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history has to live with what was here

clutching and close to fumbling all we had

11/13/04 02:16 pm - Public pics entry


Hector, this morning


My Trinh and Lyza at the Pour House


Birthday cake from Eldo Cake House in Chinatown


My Trinh and Hector in Hector's parents' kitchen


Hmm...have I become a cameraphone whore?

10/30/04 09:32 pm - You're so vain, you probably think this song is about you

Thirteen random facts about me:

1. I smoke Djarum Specials or Djarum Blacks when I can afford them. Otherwise, Malboro Light Menthols.
2. I was frequently ill as a child.
3. I was a premie.
4. I'm the kind of person who writes little notes to people and leaves them in their pockets.
5. Maybe thirteen is too many.
6. In elementary school I was in the school chorus, the school jazz club, took piano classes, danced first tap and soft-shoe ballet, then did gymnastics [floor, bars, beam], pointe ballet, took karate lessons, played soccer, and in my spare time examined slides of my own blood under my microscopes.
7. I was an avid Nancy Drew fan and I still own several original copies.
8. I once learned "Winter Wonderland" in American Sign Language.
9. When I was eight I dressed up as a surgeon for Halloween, complete with real surgical garb including booties, mask, gloves, whatever you call those surgery caps, my father's stethescope and pager, fake blood, and a real EKG. I knew the different EKG arrhythmias and what they meant, but I have since forgotten. I lost the St. Mark's Halloween costume contest to my brother, who wore a Spiderman costume custom-made by my mother. At the time I blamed my mother for not paging me while I was on stage being judged.
10. My house is famous in my neighborhood for its Halloween spectacles - by next September there will be kids who ran away crying walking by our house and talking excitedly about it.
11. I studied four languages during my academic career: French, Spanish, Latin, and Italian. None of them are of any use at all whatsoever. I remember a French song about foods, the Spanish word for "ass" and a few choice epithets, how to conjugate the verb sum in Latin, and how to correctly pronounce certain Italian deli items, and that's it.
12. Most of my friends are at least bilingual. Hector is trilingual.
13. I am often the only white girl in social situations.

10/21/04 12:56 am - We Are the Champions

The Sox are going to the Series!

Who's your Papi?

10/18/04 06:26 pm

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9/30/04 11:37 am

From The Diary of Frida Kahlo, plates 87-91

"No one is more than a function-or part of a total function. Life goes by, and sets paths, which are not traveled in vain. But no one can stop "freely" to play by the wayside, because he will delay or upset the general atomic journey. From this comes discontent From this comes despair and unhappiness. We all would liketo be the sum total and not one of the numerical elements. Changes and struggles disconcert us, terrify us because they are constant and certain, we search for calm and "peace" because we foresee the death that we die every second. Opposite unite and nothing new or arhythmic is discovered. We take refuge in, we take flight into irrationality, magic, abnormality, in fear of the extraordinary beaty of the truth of matter and dialectics, of whatever is healthy and strong-we like being sick to protect ourselves. Someone-something-alwaysprotects us from the truth-Our own ignorance and fear. Fear of everything-fear of knowing that we are no more than vectors direction construction and destruction to be alive, and to feel the anguish of waiting for the next moment and of taking part in the complex current (of affairs) not knowing that we are headed toward ourselves, through millions of stone beings-of bird beings-of star beings-of microbe beings-of fountain beings toward ourselves-variety of the one incapable of escaping to the two-to the three-to the usual-to return to the one. Yet not the sum (sometimes called GOD-sometimes freedom sometimes love-no-we are hatred-love-mother-child-plant-earth-light-ray-as usual-world bringer of worlds-universes and all universes-
Enough!"

5/29/04 02:11 pm

Words aren't coming as well as they once did. I still remember a time when they poured out of me, good as milk or bad as bleach and I could purge myself without editing, or with very little. Now I'm a little obsessive about editing. A recent poem I've tried to write, I have written three or four drafts of despite that I previously believed in the purity of just one draft, corrected for spelling and grammar.

I realize it's a mind-fuck to write about writing, and try to make good writing about bad or nonexistent writing. I have to write about something, though, and the old themes of dysfunction and illness and anger are stale. Newer pains and memories are still too fresh, too pungent and complicated for me to begin to chisel out of their wilderness right now. Writing about Chris, for example, I tried to soon after "it happened," but it was plain and had no meat, was all dry bread. Or worse, a bombardment of confused and tangled images in a strangely static, but simultaneously frenetic heap - all I wanted to say, all the sounds I wanted to make to match the hurt and the shock and the guilt and the awful, awful jealousy, all of it bunched, a bulging and massive knot.

I guess what I mean to say is that I want words to come bubbling and hissing - the way hydrogen peroxide bubbles and hisses on a fresh wound, both the visceral beauty of pop-fizz, the delight of it, as well as the school-book specific, chemical understanding - catalase, reaction, hydrogen and oxygen and blood cells. I want scalpel words and woodblock words, I want any words that go strangely, elementally together - the metal, the wood, the earth and the water. I do believe that, unmedicated, I am less able to effectively express myself or make sense of extremes of experience. Without pills, rather than feeling unleashed and finely tuned as catgut strung tight, I feel dull and thick, clogged and clotted and unable to access the "right" word or sentence, metaphor or simile or sometimes even adjective. Words like a hairball at my feet, senseless and ugly and undigested.

Despite the lack of success, still lurks the urge, the inability to NOT want to rhapsodize on a moment sitting at the corner of the public library, the dozen protesters across the street, the tourists gawking, the man laying, a few yards away, under the scratchy but warmn grey wool blankets of the same type my father used to steal when restocking the ambulance. The meaning of all this, an object, a stranger, a pitiful and grungy bearded man on the Common burning my hand with a mock-chivalrous whiskey kiss all the while desiring to fuck me; somehow related with my nearly irrepressible urge to climb out onto the girders like geometric branches sprouting from under the overpass near the end of Newbury St., the Hynes Convetion Center/ICA stop on the green line, over the cars rushing and the sunshine slanting through the old, the new architecture, the curved fence designed to curb such impulses as mine.

Even this, now, this typing I feel is skewed, failing to express or relating just the barest hint of the color and the vibrancy and the tinge of deadly sorrow, violent anger and the past, the present, the future, the stories, the thousands and millions and my fascination with it all, all, all, too confusing whirled and mashed and intense.

I want too much. When I get a stack of books at the library, I want to read them simultaneously, even yet, to have them read - I am impatient for it all and I need a flood, though that is what can sometimes paralyze me - a flood of information, feeling, words, sound, sight - all at once, inundating me so that my lungs fill with all the unutterable agony of absolutely everything. All I want is everything, everyone, all I want is the whole fucking world, the galaxy, the universe. Is that so much to ask?
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