ACRYLICS @ MERCURY LOUNGE

I guess the last time I wrote was after the funeral. I’m still not sure how to put that behind me.

I haven’t really been doing much more than usual, other than going to the university pool a few times this week. Also, my voice recognition software is getting more and more unreliable. It randomly inverts the last two letters of any word it transcribes. I’m just going to roll with it.

Tonight is the first night that I’ve been at home in what seems like forever. It’s so quiet here that all of my thoughts have a certain sheen to them. I wish they were in higher resolution.

I think I’m just feeling depressed because I read the end of House of Mirth and it’s an ending of absolute despair. I’m also in my abode and it’s overflowing with papers and tickets and magazines and envelopes that I have to go through this week, and the painting that I still have to finish for Matt (it was supposed to be a Valentine’s Day gift).

That’s not to say I haven’t been doing anything fun. On the contrary, I saw Neon Indian on Friday of last week after my Aunt Anna’s 97th birthday party!

Click here to view the embedded video.

At the venue, I ran into the lead guy (the band is really only him) and he cut in front of me to use the bathroom. I thought it was pretty funny. There were these crazy drunk girls on acid in front of us who couldn’t have been a day over 16, but they were absolutely enamored with the band and made it a much more fun show.

The IFC Center is doing this program of Beigelow vs. Cameron midnight movies, so Matt, Yevgeny, and I went to see The Abyss on Saturday. It was the first time that I was introducing them to each other, but they got on very well. We had dinner at French Roast before the show, which was delicious. I actually hadn’t seen the movie all the way through, and it was beautiful (especially on the big screen).

Sunday I’d been looking forward to for weeks: it was the Washed Out show at Mercury Lounge. However, the day of the show I wasn’t really feeling it. The Washed Out EPs that I’d been listening to nonstop a few weeks ago were feeling tired. I had looked forward to it too long to actually not go, but my excitement was renewed at the very first song. One, the Washed Out guy is ccuuute as fuck. Two, that type of dreamy, gritty pop really excels in a tiny venue. Three, the audience was loving it and I couldn’t help be swept away by their enthusiasm as well as my own. My pictures didn’t come out, but I have video:

“Belong”

Click here to view the embedded video.

“New Theory” (probably my favorite Washed Out song)

Click here to view the embedded video.

“Hold Out”

Click here to view the embedded video.

This week my social calendar isn’t as jam-packed. Tonight Yevgeny and I went to see this silent Gary Cooper movie on loan from the Library of Congress (this is the only print extant) called Wolfsong. I met up with him an hour or so before the movie and we got some cake and coffee at this little bakery on Bleecker. The movie was actually pretty cute, although a bit implausible. Since it was silent, this man played this piano score that he had written specifically to accompany the events onscreen through the entire film. It was a wonderful piece, so much so that I was almost shocked at the end of the performance when the announcer said that it had been composed specifically for that viewing.

I always feel as if someone I personally know has died once one of my favorite characters die in a novel. I felt like Lily Bart (of House of Mirth, which I finished a few hours ago waiting for the bus) was my secret accomplice, peeking into the indelicacies of Fifth Avenue magnates. Now, she is almost a pathetic character, destroyed by her hubris.

Inherited tendencies had combined with early training to make her the highly specialized product she was: an organism as helpless out of its narrow range as the sea-anemone torn from the rock. She had been fashioned to adorn and delight; to what other end does nature round the rose-leaf and paint the humming-bird’s breast? And was it her fault that the purely decorative mission is less easily and harmoniously fulfilled among social beings than in the world of nature? That it is apt to be hampered by material necessities or complicated by moral scruples?

I am to write a Marxist critique of the book, but that must take a back seat to the largest of the papers that I will be working on this spring break: a six-page opus on Emily Dickinson. I went out and bought her collected poems yesterday at the Union Square Barnes & Noble and headed down for a quick coffee and study session at Think. I feel like I’ve been going at a breakneck pace these last few weeks and I just need to spend some time at home: clean off my desk, answer some of my letters, finally get that second bookshelf so I can get rid of the stacks of books all over the floor.

