My Room Smells Like Hot Cow and Carrots
I hope you’re all enjoying the new look of this joint. The color scheme was inspired by my new found love for all things Latin, especially music by Rodrigo y Gabriela, whose acoustic melodies are a mash up of jazz, folk rock, metal and flamenco notes. They’re abso-fucking-lutely amazing, to put it lightly. You can listen to a few tracks here, and I promise, if you have good taste, you will love them immensely.
I kind of feel like throwing up right now. After class I met a friend at the campus pub and drowned myself in the delights of Mr. Sam Adams, the Octoberfest version. I already knew that beer is magical, but today it helped me to learn that public transportation is so much more tolerable, and Jeanette Winterson is even more of a genius than she already is when you’re liquored up. Muttering and smiling to yourself because you're turned on by prose about a dead lesbian poet's sex drive isn't embarassing in the least and man! Food tastes even better than is usually does, you know? That off the wall brand of hamburger soup (yes, hamburger) that’s been in the pantry since who knows when? It doesn’t seem the slightest bit disgusting, even when you’re practically inhaling it out of the glass bowl you heated it up in, probably because you’re more focused on the fact that your fingertips are burning off.
Vomitacious.
Sometimes writers do really dumb things and it’s okay because they’ll post about it weeks, months, sometimes even years later, and from that retrospective point of view, the dumb thing is a little more acceptable to readers than it would be if the writer were to post about it right away. There is the assumption that the dumb thing has been recognized, learned from, put away, and now all that’s left is to laugh about it.
Typically I'd save this pointless story about beef, booze and barf for a lead in into something else, like, examples of how I became an alcoholic or, a manifest of things about me that I'm ashamed of, but I figure there's got to be some kind of benefit in the ability to make fun of yourself and not care, right?
Also, I’m trying this new thing where everything I publish on the net is for good. I’m used to posting something and then being able to change it around or delete it all together, but that little trick will do me no good when I want to publish for real, so I’m going to try to get used to it now while I still have the luxury. I want to confess my dumb behavior and commit to that confession. I'm convinced that this is in some wacky way, a good thing.
How much you want to bet I’ll read this tomorrow and want to bash my head against the wall?
Adventures in Volunteering: The SFAC
Earlier this month Gavin Newsom hosted an event at the SFAC, which is one of the places I hope to work one day. I had never done anything prior to the event to get my foot in the door with these people, so when I caught wind of it I stayed up into all hours of the night fixing up a lovely little resume and cover letter to send to the director of the art gallery in hopes that I’d be able to participate somehow. She called me back the next day to say that she’d reviewed my application and that she’d love to have me there. Right! I was in!
I had work before the whole shebang, so on top of smelling like a nice mixture of sangria and sweat, I had remnants of simple syrup stuck to my pants. And of course, this day was one of the three hot days we have in S.F. per year, and because God has a wicked sense of humor, I had chosen to wear gray: the ultimate sweat revealing color. Had my sleeves not been great and flowy, I’m sure that the blistering Muni ride and the subsequent speed walking up and down Van Ness (I was lost) in my black pea coat would have resulted in the greatest armpit sweat spots known to man. My back was soaking when I finally met up with Liz (an art friend who was also working the event) who didn’t have a thing to worry about because she had so little clothing on that the only areas that were covered up were the ones that don’t particularly generate a lot of sweat (or at least, let’s hope not).
The SFAC building is a lot older than I had expected. The floors throughout the place are a glossy pea green and there are heavy wooden doors and wooden spiral staircases everywhere. The feel is almost Victorian, which I don’t dislike but am also not particularly fond of; however, the open, airy and spacious event rooms with their beautiful antique chandeliers to accent the double doorways that open up into gorgeous balconies with views of the city are spectacular. Chandeliers, art, Gavin: it all sounds so romantic, right? It probably was. “Probably”, not “definitely” because there was also a bar where I drank lots of booze. Romantic booze (red wine) thankyouverymuch.
I enjoyed meeting those who attended the event; San Francisco is always good for an interesting crowd. Many were artists themselves, either there on their own or family members of the guest of honor (Ruth Asawa), and others were just hoping to get a piece of Mr. Newsom, including my scantily-clad friend. Honorable mentions include Frank Chu, a.k.a. The 12 Galaxies Guy, who I'm sure was just there because he smelled a camera crew. And Frank? If you're reading this, the next time you go to a public event, I think all of us would appreciate it if you'd button your shirt all the way down to the last button or, at least wear a t-shirt under your dress shirt. I don't like the fact that I know the exact size and shape of your protruding belly and the look of your belly button frightens me. Anyway, to the aforementioned single ladies trying to get a bite out of Mr. Mayor, I have to say that I really don’t see the appeal. He’s just a well groomed guy in politics that isn’t of retiring age, right? Is that all it takes? If the pope was a 32-year-old man with good hair and a strong jaw line, would everybody say: wow, check out the pope!-?
