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.
Thursday, December 20, 2012
Sunday, August 19, 2012
The Importance of Luck
So the virus in my smartphone connects to my laptop and makes writing even more difficult. But I need to write.
Hearing the medocrity of my upstairs neighbor playing Aaaaa,Eeeee,Aaaaa,Eeeee: For two months is enough to make me realize an outpouring of thoughts is needed. That and I read an awuful blog about a stupid dream. If I ever write a dream blog that uneventful I should stop all together.
These people come out with their copied Vogue fashions, copied musical trends, copied art played off as a homage to a greater artist. I don't want to be those people. I want to be fresh.
Art is inspired by the politics of our time. Wisdom coming from the depth of an acid trip. Our cosy bubble of Facebook news and photoshopped bodies of what is in vogue are killing me. Right now there is a band in jail named Pussy Riot. People will run with that until they get bored. And they always get bored. Bored with compassion. MoveOn.org waits for their Wave of bullhorns.
The artists of our time wait to get a "Like" on Facebook when they show their work while clinging to people asking them, "What should I do to be relevant?" The circle is always there. But in every Shakespear play there is the circle, and one who stands out. That is the perpetuation of life. I stand out and observe. But I am not a critic.
One hit wonders can't guide a movement. They are the buzz of a fly caught between a window and a curtain. People are loud, and often empty. The Ego wants it's day in court. To swear on the bible which is no longer capitalized. To swear what is beautiful to them. Like a love story written by a balding short man. I too love walks on the beach.
I knew a man who said the ocean was his only fear. He had been to war. He killed men. Men with families. He changed the name of murder to suit his nightdreams. The ocean represented Eternity to him. That concept terrified him. For me too as a child. Wondering what we would do together in heaven with nothingn but whiteness surrounding us. Hearing the ticking clock on Earth knowning the alarm is set in this domain.
I looked at my face in the relection of a clock. Then I ran. To the North of ice cream and granite rocks. Bridges and warm hot choclate. But love was not there and the clock said to wander more. I chose the calender poster of California's oceans. Colgate smiles on bronzed bodies. Pills- blue (sleep) red (social) white (memory erasers)...
Too many personailities in a bottle. So I ran.
Some words in a diary are my Bible. I ran to Texas, where people bury guns in the clay ground because Obama is coming for their liberities. The standards of beauty are interupted with what the Western World taught me to love. And everyone wanted me to ride an electric bull while drunk on attention. I never sold my sexuality. Never was a whore.
Now I am without a rosary in limbo. At night I wake up in sweat. I put the calender back up and clench my fists. Green life surrounds my stand for acceptance. Let me play. The clock did not harden me. I live with golden light in my thoughts. May be just a wave in human construction. But I'll never say the word 'try' or 'worry'. Nor will I play only two notes. My dreams are of colorful police states. Battons. The Howl of the Circle. My Ego says I am more then the sum of two notes. A photo of me with lovely mounds under thrift store clothing, and a painted on face. A mirror on my reproduction roar. To the crowd I will observe and say: I am out of the race and like it that way.
Hearing the medocrity of my upstairs neighbor playing Aaaaa,Eeeee,Aaaaa,Eeeee: For two months is enough to make me realize an outpouring of thoughts is needed. That and I read an awuful blog about a stupid dream. If I ever write a dream blog that uneventful I should stop all together.
These people come out with their copied Vogue fashions, copied musical trends, copied art played off as a homage to a greater artist. I don't want to be those people. I want to be fresh.
Art is inspired by the politics of our time. Wisdom coming from the depth of an acid trip. Our cosy bubble of Facebook news and photoshopped bodies of what is in vogue are killing me. Right now there is a band in jail named Pussy Riot. People will run with that until they get bored. And they always get bored. Bored with compassion. MoveOn.org waits for their Wave of bullhorns.
The artists of our time wait to get a "Like" on Facebook when they show their work while clinging to people asking them, "What should I do to be relevant?" The circle is always there. But in every Shakespear play there is the circle, and one who stands out. That is the perpetuation of life. I stand out and observe. But I am not a critic.
One hit wonders can't guide a movement. They are the buzz of a fly caught between a window and a curtain. People are loud, and often empty. The Ego wants it's day in court. To swear on the bible which is no longer capitalized. To swear what is beautiful to them. Like a love story written by a balding short man. I too love walks on the beach.