Tonight I’m devoting to relaxation, after all of the tedious work I did today. Oh! How wonderful, I have my Critical Writing book. I left it here by mistake last week, but now it’s perfect because I can use it for my paper.

I have three due.

6 pages – Emily Dickinson
2 pages – House of Mirth
4 pages – (but doesn’t have to be “done” on Monday) Critical Writing [on climate change]

I need to dump all the photos off my camera and upload them (I have pictures of countless shows on there) but I’ll do it tomorrow.

I’m taking my GRE on Saturday. I’m not really prepared, but I’m not sure what I would do to “prepare,” since it’s supposed to test analytical thinking. Right? I think my nervousness will probably bring me to check out some test prep books at B&N tomorrow.

Also on Saturday I’m going to a this cocktail party/tour of the new exhibit at the New Museum for Contemporary Art. The New Yorker has an interesting take on the show.

I can’t wait until school is over and I can get back to pleasure reading. Notable books on my queue that are waiting patiently on my shelf:

Marcel Proust – Schwann’s Way (the first book in In Search of Lost Time / Remembrance of Things Past)
Roland Barthes – S/Z
Jean Baudrillard – The Intelligence of Evil (Or the Lucidity Pact)
Roland Barthes – Mythologies
Jorge Luis Borges – Collected Works (I’m 2/3 done with this, he’s one of my favorite writers these days)
Edwin A. Abbott – Flatland

And, of course, Amy Hempel’s Collected Stories. They are almost so beautiful I can’t bring myself to read more than a few at a time.

But as I drifted upstairs to get a sandwich, my grandma was up (at 1 a.m.) and we talked about the family for two hours (well, truth be told, she did 98% of the talking, but when you are in your eighties that’s well within your rights).

Basically, to put it in a concise way, I feel numb and that nothing is quite right—like when the character in the sci-fi story realizes that they are in a slightly different world because the time line has been altered. They don’t know what’s different, they just know that it’s not right.

I have to go to sleep now to have any hope of making it to class on time, but I guess I’m fine. I spent some time with Matt, which made me feel better, but I still feel like there is this veil over the universe. I keep trying to get enough sleep to make it go away, but it’s still there, filtering everything that happens through the lens of he’s dead. Dead dead dead dead dead.

I remember a point during the last viewing where I was remembering all the cruel, selfish, insensitive things he did to the family and couldn’t stop crying anyway. That was another dimension to the tragedy: when someone is alive you can always hope they will change their ways and be a better person. When they are laid out, all doubt is gone. They are just as you remember them.

I never write poetry, but in lieu of writing this all out in prose I thought I would just focus on the most salient images.

The last day
Shoveling, shoveling, shoveling
Then crunching through the white to the parlor
His blanched face made ruddy with rouge

A cell phone rings in the silence
Before the lid is closed

The click-click, click-click of hazard lights
Following the hearse
We carry him into the church
Same sermon as my grandpa
Down to the very last word

My aunt is
Paralyzed by sobs
Falling over her husband in the pew
To kiss the casket

Half-hearted Twitter posts
About “Madonna” cemetery
Don’t make it any easier

When we all throw on our roses
And set off driving home

I’m also sick of having to shovel out all this snow

of everyone waking me up at some godawful hour

of the implicit ban of having my boyfriend here.

Where do I opt out of this funeral bullshit?

Can’t we just put him in the fucking GROUND?

I just don’t have the energy for this.

Fuck my family.

It was just as heart-wrenching as I expected. The thing I will remember most will be the snow—no, I’m lying, the thing I will remember most is that I missed Ulrich Schnauss’ only tour date in like four years.

I suppose I could’ve gone, but I was in no mood to go. The snow was coming down thick all day today—heavy mushy slushy flakes weighing down the sky. it took us an hour to get to the funeral home and an hour to get back, crunching along in the crushing traffic. Google Maps was peppered with accidents and traffic blockages. Streets that hadn’t been plowed were closed off with cones.