In reality, Gavin’s face is tinged a weird reddish pink color and he wears too much cologne. In fact, I’d be willing to bet that every single member of his posse--who all dress like they’re auditioning for Men in Black III--wears the same cologne. They all rushed in like tiny tornadoes of Boss #6 barely five minutes before Gavin was scheduled to speak, totally skipping over their name badges and programs. Newsom ran up to the podium, gave his speech about how important he feels art is in San Francisco, asked Ruth to say a few words (a few as in three—literally) and that was it. They were gone. Just like that. In an article published by the SF gate, Newsom is said to use plain soap, cheap gel and no cologne whatsoever, but my eyes disagree because not only did they SEE him looking so fresh and so clean in the kind of metro way that doesn't permit products of less value than what J.Lo would use, but they watered BECAUSE OF ALL THE ALCOHOL FUMES THAT WERE RADIATING FROM HIS SKIN.
Anyway. I can’t wait for another event at this particluar venue. I was pleasantly surprised that the director of the gallery wasn’t some stuffy old woman with horn-rimmed glasses, but a young woman with star tattoos on her calves, a nasal septum piercing and fiery red hair instead. This gives me hope that the next turnover in the gallery world is going to benefit me immensely, given that shoes from The Walking Company and white stockings with tummy and rump support just don’t suit me. Three cheers to that.
See How They Run
Man's aunt died of cancer two days ago. She is the second female in his family to have been taken by the disease since I met him a little over two years ago, but definitely not the second in total. He says he’s lost count of how many in his family have passed from it all together.
I went to his work last night to grab a bite to eat, knowing it would probably be my only chance to see him for a while; not only because of the viewing and funeral, but also because of his general feelings about life now that it had taken another turn for the worse. I drove there thinking about how we’re always like this—that if he’s not having some kind of crisis, I am—and how neither of us are the kind of people who know how to deal with another person’s tragedies, much less our own. Heading outside with him after dinner for some alone time was like heading out to the chopping block; I knew it would be torture. I predicted that we’d sit on the bench and he’d awkwardly hug me and then dig around in his pockets for cigarettes and a lighter while I sat there in the cold wondering how much longer it would take him to just do away with me.
And it started like that, the walking outside and the weird hug and the chain smoking--but then, right when I was losing myself in old gum stains on the concrete, he jumped up on top of the bench and said, “OH! RATS!” right as a small mouse fell from the sky a few inches away from my foot. The pipe on the side of the building nearest us snaked a good fifteen feet upwards before it opened into a funnel shape right where the roof began, and there we saw two more mice peering over. Man made gagging sounds off to the side while one of the remaining mice made a really loud SQWEE! sound, jumped, and was then quickly followed by the third. Plop! Plop! All of them survived and went running underneath the gate that lead to the back of the building.
Man couldn’t stop fake barfing and shaking his body like it was suddenly covered in dirt and I couldn’t stop laughing. It had just rained rodents.
I think that sometimes it takes really bizarre things like rat rain to snap you out of lulls and remind you of the fun you once had with certain people. I don’t expect to be graced with incidents like this all the time, so I’m going to take this as a reminder that being the girl who cuts ties with a machete so it's smooth and final isn’t always all it’s cracked up to be.
Seul
I never thought that I'd feel the way that I do right now.
A couple of years back, this guy in one of my Creative Writing classes announced in this really pompous way that he was very careful about what he read because he didn't want trash to influence his writing. I remember thinking that he was some kind of moron because I felt that you'd have to be one to let someone else's bad writing make your own writing bad. I mean, if you're a good writer, you're a good writer, period. Right? I believed that nobody should be able to change what is naturally within you, and to an extent I still do, but I’m slowly beginning to realize that if you’re primarily ruled by emotions (like me) rather than logic, it’s very easy to be changed by what and whom you invite into your life.
