on one of the rear legs. After that I saw her there, as if she'd been standing beside the lamp looking at me every night. For a few brief minutes that's all we did: look at each other. I looked from the chair, balancing on one of the rear legs. She stood, with a long and quiet hand on the lamp, looking at me. I saw her eyelids lighted up as on every night. It was then that I remembered the usual thing, when I said to her: 'Eyes of a blue dog.' Without taking her hand off the lamp she said to me: 'That. We'll never forget that.' She left the orbit, sighing: 'Eyes of a blue dog. I've written it everywhere.'

I saw her walk over to the dressing table. I watched her appear in the circular glass of the mirror looking at me now at the end of a back and forth of mathematical light. I watched her keep on looking at me with her great hot-coal eyes: looking at me while she opened the little box covered with pink mother of pearl. I saw her powder her nose. When she finished, she closed the box, stood up again, and walked over to the lamp once more, saying: 'I'm afraid that someone is dreaming about this room and revealing my secrets.' And over the flame she held the same long and tremulous hand that she had been warming before sitting down at the mirror. And she said: 'You don't feel the cold.' And I said to her: 'Sometimes.' And she said to me: 'You must feel it now.' And then I understood why I couldn't have been alone in the seat. It was the cold that had been giving me the certainty of my solitude. 'Now I feel it,' I said. 'And it's strange because the night is quiet. Maybe the sheet fell off.' She didn't answer. Again she began to move toward the mirror and I turned again in the chair, keeping my back to her. Without seeing her, I knew what she was doing. I knew that she was sitting in front of the mirror again, seeing my back, which had had time to reach the depths of the mirror and be caught by her look, which had also had just enough time to reach the depths and return--before the hand had time to start the second turn--until her lips were anointed now with crimson, from the first turn of her hand in front of the mirror. I saw, opposite me, the smooth wall, which was like another blind mirror in which I couldn't see her-- sitting behind me--but could imagine her where she probably was as if a mirror had been hung in place of the wall. 'I see you,' I told her. And on the wall I saw what was as if she had raised her eyes and had seen me with my back turned toward her from the chair, in the depths of the mirror, my face turned toward the wall. Then I saw her lower he eyes again and remain with her eyes always on her brassiere, not talking. And I said to her again: 'I see you.' And she raised her eyes from her brassiere again. 'That's impossible,' she said. I asked her why. And she, with her eyes quiet and on her brassiere again: 'Because your face is turned toward the wall.' Then I spun the chair around. I had the cigarette clenched in my mouth. When I stayed facing the mirror she was back by the lamp. Now she had her hands open over the flame, like the two wings of a hen, toasting herself, and with her face shaded by her own fingers. 'I think I'm going to catch cold,' she said. 'This must be a city of ice.' She turned her face to profile and her skin, from copper to red, suddenly became sad. 'Do something about it,' she said. And she began to get undressed, item by item, starting at the top with the brassiere. I told her: 'I'm going to turn back to the wall.' She said: 'No. In any case, you'll see me the way you did when your back was turned.' And no sooner had she said it than she was almost completely undressed, with the flame licking her long copper skin. 'I've always wanted to see you like that, with the skin of your belly full of deep pits, as if you'd been beaten.' And before I realized that my words had become clumsy at the sight of her nakedness she became motionless, warming herself on the globe of the lamp, and she said: 'Sometimes I think I'm made of metal.' She was silent for an instant. The position of her hands over the flame varied slightly. I said: 'Sometimes in other dreams, I've thought you were only a little bronze statue in the corner of some museum. Maybe that's why you're cold.' And she said: 'Sometimes, when I sleep on my heart, I can feel my body growing hollow and my skin is like plate. Then, when the blood beats inside me, it's as if someone were calling by knocking on my stomach and I can feel my own copper sound in the bed. It's like- -what do you call it--laminated metal.' She drew closer to the lamp. 'I would have liked to hear you,' I said. And she said: 'If we find each other sometime, put your ear to my ribs when I sleep on the left side and you'll hear me echoing. I've always wanted you to do it sometime.' I heard her breathe heavily as she talked. And she said that for years she'd done nothing different. Her life had been dedicated to finding me in reality, through that identifying phrase: 'Eyes of a blue dog.' And she went along the street saying it aloud, as a way of telling the only person who could have understood her:

'I'm the one who comes into your dreams every night and tells you: 'Eyes of a blue dog.'' And she said that she went into restaurants and before ordering said to the waiters: 'Eyes of a blue dog.' But the waiters bowed reverently, without remembering ever having said that in their dreams. Then she would write on the napkins and scratch on the varnish of the tables with a knife: 'Eyes of a blue dog.' And on the steamed-up windows of hotels, stations, all public buildings, she would write with her forefinger: 'Eyes of a blue dog.' She said that once she went into a drugstore and noticed the same smell that she had smelled in her room one night after having dreamed about me. 'He must be near,' she thought, seeing the clean, new tiles of the drugstore. Then she went over to the clerk and said to him: 'I always dream about a man who says to me: 'Eyes of a blue dog.'' And she said the clerk had looked at her eyes and told her: 'As a matter of fact, miss, you do have eyes like that.' And she said to him: 'I have to find the man who told me those very words in my dreams.' And the clerk started to laugh and moved to the other end of the counter. She kept on seeing the clean tile and smelling the odor. And she opened her purse and on the tiles with her crimson lipstick, she wrote in red letters: 'Eyes of a blue dog.' The clerk came back from where he had been. He told her: Madam, you have dirtied the tiles.' He gave her a damp cloth, saying: 'Clean it up.' And she said, still by the lamp, that she had spent the whole afternoon on all fours, washing the tiles and saying: 'Eyes of a blue dog,' until people gathered at the door and said she was crazy.

Now, when she finished speaking, I remained in the corner, sitting, rocking in the chair. 'Every day I try to remember the phrase with which I am to find you,' I said. 'Now I don't think I'll forget it tomorrow. Still, I've always said the same thing and when I wake up I've always forgotten what the words I can find you with are.' And she said: 'You invented them yourself on the first day.' And I said to her: 'I invented them because I saw your eyes of ash. But I never remember the next morning.' And she, with clenched fists, beside the lamp, breathed deeply: 'If you could at least remember now what city I've been writing it in.'

Her tightened teeth gleamed over the flame. 'I'd like to touch you now,' I said. She raised the face that had been looking at the light; she raised her look, burning, roasting, too, just like her, like her hands, and I felt that she saw me, in the corner where I was sitting, rocking in the chair. 'You'd never told me that,' she said. 'I tell you now and it's the truth,' I said. >From the other side of the lamp she asked for a cigarette. The butt had disappeared between my fingers. I'd forgotten I was smoking. She said: 'I don't know why I can't remember where I wrote it.' And I said to her: 'For the same reason that tomorrow I won't be able to remember the words.' And she said sadly: 'No. It's just that sometimes I think that I've dreamed that too.' I stood up and walked toward the lamp. She was a little beyond, and I kept on walking with the cigarettes and matches in my hand, which would not go beyond the lamp. I held the cigarette out to her. She squeezed it between her lips and leaned over to reach the flame before I had time to light the match. 'In some city in the world, on all the walls, those words have to appear in writing: 'Eyes of a blue dog,' I said. 'If I remembered them tomorrow I could find you.' She raised her head again and now the lighted coal was between her lips. 'Eyes of a blue dog,' she sighed, remembered, with the cigarette drooping over her chin and one eye half closed. The she sucked in the smoke with the cigarette between her fingers and exclaimed: 'This is something else now. I'm warming up.' And she said it with her voice a little lukewarm and fleeting, as if she hadn't really said it, but as if she had written it on a piece of paper and had brought the paper close to the flame while I read: 'I'm warming,' and she had continued with the paper between her thumb and forefinger, turning it around as it was being consumed and I had just read '. . . up,' before the paper was completely consumed and dropped all wrinkled to the floor, diminished, converted into light ash dust. 'That's better,' I said. 'Sometimes it frightens me to see you that way. Trembling beside a lamp.'

We had been seeing each other for several years. Sometimes, when we were already together, somebody would drop a spoon outside and we would wake up. Little by little we'd been coming to understand that our friendship was subordinated to things, to the simplest of happenings. Our meetings always ended that way, with the fall of a spoon early in the morning.

Now, next to the lamp, she was looking at me. I remembered that she had also looked at me in that way in the past, from that remote dream where I made the chair spin on its back legs and remained facing a strange woman with ashen eyes. It was in that dream that I asked her for the first time: 'Who are you?' And she said to me: 'I don't remember.' I said to her: 'But I think we've seen each other before.' And she said, indifferently: 'I think I dreamed about you once, about this same room.' And I told her: 'That's it. I'm beginning to remember now.' And she said: 'How strange. It's certain that we've met in other dreams.'