I assumed that he would be laid out in the same funeral parlor as my grandpa, but I didn’t realize that it would be the exact same room. The exact same chairs. The exact same casket.

We thought we would be the only ones there, because of the weather, but a few of my aunt’s friends showed up along with some relatives. It was the old lady cousin who has black teeth and smells like she hasn’t bathed since the Reagan administration accompanied by her comparatively well-put-together husband.

My cousin Patty took it terribly hard, she came in after her own chemo appointment because she thought she’d be too weak to attend the funeral. She has some cancerous cells in her lung. She was absolutely inconsolable for about ten minutes—her despair was so palpable she could have been sobbing into a megaphone.

This whole experience—I have no idea how to process it. I think I understand why a Albert Camus chose a funeral for the beginning of The Stranger. It touches on the most primal aspect of our existence, that of life and death. To see my uncle there all made up like he was going out on a date—it seemed a tragic monument to the absurd.

One of my strange old lady cousins was going around assuring everyone at the funeral home that we would see my uncle again. I felt like I had crossed over onto the other side of reality. Did she really believe this tripe? Does anyone? The funny thing is, if there was some type of afterlife James would be just as self-centered as he always was: ignoring us to talk to strangers, never paying when we went out to eat, letting forth a gale-force wind of bullshit at all times. That’s what I’m going to remember, but it didn’t make the scene any less tragic.

I remember a few months ago my mom told me that she wasn’t as much mourning for her brother (who did unforgivable, heartless things to her when she took care of him) but for the brother that she could have had. I think that’s pretty much the lens through which I’m seeing this entire situation. It’s funny—it was actually relatively easy to get to my uncle’s place when I lived in Sacramento. He could have been a great force in my life—I mean, for fuck’s sake, he was my godfather—but instead he lived a life with strangers. I have his doctoral thesis sitting here in a bound, typewritten copy. I want to typeset it and have it published in a nice binding. I’m sure he’d like that.

I’m not sure what I have left of him, save for some random things I inherited when we cleaned out his house. A pair of cufflinks, some ill-fitting sport jackets, his Rorschach and TAT cards.

What does a life leave behind? There are some numbers in a bank account, I’m sure. All of his fake California friends who probably still don’t even know that he’s passed on. The part of our family that we don’t talk to even sent a gigantic bouquet.

I think the most tragic part of all of it is that he never understood how much everyone around him loved him. He never married—and I can’t help but think how I would feel if I never had anyone that meant anything to me after what, nearly sixty years? He had a long-time girlfriend, Joni was her name. She wouldn’t even return his calls after he got sick.

I’m not sure what he ever wanted out of life, but whatever it was, he sure did get it. He had enough money to go wherever he wanted, do whatever he wanted. I just can’t help but feel that I never really knew him.

The first column: David Brooks’s “High Five Nation” 9/15/09

The second column: Bob Herbert’s “Behind the Façade” 7/3/09

I turned this in last week but haven’t gotten it back yet. However, my critical writing professor tapped me on the shoulder on my way out of class today and said that she really liked my ideas and that we should have a talk sometime, which makes me think I got an A.

[EDIT: She loved it, and I got an A both on content and style.]

Antoine Roquentin
Critical Writing
Susan Fischer

High-Five Dystopia

Two columns in the New York Times, David Brooks’ “High-Five Nation,” published September 15, 2009, and Bob Herbert’s “Behind the Façade,” published July 3, 2009, paint a picture of a morally bankrupt culture obsessed with self-congratulation, immodesty, and infantile fantasy. Herbert’s uses the caricature of a childish, self-indulgent Michael Jackson as a metaphor for the prevailing attitudes of our time. Brooks, while writing in a similar vein, uses the image of a humbled America at the end of World War II as the shining example of a people who had achieved so much while displaying mass modesty.