Months ago my cell phone was disconnected because I failed to pay the bill. At first I felt kind of panicky because, let's face it, I have issues. And for some reason, even though I don't have a very welcoming vibe, strangers LOVE to talk to me. One of the motives for investing in an iPod was that I'd look distracted in public places. And my ridiculous amount of hats and jackets with hoods? Same vein. When The Pod went on the fritz (what I get for purchasing first generation technology) I turned to my cell phone and ended up checking my voice mails roughly ten times a day. At first I tried calling friends every time I'd have to walk to the shuttle stop, or to the bathroom, or down the hall, or across the street. Understandably, they got irritated and stopped answering. I suppose this could partly be because after a while I had nothing better to say than, "Hi. I'm walking." When my phone went kaput (what I get for throwing it against a wall) I was forced to face the outside world, gasp! Without electronic devices! And you know, it wasn't so bad. Strangers said hello, that I looked nice today; they wished me a good day and a good afternoon; they asked me the time and if I could grab whole milk for them from the shelf at the store because they had poor eyesight; It was nice. So nice in fact that I didn't reconnect my phone until weeks and weeks later, though I could have done it sooner.
On top of the no-phone thing, I've been living at my father's house since the school semester started, and in case you didn't know, his house is in the middle of nowhere. It's a two-hour commute from my house to school; one and one half hours if I'm lucky. Basically, unless I'm at school or work, I'm home because it doesn't make sense to my wallet or my odometer to drive out to civilization just for fun when I've already been out there 920837429874 times in one week for learning and making bacon.
Let's recap: no Pod, no phone, and no life. And as it turns out, I'm quite happy. My homework is getting done, I'm writing a ton of new material (an article I mentioned a couple of posts ago moved to the number 1 spot out of the 224 in its category -- I'm pleased) and I just feel a lot better. A friend asked me to house sit his place for the weekend and I turned down two parties in favor of sitting here in this big empty home with a ton of blankets and a borrowed MacBook Pro. I think if I listen closely I can actually hear my skin beginning to wrinkle because I'm turning into an old bitty.
No but really, I feel like I'm thinking clearer than usual without all of the interruptions and distractions that I usually invite. And it's not that I don't want to see my friends anymore or talk to them on the phone or listen to music, but like I said a couple of posts ago, I do want to fix my life and I feel like separating myself from things that I usually use to help me avoid it is helping me do that.
Consequently, I've been feeling strangely when it comes to all things involving The Man. Since reconnecting and attempting to rebuild whatever it is that’s rebuild-able, we’ve fallen into this strange place that I’m not even sure I can begin to explain. At first it seemed like it was going really well; we were laughing, having fun and enjoying each other’s company. But now there's something else here; something new. Instead of being elated when I see him, our mutual vibe is calm and zombie-like.
How dumb does it sound to say that even though I'm a perfectly happy person, I can't be around certain individuals because they have the power to lessen that happiness just by existing in my general vicinity? Well, to the guy in my CW class, I say kudos. Kudos for being able to recognize your own weaknesses and having the right mind to do something about them. No kudos for me who recognizes them only so she can sit here and cry.
I'm trying. I'm ignoring phone calls and not making a huge effort to set aside time, but I can't seem to find it in me to make that oh-so-necessary cut. Even though I know I'm probably going to end up hurt again, I know it'll be less of a burn than it was the first time. I just don’t feel the same as I used to and to tell you the truth, I have no idea why I’m hanging on, or rather, waiting to be dismissed. I also know that it sounds pretty fucked up to basically admit that you're aware you're choosing to stay a part of something that is doubtlessly going to fall apart, but that's just the coward in me talking.
I wrote an article about it. Its current placement isn’t bad considering it’s a load of emo bullshit, but I won’t be surprised if I’m asked by the site administrators to cancel my account for breaching the unwritten DON’T WRITE LIKE A SELF-PITYING PIECE OF CRAP part of the contract.
On that note, one day I hope to have the password-protected entry option set up on MT for posts like these.
It’s Official?
Today, armed with my transcripts, DARS (Degree Audit Reporting System) report, a standard black, ballpoint pen by Bic and printouts of countless emails just in case I needed proof that I was given the green light to take one class in place of another, I walked into the Creative Writing Chairperson’s office to have my graduation application signed.