I knew a man who said the ocean was his only fear. He had been to war. He killed men. Men with families. He changed the name of murder to suit his nightdreams. The ocean represented Eternity to him. That concept terrified him. For me too as a child. Wondering what we would do together in heaven with nothingn but whiteness surrounding us. Hearing the ticking clock on Earth knowning the alarm is set in this domain.
I looked at my face in the relection of a clock. Then I ran. To the North of ice cream and granite rocks. Bridges and warm hot choclate. But love was not there and the clock said to wander more. I chose the calender poster of California's oceans. Colgate smiles on bronzed bodies. Pills- blue (sleep) red (social) white (memory erasers)...
Too many personailities in a bottle. So I ran.
Some words in a diary are my Bible. I ran to Texas, where people bury guns in the clay ground because Obama is coming for their liberities. The standards of beauty are interupted with what the Western World taught me to love. And everyone wanted me to ride an electric bull while drunk on attention. I never sold my sexuality. Never was a whore.
Now I am without a rosary in limbo. At night I wake up in sweat. I put the calender back up and clench my fists. Green life surrounds my stand for acceptance. Let me play. The clock did not harden me. I live with golden light in my thoughts. May be just a wave in human construction. But I'll never say the word 'try' or 'worry'. Nor will I play only two notes. My dreams are of colorful police states. Battons. The Howl of the Circle. My Ego says I am more then the sum of two notes. A photo of me with lovely mounds under thrift store clothing, and a painted on face. A mirror on my reproduction roar. To the crowd I will observe and say: I am out of the race and like it that way.
Saturday, July 14, 2012
Saturday, June 2, 2012
June 2nd, 2012/Ninja's/Guidance
Yesterday I had more nervous energy. Only a week before I move. Until I take the two classes I need to move again and start my Teaching Credential, I am at a loss. There were a few beautiful lines I found while organizing yesterday. I'm sure I'll put them in here just as much as I'm sure I'll look back at my older blogs to fix their spelling mistakes.
Yesterday the results came back on my father's DNA tests:
family_finder_population.pdf
I wonder if that will open. No, it won't.
If not, I'll like to point out to the few stalkers in my life, that you should read my ethnicity (before you kill me) because I am 7% Mayan (on my father's side). So believing that we were Cherokee for how ever long my family did- generations- was incorrect. And killing me would be a lot like wipping out an endangered species. There should be a law against that. On top of murder. And the food in jail is supposedly not nutritious, so you'll never be 100% to top Don Quijote's jailed author:Cervantes', which I'm sure you'd want to do with all that time on your hands in jail.
No, I can't control who reads these blogs, and I've covered everything from fascism, to DC comics verus Marvel, to the importance of happiness, a good stylist, Alrerd Hitchock's lovely chin, Sergei Rachmaninoff, extreme grief, my three year engagement, my rubber chicken conspiracy theory, and sometimes a random personal blog (like this, completely aimless) comes in.
But I did not cover my Kawasaki Ninja 250. The 250 stands for CC's, which does not alway correlate to speed. Since I was introduced to motorcycles, I never wanted to ride on the back. My discovery to motorcycles happened at 20, although I've had dirt bikes (and know second gear well!) since my early teens. At 20, a Born Again named Mike lived across from my roommate and me. In exchange for going to Church on Sunday (and Churches of that nature in Redding, California are insane) we (roommate included) got to travel California's back roads.
I was assigned Kevin, and no one with the name Kevin is a bad ass. Still, I was nervous around him until getting on the back of his bike, with the rebel yell: Let's go to where the wildflowers are boys! Kevin would often take the Jesus stance with his arms (why intentionally assume a crucifixion pose when happy?) and yell, "Thank You Jesus! Praise Your Name!" He was sweet, and I did get along with him for a long time. My many moves made us lose touch.
Back to my Ninja 250. I'm going to buy one, probably used, just to travel the 1 in California, and the 101 before that. Although I'm selling my puny bike now, I'm keeping my brain bucket. In Austin, I saw a man with a long rope attached to his right hand's throttle, and a big spike on the end. My friend pointed out that one swipe of that rope, which is designed to gain momentum, and a windshield would crack right open. They are given to paramedics. Not bikers.