Where Brooks’ backward-looking vision seems to be intended less to indict the present than to venerate the past, Herbert doesn’t spare our “culture” any criticism, linking Reagan’s willy-nilly deregulation of the economy with a sort of cultural deregulation, where things once thought to be childish and immature were allowed and even encouraged. Herbert writes: “Jackson was the perfect star for the era, the embodiment of fantasy gone wild.” It’s difficult to argue with his assertion that our behavior as a society has moved more and more beyond self-indulgence to abject fantasy. As he writes, “[m]ost of the nation seemed fine with the idea of going to war without a draft and without raising taxes.”

Brooks and Herbert have very different rhetorical styles in play in each column. Brooks, with his nostalgia for better times far behind, uses a detailed description of the subdued but joyous feeling at the end of World War II in America to make us pine for those bygone days of humility. “The war produced such monumental effects, and such rivers of blood, that the individual ego seemed petty in comparison[,]” he writes. Herbert, on the other hand, takes a different tack by listing the most egregious of our failures both as a society and as individuals: politicians abandoning the poor, repackaging a mountain of debt as an economic boom, decimating American jobs, and “[letting] New Orleans drown.” The angry staccato of these lines show that Herbert isn’t willing to pine for modesty. We should be ashamed of what we’ve done. Like wayward children, Herbert seems to be saying that before we can move forward, someone needs to become enraged about this type of shortsighted, unrealistic behavior. Talking of Jackson’s pedophilia cases, “the details of which would make your hair stand on end[,]” Herbert links the Jackson fever that erupted after his death to a recapitulation of the worst traits of our society, that of our ability to forget horrendous crimes and opt for fantasy over reality.

Despite using a more subtle rhetorical style than Herbert’s, Brooks makes a similar jab at our complacency and self-satisfaction by subtly contrasting the heroic achievements and sacrifices of World War II with the shameless self-congratulatory buzz that has come to pervade our society. Instead of listing our failures as a society, Brooks seems to focus on individual acts of egotism, such as the iconic episode of “Kanye West grabbing the microphone from Taylor Swift at the MTV Video Music Awards to give us his opinion that the wrong person won.” He ties this to earlier developments in what he posits as a gradual slide from modesty to egomania. Linking the ubiquity of advertising to the development of shameless self-promotion, from Muhammad Ali telling everyone who would listen that he was the greatest of all time, to Norman Mailer’s book “Advertisements for Myself,” Brooks is highly skeptical of this direction we’ve taken. As he puts it, “This isn’t the death of civilization. It’s just the culture in which we live.” His subtler message doesn’t convey the sense of urgency that Herbert’s does: Brooks’s most egregious example of our collective hubris is Michael Jordan’s self-indulgent Hall of Fame speech.

In using a lighter touch, Brooks dilutes the seriousness of his argument, making it sound like a curious historical anecdote. Herbert makes the opposite mistake: using the fanciful metaphor of Michael Jackson ends up making his argument look hyperbolic and his assessment of our lack of collective restraint a bit laughable. Despite being a bit over-the-top, the metaphor does highlight our society’s obsession with meaningless ephemera: Twitter trends, nip slips, and best-dressed lists taking over the space in our consciousness once devoted to hard analysis of society’s efficacy. As Herbert astutely notes,“[i]t was almost as if the adults had gone into hiding.”

Another key area that the arguments differ is where the two columnists speak of the implications of our “problem with no name.” Where Herbert seems primarily concerned with the arenas of public policy and our lack of ability as a society to take responsibility for our frivolous and indolent ways, Brooks seems to resort to giving our society an etiquette lesson from a time that is not relevant to 2010. His big metaphor is that of a radio program sent out to the troops the day of the victory in World War II with celebrities sending a message of humility to be a counterpoint against the grandiosity and pomp of the Fascists. Instead of commenting on Kanye West, Brooks would do well to highlight the ills of actual Americans. Herbert does this well, showing a more linear progression instead of Brooks’ flash-forward from the 1940s to now, as if there were no one to take the blame for the social changes that created these grevious faux pas that offend Brooks’ delicate sensibilities. As Herbert writes, “Ronald Reagan was president, making promises he couldn’t keep about taxes and deficits[.] The movie ‘Wall Street’ would soon appear, accurately reflecting the nation’s wholesale acceptance of unrestrained greed and other excesses of the rich and powerful.” Celebrities will always be a capricious bunch, but what’s unconscionable is when American society thinks that we can get away with the same shenanigans, which is exactly what happened.

