Tuesday, January 7, 2014

Happy Nativity

It's been a half a year since I wrote a blog. There are a lot of reasons why I stopped writing. If my ego shows, my words are selfish. Tread lightly. There is enough cynicism in the world. I started to feel a responsibility to write quality work or nothing. However, I have excellent taste. I can point out what will help. But not today.

Friday, May 3, 2013

Marvin Gaye, I'm With You

I remember a rant from Holden Caulfield about his brother selling his talent out to Hollywood. Vaguely remember. Something about two people of the opposite gender dropping a book, giggling, and picking up the book. Then WHAM! Instant love. Out of boredom I watched the awful movie, "How to Lose a Man in Ten Days"

-Ha! I can lose them in two days!

These uninspired movies, countless, forgetfull movies like,"Love and Other Drugs" always end with the female character taxi-cabbing it or Greyhounding it to this 'Secret World'. I guess they have jobs lined up that pay high amounts for impulsive employment. These jobs also hook them up with rooms for rent too. And bonus: in a world where love is everywhere, they never lose their beauty and values, so they live out their lives in eternal youth, blarring Joy Division, and owning the best Marc Jacob purses that their limitless money can buy. These women are smart, love never dies, conflict does not exist, nor does sexism. They get high pay in important cities for their brilliant minds (although they still look like movie stars.)

Unfortuantely, some of these women never get to this utopia where everyone recognizes their brains, not bra size, because, like that latter movie I mentioned, their love interest pulls the bus over (or a cab in New York City Traffic on the way to the airport to utopia). Then 40 non-drug addled Greyhound folks sit quietly while the unhappy couple hash out their drama and mend their love. Then she gets back in the dropped down convertable and returns to the world that everyone knows about except these gorgeous women who always have an "out" when love sours.

That's not what is bumming me out. How do I try to articulate this? I have the soul of an elderly woman. I watch Dateline Mystery before I fall to sleep because I have unemployment personality. I can write this blog. A few days ago my cat was lost for a long time. Locked away in a working couple's home because the noise of the gardening crew scared him. A crack in the fabric of my sanity became an earthquake in my spinning sense of hopelessness. And it all went back to these Dateline Mysteries.

Dateline Mystery is entertainment for the white, middle class world. The homecoming queen gets stabbed to death. But the case gets solved after 15 years. Why is a family's misery 'entertainment'? Because it did not happen to them? The lead narrator tries to get the family to pour their hearts out. In one episode a brother flatly said, "I'm not going to give you the details of my sister's body when I found her. I see that image every day!"

Next are these comments, not just for Dateline, but most YouTube comments. Just insults. A new generation is 'finding their voice' on-line in comments to YouTube stories. And it's a hostile enviornment. Oscar Wilde said, "Give a man a mask and he will tell the truth." I say that when a person wears a mask all manners go.

In fact one Dateline murderess blamed the Internet on why she killed a rival. She said that the computer screen gives false confidence. Personally I try to keep tact while e-mailing, because I've had hateful e-mail that would never have been sent had they seen my face's reaction. I'd like to cling to the belief that people are not inherently mean. Just insecure.

The sad fact is that a lot of people are boring. Boring people don't say exciting things. And talent that is fresh is often rejected. I can't wait to do a blog on Tarantino. But first I have to blog about how out of control my 'unemployement personality' has gotten. That I chase Lucian (my cat) around with a glass of wine screaming, "I love your shiny hiknee!"

Does it take trauma to circulate blood faster? No. I don't have that answer. I can't focus on this blog because my cat, The Big L, is crying for attention. And it's simple things like that that make me happy. Life is a blur. But if you assign love to people who deserve it (and our furry friends), you won't notice the bad, the mediocre, my poor spelling, the injustice. That's the only answer I have. Love those who are worth it.