At the moment, I'm stalling completely in doing anything productive. I don't think I'll be able to keep these personal blogs after I leave this complex, because my lease is almost up.
Here is a wonderful story about when I lived in Arcata, and an unsung hero came into my life. At 26 I overdosed. This was the day after I did the graduation walk, and I was frazzled that a intimidating man had showed up, unanounced. Vodka and being as unattractive as possible solve these problems. After he left, I know I asked for some heroin. I've never hid that I had a problem with drugs when I was 26 years old. That was close to a decade ago
Side Note: I spent a year in Nebraska drinking Redbull, researching and detoxing. During the end of my stay, a friend from college in Arcata met me in Disney Land and asked me to move in with him. I have not touched hard drugs since I left Arcata the first time. Just Ambien, which is doctor prescribed.
Back to my wake up call. I woke up in an ambulance to the words, "We just saved your life." I thanked them with a "Fuck you!" and passed out until much later in the hospital. I knew what was coming. I was in trouble. My younger brother later told me he came back into my bedroom on a whim to find me blue and not breathing. My roommate and a random friend I would not even know to thank if I saw him helped with rescue breaths until the paramedics came and Pulp Fictioned me. After giving me two of the wrong adrenaline shots, someone there finally said that I may have opiates in my system. I don't remember any of this, and I never found out how long I was out to know how many brain cells are gone. Let's blame this incident on my spelling these days.
After the nurse gave me a speech on how lucky I was, and how many calls my brother had made to check on me, a letter was given to me. I still have it. A break-up note. The timing was ugly. I understand why, but tact would be to wait until I'm out of these IV's at least.
That is the premise of this story. Later I was in a bad fire, which destroyed everything important to me. My Spanish book was half gone, and I used duck tape to bind it. So many classmates asked if I had gotten frustrated and thrown the book in a fire place. NO. The Spanish partner behind me was one such person. I explained the fire to him.
Later in the semester I asked for a ride home. During the ride, I was asked some strange questions about drugs. Drugs lead to STD's, AID's, Hep-C. Did I have any? I thought that was strange to ask me (and for the record, NO. None of those, no criminal record, nothing. I almost died though.) The guy blurted out, "You don't remember me do you?" He was one of the paramedics who saved my life.
He did not drive me home either. He took me shopping, telling me to get anything I wanted, under the condition that I never told a soul that he had anything to do with my new clothes. So half my new waredrobe is from him. And that's the story. He was just a kind person. No motives. Nothing. He saved my life and helped me after that fire. So I gave up being cynical.
That's enough for the day. This photo (below) was taken the day of the fire. That lamp is the cause. The comforter on me was one week old organic silk, costing nearly one grand.
The fire in a nut shell: It was 9:30pm. I thought my ex-fiancee's duck tape had fixed the sparking. I'm incredible intuitive. Never in my life have I said: [fill in the blank] could cause a fire. I told two adults this. My ex used duck tape, not electrical tape. The lamp was from an head shop, which I'd been eye-ing for over a year. So this freak accident was inevitable to happen when I initially moved in, or not at all. The move jostled the lamp, which was very old to begin with.
I plugged the lamp in, was annoyed that someone seemed to be going nuts with the fire place way down the hall (smoke was hitting the bathroom celing), walked out of the bathroom and saw this massively engulfing image of fire. A wall of heat and flame. Two minutes was all it took. The fire is public record, and for five dollars, you can know exactly what I told you. I'll add that the fire department estimated that I lost $9,000 to $10,000 dollars in belongings, from most of my clothes to family heirlooms, to money burned in half. The next day two truck loads of clothes, pictures, purses, bedding, etc where dumped into the local junk yard. I dressed my best and took photos, because I knew I would beat this in time.
Another unsung hero was a woman who got me out of the house and immediately called 911. Notice the rubber chicken? That was at the point of origin, and if there is a God, he has a warped sense of humor. Rubber chickens are fireproof. No one was hurt. Even after the fire, acquaintances bought or brought me clothing, bedding, even money. The Red Cross was awesome. That fire could never have been forseen. I don't believe in religion, but guidance. If you look for guidance, and count your good luck, life is a word that beautiful does not cover.