Brooks and Herbert are focusing on a growing problem in our society, one that has already borne fruit as an ill-informed electorate fixated on meaningless ephemera, knowing more about the characters on Dancing With the Stars than the legislators that represent them. However, both columnists carefully skirt the idea just below the surface: that the media plays an increasing role in churning out people with these types of shortsighted, infantile behaviors. The New York Times itself is a dinosaur, and once it inevitably goes bankrupt, the greased wheels of shallowness and self-absorption will roll on unchecked. What possible check or balance could we have on our masturbatory psyche as a nation? While our schools fail, more and more people fall into poverty, and healthcare costs spiral out of control, what are we thinking about as a people? We’re busy living the lives of people even more spoiled and childish than ourselves on television.

The real fear is for the next generation—the generation that views the childish antics of the people on reality television as a background level of vapidity. In a world completely removed from any kind of societal context, everything becomes reality television. Did 200,000 people really die in Haiti, or is this just CNN’s reality show of the minute? As Bob Herbert has so astutely points out, “we descended as a society into a fantasyland, trying to leave the limits and consequences and obligations of the real world behind.” We will reap the dividends of our shortsighted choices, and soon we will be back to our humbled selves, but until then, can’t we just have one more Coach bag? One more trip to Neiman Marcus? One more vacation to the Côte d’Azur? Someday, the free ride of the rich will come to a crashing halt, and the nation will have to do a lot of hard thinking about what an entire society obsessed with supporting the whims of the leisure class means.

I just got it back today, she wrote “well-written—very good work!” on it. I thought I’d post it, since all my writing these days seems to be of the technical variety:

Antoine Roquentin
Methods of Literary Analysis
Judith Broome

Bright star, would I were affluent as thou art

In the 2009 film Bright Star, the primary imagery of the film stems from an Elysian conception of nature, with flowers abloom and an idyllic forested landscape of unspoiled beauty. The imagery of wealth, privilege, and class also pervade the film—which can be read not only as a meditation on beauty but of a fall from the leisure class.

The extensive images of nature in the film help to underscore its focus on Keats’ poetry, which uses much natural imagery. The poem that the film takes its title from is filled with images of nature, from the obvious comparison of himself to a star, to “gazing on the new soft-fallen mask / of snow upon the mountains and the moors[.]” The film also attempts to make specific connections with imagery provided in dialogue, such as the scene where he emulates his dream floating on the branches of a magnolia tree.

The blooming flowers and butterflies also symbolize the sexual frustration that Keats and Fanny feel. The constant over-saturation of blooms and color, such as when Fanny, enraptured by beauty, falls down into a field of lavender, serves to underscore how the imagery of the natural world mirrors her affections. In another scene, where Fanny has her brother and sister fill her room with butterflies, she is trying to extract from nature the symbols of her love, and fill her life with them. Nature imagery, as well as being a mirror for the positive aspects of Keats’ romance, also serves as a symbolic backdrop for times when the story takes a dark turn, such as the rainstorm before Keats is taken ill. Also, in the scene where Keats is enraged that his friend has offered to marry Fanny, this takes place not in an area of lush flowers but in a barren stand of trees, further underscoring the relationship between Keats and the natural world.