Saturday, April 13, 2013

A Basketball Game

Years ago, before I got the call that my younger brother took his life, I had a dream. I was so fresh into my relationship, the bed was still on the opposite side of the wall. This was before I cared about what my new home looked like. This was me beginning a loving affection for my new fiance. In real life I slept with him on his NASA bed. In dreams, I had a nightmare that a hot Asian woman moved in as a roommate and seduced my new fiance. I woke up shaking. This was so long ago, I doubt my (then) fiance remembered me nervously reciting my dream.

"A woman came in here and stole EVERYTHING. Your heart. My new life. Everything that was perfect was gone." At this time I knew crystal clear that I loved my life. Loved everything about my quirky and handsome fiance who stayed with me through a long isolation period in Nebraska. Who remembered snipets of me when I was only 26. A gentlemen who I loved against my will. The plan was to move my sister and brother in his three bedroom home. Have an affair on the side. But I fell hard for him after only a few weeks in his company. I had everything I've always wanted. I was happy.

Last night I had the first dream of it's kind in 22 years. My mother asked me if I loved her. When I said, "I think about you all the time," She asked again, harder and more stern: "But do you love me all the time?"

I never knew how good I had it. This is not a tabloid. I have no intention of writing down the soppy details of a death. But I'll tell you how happy I was before I got that call.

My fiance and I never fought. I blarred Air Supply jokingly. There were many family photos of us and our spruced up home. I digged his vast knowlege of music. His snobbish food choices. His ambition. Then a phone call shattered my reality.

The bridge between happiness and such extreme grief is a long way to hell in a milla-second.

From there I knew I lost. I could no longer insult mean people. Because it only took one mention of my brother's departure to destroy me. I was so fragile. I am so fragile. It never ends. I watch these Datelines or 48hours about death on YouTube and they never focus on the loss. But it's the same univerisally. Those 48hours on YouTube have ONE SENTENCE on loss. Because people don't want to break their stride and focus on their lottery ticket to eternal sleep. Death of a loved one reminds us of our own death.

When my brother died I went drunk off of Vodka to the emergency room. They turned me away for being drunk. A woman named Raven saw me the next day at the E.R. She said, "It's a struggle that never goes away." And if I could take that pain from my family I'd die a happy person. It's sick to see others grieve. Unspeakable.

I went out to get the Vodka. I went out to the E.R. I went to the doctor yelling of killing a random politician though my words meant nothing. I knew this was the end of me. No, I will not go into details. But I can not longer drink Whiskey because it will kill me. I nearly died from anaphactic shock from the corn in Whiskey. I drank for so long that my body rejected certain alcohol.


One morning I woke up crying uncontrollably and my finance said, "Whoa, this is a nightmare." He meant what he had to go through. All my happiness was turned into nightly sweats and day terrors.

A week of walking on the beach, talking to people, crying in shock- you never lose that shock, and soon it becomes terrifying to lose the idea of not caring. My fiance took me to his classes. One day I saw my first roommate, who knew my brother. Three days after getting the news. I saw her at a computer lab. I whispered in her ear, "Ambrose committed suicide three days ago." She mumbled something like, "Well that's what happens..." Then she started talking about sex and still owning my sister's bras. I felt sick. Physically sick. So I went back to my fiance's class.


After a little more then a week I went out to watch my fiance play basketball. I was watching his adorably dorky friend repeatedly say, "Hey, I keep forgetting that you're on my team." I started laughing. It felt so awesome! I felt the wind on my face. The air. I could feel that life would go on. Yes, I'd always miss my brother. Every single day he is in my thoughts. And at night he comes into my dreams and mainly still, my nightmares. I watched that basketball game bring me back to life. It's funny what you remember. I don't remember the ocean wind on my face. I don't remember sleeping that night. Or who called to say they were sorry.

Actually you cling on to their memory and live for their values. Even at your own expense. Some douchebag made a joke about my brother's death while in my living room. A few months later, I got an e-mail saying the only reason this person tried to be my friend, was because my brother died. Not hateful people. These were people I thought were my rock and support. I know better now.