She took two drags on the cigarette. I was still standing, facing the lamp, when suddenly I kept looking at her. I looked her up and down and she was still copper; no longer hard and cold metal, but yellow, soft, malleable copper. 'I'd like to touch you,' I said again. And she said: 'You'll ruin everything.' I said: 'It doesn't matter now. All we have to do is turn the pillow in order to meet again.' And I held my hand out over the lamp. She didn't move. 'You'll ruin everything,' she said again before I could touch her. 'Maybe, if you come around behind the lamp, we'd wake up frightened in who knows what part of the world.' But I insisted: 'It doesn't matter.' And she said: 'If we turned over the pillow, we'd meet again. But when you wake up you'll have forgotten.' I began to move toward the corner. She stayed behind, warming her hands over the flame. And I still wasn't beside the chair when I heard her say behind me: 'When I wake up at midnight, I keep turning in bed, with the fringe of the pillow burning my knee, and repeating until dawn: 'Eyes of a blue dog.''

Then I remained with my face toward the wall. 'It's already dawning,' I said without looking at her. 'When it struck two I was awake and that was a long time back.' I went to the door. When I had the knob in my hand, I heard her voice again, the same, invariable. 'Don't open that door,' she said. 'The hallway is full of difficult dreams.' And I asked her: 'How do you know?' And she told me: 'Because I was there a moment ago and I had to come back when I discovered I was sleeping on my heart.' I had the door half opened. I moved it a little and a cold, thin breeze brought me the fresh smell of vegetable earth, damp fields. She spoke again. I gave the turn, still moving the door, mounted on silent hinges, and I told her: 'I don't think there's any hallway outside here. I'm getting the smell of country.' And she, a little distant, told me: 'I know that better than you. What's happening is that there's a woman outside dreaming about the country.' She crossed her arms over the flame. She continued speaking: 'It's that woman who always wanted to have a house in the country and was never able to leave the city.' I remembered having seen the woman in some previous dream, but I knew, with the door ajar now, that within half an hour I would have to go down for breakfast. And I said: 'In any case, I have to leave here in order to wake up.'

Outside the wind fluttered for an instant, then remained quiet, and the breathing of someone sleeping who had just turned over in bed could be heard. The wind from the fields had ceased. There were no more smells. 'Tomorrow I'll recognize you from that,' I said. 'I'll recognize you when on the street I see a woman writing 'Eyes of a blue dog' on the walls.' And she, with a sad smile--which was already a smile of surrender to the impossible, the unreachable--said: 'Yet you won't remember anything during the day.' And she put her hands back over the lamp, her features darkened by a bitter cloud. 'You're the only man who doesn't remember anything of what he's dreamed after he wakes up.'"
-Gabriel Garcia Marquez

Blasphemy I say. I cannot handle this any longer.

-Monica

Music/Blogs: Radio Hotbodies

2010-02-09T15:32:00.000-08:00

If you're looking to "stumble upon" some great music, check out Radio Hotbodies. Josh records some great podcasts every week with guests and the like. Spread the word - he's a keeper. ;)

Adieus!
Mon

Art: Gustav Klimt

2010-02-02T16:35:00.001-08:00

Introducing [well known] Gustav Klimt:

"You put faith in the geometry of love-- man blanketed in dull angles, rectangles of obtuseness woman in heat, dressed in a cloth of earth-red and sun circles-- concentricity. Near the cliff of passion, on a bed of curlicued flowers, hanging by the thread of joy. The clinging of yellow fern-like hands, flowing from the shared curves of ecstacy, a wrap of yellow fusion in ovals."

Over 'n out,
Mon

Short Story: The Little Man in My Spine

2010-01-31T20:36:00.000-08:00

The unmistakable yellow light instantaneously morphs into a frightening red orb as I glide through the battlefield, its power stopping thousand pound machines. Yet, something underneath my epidermis, underneath my tiny veins, even underneath my bones awakes at this sheer moment of rebellion.

Screeching an unbearable tune, a little man no larger than a micron stumbles over to his alarm and prepares for the assault.

Assault?!

An invisible syringe injects 60 units of optimism in my veins, immediately cultivating a grin worth a thousand words across my face. In a nanosecond I feel him. His foot, full speed at my spine. My back cringes. My mind longs for that invisible syringe...

In a millisecond, he has vanished. The pain is gone and I am back to “normal.”

xxx

He has no name. He has minimal personality. Only appearing in moments of sheer insubordination, my decision in pursuing something verboten leads to our courting.

His home, you ask?