Yesterday the results came back on my father's DNA tests:
family_finder_population.pdf
I wonder if that will open. No, it won't.
If not, I'll like to point out to the few stalkers in my life, that you should read my ethnicity (before you kill me) because I am 7% Mayan (on my father's side). So believing that we were Cherokee for how ever long my family did- generations- was incorrect. And killing me would be a lot like wipping out an endangered species. There should be a law against that. On top of murder. And the food in jail is supposedly not nutritious, so you'll never be 100% to top Don Quijote's jailed author:Cervantes', which I'm sure you'd want to do with all that time on your hands in jail.
No, I can't control who reads these blogs, and I've covered everything from fascism, to DC comics verus Marvel, to the importance of happiness, a good stylist, Alrerd Hitchock's lovely chin, Sergei Rachmaninoff, extreme grief, my three year engagement, my rubber chicken conspiracy theory, and sometimes a random personal blog (like this, completely aimless) comes in.
But I did not cover my Kawasaki Ninja 250. The 250 stands for CC's, which does not alway correlate to speed. Since I was introduced to motorcycles, I never wanted to ride on the back. My discovery to motorcycles happened at 20, although I've had dirt bikes (and know second gear well!) since my early teens. At 20, a Born Again named Mike lived across from my roommate and me. In exchange for going to Church on Sunday (and Churches of that nature in Redding, California are insane) we (roommate included) got to travel California's back roads.
I was assigned Kevin, and no one with the name Kevin is a bad ass. Still, I was nervous around him until getting on the back of his bike, with the rebel yell: Let's go to where the wildflowers are boys! Kevin would often take the Jesus stance with his arms (why intentionally assume a crucifixion pose when happy?) and yell, "Thank You Jesus! Praise Your Name!" He was sweet, and I did get along with him for a long time. My many moves made us lose touch.
Back to my Ninja 250. I'm going to buy one, probably used, just to travel the 1 in California, and the 101 before that. Although I'm selling my puny bike now, I'm keeping my brain bucket. In Austin, I saw a man with a long rope attached to his right hand's throttle, and a big spike on the end. My friend pointed out that one swipe of that rope, which is designed to gain momentum, and a windshield would crack right open. They are given to paramedics. Not bikers.
At the moment, I'm stalling completely in doing anything productive. I don't think I'll be able to keep these personal blogs after I leave this complex, because my lease is almost up.
Here is a wonderful story about when I lived in Arcata, and an unsung hero came into my life. At 26 I overdosed. This was the day after I did the graduation walk, and I was frazzled that a intimidating man had showed up, unanounced. Vodka and being as unattractive as possible solve these problems. After he left, I know I asked for some heroin. I've never hid that I had a problem with drugs when I was 26 years old. That was close to a decade ago
Side Note: I spent a year in Nebraska drinking Redbull, researching and detoxing. During the end of my stay, a friend from college in Arcata met me in Disney Land and asked me to move in with him. I have not touched hard drugs since I left Arcata the first time. Just Ambien, which is doctor prescribed.
Back to my wake up call. I woke up in an ambulance to the words, "We just saved your life." I thanked them with a "Fuck you!" and passed out until much later in the hospital. I knew what was coming. I was in trouble. My younger brother later told me he came back into my bedroom on a whim to find me blue and not breathing. My roommate and a random friend I would not even know to thank if I saw him helped with rescue breaths until the paramedics came and Pulp Fictioned me. After giving me two of the wrong adrenaline shots, someone there finally said that I may have opiates in my system. I don't remember any of this, and I never found out how long I was out to know how many brain cells are gone. Let's blame this incident on my spelling these days.
After the nurse gave me a speech on how lucky I was, and how many calls my brother had made to check on me, a letter was given to me. I still have it. A break-up note. The timing was ugly. I understand why, but tact would be to wait until I'm out of these IV's at least.
That is the premise of this story. Later I was in a bad fire, which destroyed everything important to me. My Spanish book was half gone, and I used duck tape to bind it. So many classmates asked if I had gotten frustrated and thrown the book in a fire place. NO. The Spanish partner behind me was one such person. I explained the fire to him.
Later in the semester I asked for a ride home. During the ride, I was asked some strange questions about drugs. Drugs lead to STD's, AID's, Hep-C. Did I have any? I thought that was strange to ask me (and for the record, NO. None of those, no criminal record, nothing. I almost died though.) The guy blurted out, "You don't remember me do you?" He was one of the paramedics who saved my life.