Max and I have never been buddy buddy. I think this might be because I’ve been obsessively emailing her for the last 4 years about everything that has to do with being a CW student. Also, she’s not the loveliest of people. Her appearance and gait match almost exactly that of my 6th grade music teacher, Ms. McNab. Ms. McNab was a nasty old woman with a bad ankle, a banshee-like voice, glasses thick as fresh memo tablets and long, yellow finger nails. And if that isn’t bad enough, she also always had these old band aids on her face that would start to slip off towards the end of the day. I’m not really sure why they were there at all, except that I wouldn’t be surprised if Leprosy had something to do with it.
Okay, Max isn’t like that at all. She’s got a little bit of a hobble in her step, but that’s probably because of her gigantic ass. And she has a tinge of yellow in her nails and her face looks a little eaten, but that’s probably because she’s old. And queen of the underworld.
I wasn’t thrilled that I had to actually meet with her in person. In fact, if you haven’t guessed by now, I was dreading it. I walked into her cool office today with a fever (I’m sick) sweaty palms and a folder full of the said documents that her secretary said I’d need, including the application which I handed to her while stuttering something stupid because that's what flaming idiots do.
She took it, glanced at it, whipped out her own, fancy-shmancy pen and signed the bottom line. The whole thing took about forty-five seconds.
I couldn't believe it. You mean no complications? No twenty thousand units that I somehow managed to miss? No problem of the teeniest, tiniest nature? I walked out feeling like I had missed something. Like it shouldn’t have been that easy. Just the day before I had to do the same thing but for my Art major and was faced with a whole array of issues that I’m still trying to resolve.
But this whole writing thing. You mean, I’m done? No more baring my soul in fiction pieces to workshops full of people who are thisclose to falling asleep? No more faking emotion in poetry because I’m not good at it and never will be? No more spending hours on end pulling genuine shit out of my ass? You’re actually giving me the degree, just like that?
She said "congratulations" and gave me a smile that made it look like she could have actually meant it and I walked out feeling dazed and confused.
For some reason I don’t feel like I deserve it. This could be a problem.
An Artist’s Temperament
One of the advantages of being a Big Geek is that you unintentionally learn a lot of valuable skills. In my case, I began typing somewhere between 60 and 80 words per minute when I was in the seventh grade. This is probably due to the fact that instead of enrolling me in a dance class or a gymnastics class or that one class that turns young and impressionable children into musical prodigies like my mother always talked of doing, she sent me to a summer computer class where I sat in a stuffy room in front of a black and green monitor and typed. Then I went home and wrote short stories on our computer (at a quick pace!) and painted and drew. In the seventh grade, well after my summer-o-fun, I was required to take a computer class in which we spent the first half of class learning to type with the help of Mavis Beacon or Casper the Friendly Ghost, and the second half playing games like Indiana Jones. Fortunately I already knew how to type fast, so I finished my lessons quickly and went on to saving damsels in distress before most of my fellow classmates had even finished their first sentence. Tests to check our progress were held every two weeks. Each student would take his or her turn retyping the sentences that were displayed on Mr. Jacobson’s personal computer screen. And as if having an overweight computer nerd with consistently sweaty armpits looming over your shoulder as you stared at the blinking cursor, rhythmic like the foot-tapping of an impatient woman, wasn’t enough pressure, whatever was displayed on the monitor was also displayed on a large television set that was turned so everyone could see how the person in the hot seat was doing. That is thus far, the only instance in which going up in front of the classroom hasn’t completely terrified me.
The whole fast-typing thing lead to a job during high school at a law firm where I typed letters dictated by attorneys. It was cool at first because the letters were recorded onto tiny cassette tapes and I had this little pedal under my desk that when pressed would play the tape into my headphones and when released would stop it so I could type what I’d heard. Then when it was pressed again, it would rewind just a smidge so I could hear the last three or four words that were said just in case I had missed or forgotten them. Soon after the “cool” wore off, which was very quickly, a normal day was full of this:
“Pursuant to section 108 d of the-” “108 d of the” “Section 108 d” “To section 108 d” Okay. “Pursuant to” “Pursuant” “Suant” “Pur” “Pur” “Pur” “Pursuant to section 108 o-” “Section 108” “108” “Pursuant to section” “To section” “Pursuant-”
And so basically one day I “got lost” walking to work after school and never found my way back to that job again. A similar thing happened at another office job that I went for a couple of years ago out of a desperate need for cash. This time though, my attendance was optional because it was a student job and they didn’t want to interfere with my studies. By the way, if you hate your job and your attendance is optional, you will hardly ever go. And when you do go, you will spend your time looking for office supplies to steal and websites from which to download the Shallow Hal soundtrack and you will sign up for various online writing communities instead of working on your own personal .com that you paid good money for. And then a fellow secretary will find a box of old mail shoved under your desk that should have been filed six months ago and because it was not probably kept certain cases moving along at a nice snail’s pace, and you, who in fact did not place the mail there, will wonder why you didn’t think of hiding it yourself.