Slightly off center in my lumbar vertebrae he has crafted a beautiful villa, overlooking the sea of blood vessels that travel day in and day out. Living the most lavishly of all workers in the human body, he preoccupies himself with two main duties – cleaning and sleeping. Each room is decorated with anatomical references: the “intestinal” hallway, “pulmonary” den and “histological” play room, to name a few. And each of these rooms sports a brilliantly colored alarm. An alarm that once rung, resonates through the whole villa causing this little man to quickly stop cleaning (or sleeping). In such dire moments, he sprints to his garage, jumps in his gondola and whizzes down to the lower spine.

Expletives generally emerge from his one toothed mouth when the alarm sounds – the mother fucker hates his job (unfortunately, he inherited the job from his father). In picoseconds he begins thrashing at my lower spine, initiating the most unbelievable psychological and physical pains.

His twin brother plays a similar role, residing in the outskirts of the gut. Although not as militarily advanced as his brother, the twin triumphantly attacks my gut within record time: just as my brain analyzes the situation, heart skips a beat and the man in my lower back begins to emerge, the alarms sound.

Time for this unsettling queasy feeling to spread...

Yet, I can't seem to get enough of it. I can't seem to stop.

These little men hate me more than ever before.

xxx

Someone once asked me to describe my feelings when breaking the law...

I responded, “don't talk to me, talk to the little man in my bones,” and I walked away, grinning and ever so satisfied.

Currently, the little man sleeps and his alarms patiently wait for the next acts of dissent.

2010-01-27T21:33:00.000-08:00

Noun 1. beguilement - magnetic personal charm
animal magnetism, bewitchery
attractiveness - sexual allure
2. beguilement - an entertainment that provokes pleased interest and distracts you from worries and vexations
distraction
entertainment, amusement - an activity that is diverting and that holds the attention

And all one can hear is a fellow redhead sing
"You know you wanna make her
Show her your money maker
She says out out out oh yeah ."

Oh, Jenny Lewis...

Books: To Be Tackled

2010-01-26T13:22:00.000-08:00

The clock slowly ticks to hours of sheer insanity (er, try three a.m), I sit there, sipping my coffee and reading a fresh book.

Fresh in a sense that "I started this book at 6 pm and haven't had the decency to put it down" sort of fresh. Being almost halfway into* "Eat, Pray, Love" (*note: halfway into is far more optimistic than halfway through; one shouldn't anticipate finishing literary works but rather slowly digest their beauty), my new book list seems a bit... much.

I should read the recently purchased books off of amazon (Invisible Cities, Confessions of an Opium Eater and Angels in America); however, my craving for an immense collection of books (which is actually becoming quite successful) continues to stir.

Below are a few books that I will begin used book store hunting:

and,

* If you have not already, please read Three Cups of Tea... Mortenson is seriously a hero.

Let the searching commence and library expand!

-Monica

Art: James Jean and Andrea Offermann

2010-01-20T21:46:00.000-08:00

James Jean: He seems to enjoy creating pop-like surrealism - totally floating my boat in the process. I absolutely adore how much color he incorporates into his artwork. It seems to be a waterfall of life spilling onto a sheet of absurdity.

To top it all off, James Jean's exhibit ends in 4 days! -pout- I suppose a trek over to downtown L.A on Saturday is absolutely necessary.

JANM
369 E. First Street
LA, CA 90012

Andrea Offermann: I cannot sum up a decent description to do this lady some justice. Playful yet slightly dark?

'Tis all.

<3

Music/Blogs: Take Away Shows

2010-01-19T22:00:00.000-08:00

After some major cleaning up with my google reader subscriptions, I finally feel like I will be somewhat up to date with art, music and current events. Three cheers for progress!

However, that has absolutely nothing to do with the above mentioned "Music/Blogs;" therefore, I will end on this note: check out La Blogotheque's Take Away Shows. Not only is the sound and video quality masterful, but these little concerts are settled in the most unlikely places.

Phoenix - 1901 - A Take Away Show from La Blogotheque on Vimeo.

Who ever said a busy tourist space in Paris was off limits? Express yourself!

Oh, the things I would do Music - if he actually were a human being.
-snicker- ;)

Until next time,
Mon

Photo cred: Mr.Hayes

1:47 p.m, Location: some park in Canoga Park

2010-01-16T23:19:00.000-08:00

I was surrounded by strangers. Yet, nothing really mattered... no one cared to listen to my past; instead, they were intrigued by the present. The wind pushed me forward: "continue opening your heart" she whispered, yet my mind stood his ground. Hostility at its finest! Ha! I walked to the nearest tree, tipped my fedora and began reading whilst I undoubtedly listened to laughing children and a soccer game progress.

Simplicity...