He did not drive me home either. He took me shopping, telling me to get anything I wanted, under the condition that I never told a soul that he had anything to do with my new clothes. So half my new waredrobe is from him. And that's the story. He was just a kind person. No motives. Nothing. He saved my life and helped me after that fire. So I gave up being cynical.
That's enough for the day. This photo (below) was taken the day of the fire. That lamp is the cause. The comforter on me was one week old organic silk, costing nearly one grand.
The fire in a nut shell: It was 9:30pm. I thought my ex-fiancee's duck tape had fixed the sparking. I'm incredible intuitive. Never in my life have I said: [fill in the blank] could cause a fire. I told two adults this. My ex used duck tape, not electrical tape. The lamp was from an head shop, which I'd been eye-ing for over a year. So this freak accident was inevitable to happen when I initially moved in, or not at all. The move jostled the lamp, which was very old to begin with.
I plugged the lamp in, was annoyed that someone seemed to be going nuts with the fire place way down the hall (smoke was hitting the bathroom celing), walked out of the bathroom and saw this massively engulfing image of fire. A wall of heat and flame. Two minutes was all it took. The fire is public record, and for five dollars, you can know exactly what I told you. I'll add that the fire department estimated that I lost $9,000 to $10,000 dollars in belongings, from most of my clothes to family heirlooms, to money burned in half. The next day two truck loads of clothes, pictures, purses, bedding, etc where dumped into the local junk yard. I dressed my best and took photos, because I knew I would beat this in time.
Another unsung hero was a woman who got me out of the house and immediately called 911. Notice the rubber chicken? That was at the point of origin, and if there is a God, he has a warped sense of humor. Rubber chickens are fireproof. No one was hurt. Even after the fire, acquaintances bought or brought me clothing, bedding, even money. The Red Cross was awesome. That fire could never have been forseen. I don't believe in religion, but guidance. If you look for guidance, and count your good luck, life is a word that beautiful does not cover.
Tuesday, May 1, 2012
Cool Ideas in Theory (Like Batman Comic Book Mythology)
"But He knows the way I take; When He has tried [pressures] me, I shall come forth as gold." (Job 23:10). If you've been living under a rock, here is a link to the trials of the famous Job:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Book_of_Job
Here we have my favorite Saint: (other then animal fanatic St. Anthony), St. Michel The Arch Angel. He's is almost always portrayed holding a shield and/or a sword. He has his feet on a dragon, or a snake, or something that symbolizes something evil. The mighty at heart crushing the wicked at heart. I'm beginning to attach myself to the idea that mythologies are in everyone's head, their "world view", is all an illusion. However I love to think there was some kind of truth, instead of subscribing to beliefs that came in strange miraculous forms.
I love the center of the universe in his chest. He kind of looks like he is launching off to space in a space suit, while stabbing an alien; all with the strength of a super hero minus the muscles. All sarcasm aside, his story is one of my favorites, as far as mythology goes. Now if we could just apply some of this fantasy stuff to the real world....
Synthetic Emotions
While reviewing the novel "The Day of the Locust" by Nathanael West, one of my favorite professors gave a lecture on authenticity and the birth of television. Nathanael West would be more known if he had not died in his early thirty's in a car crash. He death was around the advent of sitcoms. He predicted that emotions would mirror the sentimentality of television shows.
Sitcoms have to 'speed up' emotions to fit the frame of a half an hour time slot. To interest the large American (and world) audience, you have to agree upon emotional responses (nothing risky or too edgy) and unify emotional response. T.V is not meant to instruct it's audience. It's aim is to pacify a work worn viewer; to zone out, stare, and enjoy.
The moral code for these emotional responses is always clique. Take a hallmark advertisement for example. The Christian happiness of a child receiving a puppy for Christmas. Heart warming, feel good emotional responses that make a person at ease in the world we live in day to day.
Unified emotions, sped up to fit their half hour time slot, watched continuously, might infect the viewer enough to 'borrow' socially agreed upon emotions as our own. You break up with your boyfriend, as a crass example. Borrow the emotional response from a popular show. In our society, everyone is so frantic to fit in and be considered normal (plus we are lazy) it is safer to borrow emotional responses from television then to create your own. And by this point you probably are so brainwashed with these contrived, synthetic responses that you don't know what to feel anymore.