Ambrose died on Leap Year. That year, I jumped off a massive rock into the green Trinity river. I figured, if I could take my own life, I can take this risk. I have two people to live for now. More then two people. But these are the blood of mine own. No time machine would allow me to scream, sing, and dance in a thunderstorm. I learned how fragile life is again. I'll never forget so I don't have to be reminded though shock.

Tuesday, April 9, 2013

Belgian Symbolist: Fernand Khnopff

OKAY, I come to this lounge for free wi-fi. Two redneck t.v's are on each side of this lounge. One is blarring on about Jesus Christ. The other is a football anaylsis.
I thought I'd downloaded a painting of Khnopff to show his genius. But I can't seem to find that e-mail. So this blog is going to be on my limited knowledge of this sublime painter (Oh, relief...I turned off one of the boob tubes rambling annoyance). After I exhuast my love of him, you should probably check for yourself. God bless Wikipedia.

Hands down, my favorite artist is not Fernand Khnopff. It's Yves Klein. And I've wrote more then one blog about a martial artist, French, highly spiritual genius who died of a heart attack at 32 (I think 32.)

At twenty, I was assigning the beauty I did not know that I had in myself to other people; I treated the idea of them as if knowing their secrets rested my entire salvation.

During this phase I did great things- always alone. I would take the Redding train at 3 a.m. only to visit the MOMA in San Francisco. The third floor was my favorite. There was a ritual around the trip. Dress well. Drink one cup of black coffee. Limber my thoughts and off she goes!

There was the eye candy of the Germans. My favorite art visually is watercolor with black pen on grainy paper. Dreamy. Then there are concept pieces. And the best can mix both or stay polorized. Fernand Khnopff, a Belgian Symbolist painter, did both.

And damn that I could not upload a painting! They are angelic, golden- his speciality is piercing eyes. Visually he is on cloud 9. But what I loved the most was reading about his life. He loved his sister in a very strong and rightgeous way. Most of his paintings on on his sister.

During this time I innocently stalked a man who was, by all means, more beautiful a soul then me. He launched baloons with hand written letters inside them asking, "Are you the one for me to love?" I mention him because he had (or wanted, I don't remember) a tatoo of his only sibling- his sister. I thought he was so wired in life. All my life, I've only been an observer. Not because I don't want to get out in the World (sacred words get capitalized) and LIVE, but because I am nearly cripplingly insecure. Now that I am starting to adjust to my looks, I'm damn near old enough to run for President of the U.S.of A. I spent my 20's not understanding....

Side Note: In large part, my insecurity came from dating mean men, who said things like, "You are not a paticularly beautiful person." Made jokes about family tradeties that made me appear crazy and uncredible. And never showed me real love.

....that I was attractive, and I was not crazy. No one can move alone so often like I have- a couragous act- then retain all your previous friends and bend with the new cultures. Hey, this blog is called "themaladjusted" for a reason.

I love Fernand Khnopff's love for his sister. His hauntingly stunning paintings. And if one loves their sister so much, they are not cold like Worhal (sp?) So I'll try to upload a photo soon.