The film is also replete with the visual language of privilege and class—not one person in the film, save for Keats, actually has anything we could consider a job. One could argue that if Fanny had to work hard putting food on the table, she wouldn’t have had time to let her obsession with Keats take hold of her. Her days spent doing nothing in bed serve as an embarrassing reminder of the capricious nature of the upper classes. It’s also worth noting that the production team of the film didn’t think the actual houses that Keats and Fanny lived in were appropriate for the film. Instead, the film was shot on a sprawling estate in the country, amplifying the quality of the film as a documentary on the trials and tribulations of the rich, rendering much of the heartfelt sentiment of the film embarrassing.

The myopic treatment of the historical context of the film is understandable, as the focus is on nature, beauty, and love. The sumptuous color and warm, summer breezes so adequately captured in the film are meant to evoke Keats’ words, but the imagery of his poetry, in cinematic explication, loses some of its best qualities.

No, it was today. My cell phone barely works in the dorms, and my mom had called two or three times while I slept. I remember telling her she was in my dream, before she told me.

I didn’t know what to do—I stayed in bed until 3:30 in the afternoon.

Woke up

Made breakfast

Washed my clothes

Took a shower

(we must continue to do our routines, never stopping, never stopping)

Went to my American Lit class, and surprise surprise we’re discussing Emily Dickinson’s poems about death. I felt this one the most apropos.

Safe in their Alabaster Chambers—
Untouched by Morning
And untouched by Noon—
Lie the meek members of the Resurrection—
Rafter of Satin—and Roof of Stone!

Grand go the Years—in the Crescent—above them—
Worlds scoop their Arcs—
And Firmaments—row—
Diadems—drop—and Doges—surrender—
Soundless as dots—on a Disc of Snow—

Roommates were listening to gangsta rap all morning—I wanted to walk over and switch off the circuit breaker. Found out the cafeteria doesn’t take credit cards…wtf is up with that? The bitch was really rude about it too, I took it out and she just gave me this condescending look. I hope she finds centipedes in her vagina.

I’m having a beer and trying to think about doing this essay for my methods of literary analysis class. I called and asked my mom whether I should come home today or miss my classes, and Grandma said that I should go to class. After all, the first viewing isn’t until Thursday.

The death just doesn’t feel real here at the university. Nothing ever feels real here, it’s like I’m fourteen once I walk through the student center. Some might find that liberating, but I hate it. I hate being around these childish imbeciles for three days a week. People were throwing snowballs and rocks at our window earlier.

Most of the people in my classes aren’t really trying to be writers, they want to teach third grade and instill them with the same lasseiz-faire bullshit that has destroyed our society.

I saw my uncle a few days ago in the care facility—he was so tired, kept slipping off to sleep. He was on oxygen, which is always a sign that the end is near. He could barely remember us, but he would always respond to my mother’s voice when she told him what the nurses wanted. When we left, I said goodbye, but I couldn’t tell from looking in his eyes whether he knew who I was or not.

The banter of my roommates continue in the background—flies buzzing a melody of football and corrupt bourgeois values.

I need to write this damn essay or there’s no reason to actually show up on Wednesday.

I know this post has been kind of a downer, but I leave you with some humor from the Ten Word Wiki’s article on broccoli.

I had class all Wednesday long, but I managed to get through it all and get on the bus to see Four Tet at Le Poisson Rouge (with Matt, of course).

The next night we went to see Chris Garneau (this band Matt adores) at City Winery, then headed over to Mondo. I’m sad to say that whatever DJ was being amazing during the summer, they have gone on vacation. There was a lot of weird stuff that I couldn’t even identify, although they did play the Smiths and Le Tigre.

The next day I went to meet up with Marvin in the city and we walked across the Brooklyn Bridge and took some pictures in DUMBO.

(from here on, all these photos were all taken with my brand-new Nexus One’s 5-megapixel camera)

(I adore the High Street/Brooklyn Bridge station, the tunnel is deliciously curved and looks like you are going to take off into space.)