Remember in Camus "The Stranger" how the protagonist was unsure if it was okay to drink coffee at his mother's funeral? This was before t.v. infected our lives. But still there was a moral stalling: wondering if it was socially acceptable to drink coffee at a funeral. We are so uptight about what is right and wrong that it seems only normal to live complacently through the television screen.
I am merely pointing out that t.v. shows do speed up emotions, unify them, and present them to us for our amusement. It's detrimental when we chose not to go with our natural emotions and instead borrow from what's in vogue. It's more detrimental when our subconscious does the borrowing, without us knowing. The next time you are forced to feel, make sure you feel from deep in your gut- and it's fine to be slobbering, hysterical, and beside yourself. We are living for an all too brief time on this planet. Our emotions are all we have to make us human. Not the automatons zoning out to the boob tube after a long day of robotic labor.
Sitcoms have to 'speed up' emotions to fit the frame of a half an hour time slot. To interest the large American (and world) audience, you have to agree upon emotional responses (nothing risky or too edgy) and unify emotional response. T.V is not meant to instruct it's audience. It's aim is to pacify a work worn viewer; to zone out, stare, and enjoy.
The moral code for these emotional responses is always clique. Take a hallmark advertisement for example. The Christian happiness of a child receiving a puppy for Christmas. Heart warming, feel good emotional responses that make a person at ease in the world we live in day to day.
Unified emotions, sped up to fit their half hour time slot, watched continuously, might infect the viewer enough to 'borrow' socially agreed upon emotions as our own. You break up with your boyfriend, as a crass example. Borrow the emotional response from a popular show. In our society, everyone is so frantic to fit in and be considered normal (plus we are lazy) it is safer to borrow emotional responses from television then to create your own. And by this point you probably are so brainwashed with these contrived, synthetic responses that you don't know what to feel anymore.
Remember in Camus "The Stranger" how the protagonist was unsure if it was okay to drink coffee at his mother's funeral? This was before t.v. infected our lives. But still there was a moral stalling: wondering if it was socially acceptable to drink coffee at a funeral. We are so uptight about what is right and wrong that it seems only normal to live complacently through the television screen.
I am merely pointing out that t.v. shows do speed up emotions, unify them, and present them to us for our amusement. It's detrimental when we chose not to go with our natural emotions and instead borrow from what's in vogue. It's more detrimental when our subconscious does the borrowing, without us knowing. The next time you are forced to feel, make sure you feel from deep in your gut- and it's fine to be slobbering, hysterical, and beside yourself. We are living for an all too brief time on this planet. Our emotions are all we have to make us human. Not the automatons zoning out to the boob tube after a long day of robotic labor.
The French Know Things
The French Know Things
About two years ago I sat down with a Guinness and one of my favorite professors. He had a logic test on his syllabus which had not been solved in his 15 years of teaching. The prize was a beer. My brother solved it, I took the credit, I won a free beer.
This professor was such a beautiful soul; lusty and clever and honest. Directly wired in life I thought. We talked about jazz. How Frank Sinatra gave an olive from his martini to one lucky fellow he really liked every night. Then the subject turned to personal drama. Turmoil for him. His daughter was dying of cancer. I was fighting bad vices that anyone who knows me knows about. We could only talk about intellectual barriers because what we were going through was unspeakable.
He mentioned that out of all the things that can happen in life, being happy is not important. He referenced Cathrine Deneuve, the gorgeous French actress (so French!) who was asked in an interview at the height of her career if she was happy. She sat with a cigarette and her long blond hair (which that professor said reminded him of a cocker spaniel's mane), sultry accent and replied, "Happiness, what is that?!". Ah the French.
In my own life I have to ask myself that a lot, because I'm not happy very often. I get angry, jealous, resentful- just frustrated with people in general. But I love them so much- hold such high standards- that if they let me down it stings. They usually do though. But I still love them- just from a great distance apart.
Happiness is only one emotion of the broad spectrum of feeling that passes through me every day. And I don't want to group emotions into black and white categories anyway. Happiness is a hard one. I take it when it comes.
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