Back in January, when I was still kinda sorta attending said job, I joined an online writing community because some crazy hair up my ass spoke to me and it said, “Chelsi, if you join this online writing community you will have a reason to write while you are on winter vacation, and what you write will be glorious and many people will click on your articles and you will get paid vast amounts of cash with which you can pay your utility bills.” So I did, and since then have written one article. One measly article. I think I was kind of sore at the fact that my article was placed at number 17 out of 136 and was slowly moving down day by day. I mean, it’s a good article! I put a lot of thought into it! I used up good working hours to write that article! Do you know the kind of droning I had to tune out to write that article? Droning about casserole recipes and soccer teams! No joke.
Anyway. I checked the status of my article last night just for fun and guess what? My article is number 6 out of 226! That means two hundred and twenty people have a lamer article than I do! This excites me. The internet has finally acknowledged my abilities… sort of.
I’ve been inspired to pick up the project again, but this time it’s not because I need to pay utilities. I miss writing. I miss drawing and painting. I miss reading. I miss being a big geek. It’s time for this gross, zombified, nothing-but-work-and-school version of me to get out of town. I've come to realize that the workaholic in me doesn't actually get any real work done, if that even makes any sense, so I'll just go and fix my life now.
Wish me luck.
The Exploding Plastic Inevitable
Life is zany, especially when you’re a nomad. Just after moving out of Angela’s loft I found out that the man I have spent the last two years blindly loving was sleeping with other people. Can’t say that I’m surprised, I guess. I mean, I did the whole girl thing and started shaking when I found out. I sent crazy text messages. I screamed. I cried. I asked, “Why?” I threw things. I threw down. I threw up. But then I calmed down and felt a feeling so strange that I don’t think I’m going to even try to put it into words. All I’ll say is that something changed in a big way.
I turned down a promotion at work a while back. I turned it down partly because I wasn’t cool with what my new commute would be like had I taken the job, and mostly because I don’t want to be stuck in retail forever. Turning down a higher paying job doesn’t exactly jive with the plan to make as much money as possible this summer, but I did it anyway.
A month ago I started seeing a guy who makes me want to rip out all of my hair and glue it to my forehead, if that even makes any sense. He’s shorter than I like them and really fucking combative, but I entertained the situation long enough to get entertained back, and now his attachment to me is like a rope wound so tightly around my neck that it’s making my eyeballs bulge out of their sockets. I’d like that to sound less mean than it probably does to you, but there’s just no other way to put it.
Seventeen days ago I turned 23, and was subsequently told by my dentist that I may need a root canal, and by the person mentioned in the paragraph above that I’m the kind of chick who gets off on making guys like me just so I can dump them and watch them writhe. Needless to say we’re not seeing each other anymore, but some of the things he said really stuck with me and have filtered their way so deep into my brain that I came back to this web log after two months and published a post about f-ing goats. How weak is that? If 23 is all about dental damnation (take a second to laugh at dental dam) and snide remarks from people who don’t even know me, then please, take me back to 22 immediately.
Last week I started casually re-seeing the ex-factor who cheated on me, and the way that I feel about it is kind of like the way I feel about funerals. I’ve never had to go to one, but I like to think to myself that I’d prefer not to go when it comes down to the people in my life that I love the most. Not because I don’t want to pay my last respects, but because I don’t want my last visual memory of them to be a cold body in a casket. The way it is between the ex and I now is a way that I hoped it would never be. It’s tainted. Sometimes I can’t look at him without wondering where he stuck It the night before, even if I know for a fact that he was alone. Part of me wishes that when we broke the first time that it could have just stayed like that, because now I know him intimately as a liar and a cheat, and when I’m alone to think, I feel like an idiot for allowing that.
Who knows what kind of drama this is going to lead to, but I feel like it’s something I have to just go with, even if I end up bruised and broken… again. I know there's no way to go back, but I'm hoping there's a way to go forward and rebuild.
My last semester of college starts in August. Hopefully by then I’ll have a place to live… all of this hopping around amidst the insanity that is my life just seems to enhance the drama. Don’t be surprised if the next thing I blog about is my newly purchased rhinoplasty and wig.