Marvin couldn’t stay late because he had to get back to the university (last bus is at 11:30), so I went with him back to the Port Authority. After that, I headed to Brooklyn to meet up with Matt to see The Golden Filter. It was a fabulous show, although I forgot to bring my good camera. We did end up in some of the crowd shots:

The Golden Filter chick moves around like crazy, but I did manage to get one good shot of her:

Here’s the link to the actual professional photos.

I should be sleeping right now, but I’ve said that for years. I’ll sacrifice an hour of sleep for journaling—I always have. It’s odd to use the word “blogging,” since that really refers to something else these days, the realm of Gizmodo, Engadget, BrooklynVegan, and Boing Boing.

Writing for yourself is a subversive act.

I encourage everyone to do it.

I have to admit, I didn’t keep my promise to myself to finish writing my story. I’ve barely done any work, save for reading a ton in House of Mirth for my lit class. We are supposed to write an essay about how the main character is treated as a product.

In other news, I think my critical writing essay was a tour de force. I will find out tomorrow afternoon whether my professor agrees. I also think I did fantastically on the Grammar & Style test on Wednesday.

I also did that presentation on Jean Baudrillard (wow, this is the first time my voice recognition program spelled his name correctly) and I think it went perfectly. I was quite nervous and I really should have made some kind of outline of what I was going to talk about, but I had no idea how to sum up his theories so I just got up there with no notes and talked about his work for about 15 minutes. My professor looked like she was going to fall off the chair and then gave a little mini-lecture on philosophers even more obstructionist than their writing than Baudrillard.

Ok, soI really didn’t want to go back to the dorms today and give up my gigantic monitor and my lovely workstation, so I’m leaving ridiculously early in the morning. My alarm is set for—are you ready?—SEVEN ANTE MERIDIEN, BETCHES.

My whole goal for this weekend was to get new glasses and write a story, and I have to say I failed on both counts (but had an absolutely amazing and fun weekend). Eh, you win some, you lose some. Next week will be better.

Next summer

Next year

Until some undisclosed time when I’m going to have to “get my groove back.”

I want to graduate. Immediately. Also, I’m taking a much higher course load next semester. This shit is too easy.

Saturday I went to Greenwich Letterpress and bought cute handmade cards for the family, and went up to Chelsea to find my mother a bouquet. I was turned off by all the dead flowers, so I found her this wonderful potted succulent with a beautiful flower.

While walking around one of the stores, I saw this adorable cactus that needed me to take him home. I named him Kenneth.

On Valentine’s Day, Matt and I went to Dao Palate and had a fantastic vegan meal and a bottle of wine. There were music and people and they were young and alive.

Today I went with Matt and a few of his friends to this amazing Indian buffet in Jackson Heights. It was an epic meal—this was lunch, and I wasn’t hungry again until midnight. On my way back to Manhattan, Yevgeny texted me that he was around so we met up for coffee in Times Sq and were going to watch a movie, but there was this odd discrepancy between the times that were listed online and the ones they had in the theater. So we went to Whole Foods instead and I did my weekly grocery shopping. I got some Lambic and this English beer I like. I need something to deal with my roommates, and I’ve decided that it will be fancy alcoholic beverages, at least for this week.

Tonight I’m supposed to be writing this essay for my critical writing class, but I’m not feeling terribly inspired, although I’m sure she will think it’s a tour de force. It’s due tomorrow though, I should get writing.

I know I’ve been saying this for years, but I need to force myself to write some fiction. I will write a Borges/Calvino-esque tidbit by Sunday, I have decided. I hate when I’m happy and have no desire to be creative. That hasn’t really happened yet, since I’ve been painting a lot despite my school responsibilities, but I need to write. I’m a writing major—I must get over this writers’ block.

Instead of writing stories, I think I’m going to write fake technical writing. Since that’s mostly what I do, I think it will have an eerie verisimilitude to it.

Here’s the main part of campus in front of the library

This is my view of New York City (taken from the roof of the science building, someone had left the door unlocked). Anyone have any idea where it is? I need to get a telescope to make out the actual buildings.