Thursday, January 3, 2013

Self Love: Important as our Air Supply

A few years ago, when I was living with a man I loved, I learned something that would outlast our time together. Like armor. He would get lost surfing the Internet, and I'd come into the computer room to rub his shoulders and peer over his head at the screen. He was looking at the Myspace photos of a musician- a wealthy, young, lustful man who knew it. I saw clever captions in posted photos of mainly himself alone. "We live, as we dream, alone."
I said, "This guy is really into himself." My ex said, "If he does not love himself, who would love him?"
I recently blocked a woman who I lived with for ten years. My step sister. Who has time for people who never reciprate your love? And I loved her so much. The World has far too many good people to hang onto those who are cruel. In our early twenties I took four seperate buses and trains (the subway in D.C.) to see her. Most of the time I'd take a few hours with the transfer, and when I got to her house she said the same thing: I forgot that I have to work, so clean my room and do the dishes before I get home." She had such an entitement complex. I was working then too. This girl was rock hard. A thorough snob. A bitch without a reason. One night I was cleaning her room and I found a list she had written. Ten years spent with this girl and I'd never in my most imaginative state, think she would write this list. It was a self esteem check list. She was a beautiful woman, with big green eyes and long blonde hair. An artist too. Well, good at drawing and painting and creating. No soul injection.
No one is more interesting then you are to yourself. Its a lesson everyone should learn. BUT...self esteem is something earned. If you're a cruel person, one day everyone will leave you. Feeding into mean people makes the statement that it's okay to be mean. There is no God to penalize you. No confession booth to dissolve your sins. You create your scene.
I'd rather make a movie on my own life. Tenesse Williams had a quote that changed my motives when I read it: "Look at them. The glamorous people. Eating it up. Living life. People go to the movies instead of moving themselves."
That turned me into a gypsy.
That blog on my cocktail waitress days brings me to the subject of grace. The meanest girl there- my co-worker- now works in town at The Sushi Spot. When I see her I make a point to say hello, and when she is our waitress I tip extra. But I don't believe in that, "Kill them with kindness" shit. Or to turn the other cheek.I'm not the one to write the Bible. Rules are left to the individual- not a blanket morality check list for a society in general.

Thursday, December 27, 2012

On Telling the Government to Fuck Themselves 2

It's a royal pain to link my smartphone up to my laptop and find this blog- let alone write an entry. Unlike the first blogs, there is no way for me to effiencently fix spelling mistakes, open other pages, or be certain this computer with a very chewed up cable (my cat ate it) connecting the laptop to the smartphone will hold steady while I try to overcome a few years of writer's block.

Anyway, in the spirit of Catcher in the Rye when I went to get squared with Humboldt's financial aid, I had to read my profanity laced letter outloud. There I was, long line behind me, talking to the head of the financial aid office at Humboldt about a letter I honestly do not remember writing. I had $8,000 in cash to get back into school. But in my file was a paper I wrote, with a conclusion highlighted that the office head not only pointed to, she made me read it with an apologetic terror.

"After carefully consideration of your request to give you the eight grand I walked away with for total debauchery, I have come to my final conclusion: which is to please go fuck yourselves."

They highlighted the sentence and double underlined the last three words. She didn't go gagsta on me, like the first blog of this title, but I had to write an apology letter for all employees in her office.

Thursday, December 20, 2012

2012: The Year of the Dragon

Today I graduated with a B.A. in English with an emphasis in Creative Writing at Humboldt State University. Before I moved up to Humboldt I was a Junior at San Francisco State with a major in Creative Writing. I attended three community colleges to get an A.A.in Biology, which I switched to Lit.

My first University Professor was named, "Chet Wiener" and his class: Writers on Writing, was where I found my first fiance: Sean Labrabor. He wrote a poem about me that won the 2004 San Francisco Poetry Award: The Dark Continent. Years later my friend Ami changed her e-mail name to 'Chet Wiener' (it sounds better in French) and when I checked my e-mail I thought, "My God, for years he has been stalking me!"

I lived in Austin as a piece of lettuce for a year. A lion in heat. Luckily I kept my mind limber with what chemicals nature provided. And experience.

Yes, I had a red phase. Ended in a green phase. I'll begin with a clean phase, like a this page. The cycle is whatever you desire.

This year was forseen by a friend as "The Year of Good Fortune." I worked hard for what I have and for that I am grateful.

Somewhere in between here my heart legally stopped. I drank gallons of coffee. Bought half a Redwood tree in paper. Walked many miles to get to campus.

I took 70 units above that to graduate. Today is a day to celebrate. I dedicate this degree to my family, who believed in me in spite of my flaws.