Snow heaped underneath Ben Shahn Hall

View of the dorms at night (don’t they look like prisons?)

Another far-off view of the dorms (taken from the science building)

Without the sign, this could be a Christmas card picture.

Lonely chairs in front of Raubinger Hall (where I have most of my classes)

One of the older buildings on campus (taken from Raubinger Hall)

Another of the old buildings:

Trees in front of Raubinger

Sculpture in front of the Atrium

So, I sort of ignored my new roommates pretty much the entire semester, and one of them gave me a “talking-to” tonight after class.

I realize it was a mistake to ignore them, and forgot that the only reason that I had such relatively painless interactions with the old roommates was because I tried very hard (against my usual introverted tendencies) to talk to them, to say hi, and all that.

I wanted to be friendly, but I didn’t know my new roommates’ names. Well, I do know, because the names are on a paper on our door, but I don’t remember for the life of me which one is which. So probably ditching the first day to see Charlotte wasn’t the best of ideas, but it’s not going to impact my grades.

And really, the bottom line is that I’m never going to see these people again after this semester. However, I feel like that attitude pervades our culture so much that. The idea that even people are disposable—which Alvin Toffler vigorously asserts—really offends my moral sensibilities. However, I’m a mass of contradictions and I think this is one of them. I absolutely can’t fucking stand the girls in my class that sit in the back and clickity-clack-click on their BlackBerries all damn class long. It’s like, what the fuck are you sending that can’t wait 45 minutes? It’s damn distracting. At least with an iPhone there isn’t that clickity-click nonsense. On the other hand, I’m supremely guilty of connectalysis.

I think that I’m guilty of treating people like disposable commodities too—and I could blame society, but we don’t exist in a vacuum. We exist inside our society, so I am part of the problem. I’m obsessed with getting a Nexus One, even though I know the lack of a keyboard would frustrate me to no end.

To be a disciple of consumerism and to simultaneously revolt against it is itself a consumer product: that of apathy, which benefits the ruling class innumerably.

I view the football players as members of a lifestyle brand opposed to mine. In the future, we will only fight wars because of brand loyalties. The Frito-Lay Republic vs. the McDonald’s Empire.

“In a completely sane world, madness is the only freedom!” -J.G. Ballard

interdoubt – the state after you connect to a new wi-fi network where you’re not sure if it worked or not (you’re opening your Web browser, checking to see if your IM client will connect, waiting for the “new mail” sound)

subhalcyon – the slow, shallow rush of air that happens in silence inside the subway tunnel which means that surely a train is approaching

connectalasis – the foreboding feeling (when at work or in class) that you are missing out on something awesome going on online (be it an Apple keynote, celebrity nip slip, or a Facebook post from your best friend)

I’ve been terribly busy this week, but I did still have time to see Hot Chip at the Hammerstein Ballroom on Friday. I’ve basically had to read Huckleberry Finn in four days (I’m about 2/3 of the way through), and then read all these critical essays on it. My lit teacher is basically obsessed with the idea that Mark Twain invented the American novel, but I think that’s poetic bullshit. I think his comment about Salinger borrowing Twain’s style of dialogue rings true—Huck Finn and Holden Caulfield would have a grand old time together—but I don’t see what the big deal is. I suppose I will come class tomorrow.

I just got back from the gym and I’m feeling a bit tired. I need to read as much as possible in that book and prepare for my presentation on Jean Baudrillard on Wed. It should be epic.

I didn’t really do much, but I had tons of fun. Probably had something to do with the company I’ve been keeping.

I went over to Matt’s after school on Wednesday, and I telecommuted from his place until we went to see Rashomon that night. We got in pretty early, had some Chipotle (orgasm!) and then went to this place called The Grey Dog a few blocks from the Film Forum and had some confections and espresso. They have really good coffee, although it’s pretty expensive. Like, $13 for a salad expensive.

It was really great seeing that movie again, I hadn’t seen it since the summer. the next day, after work, we went to visit my uncle in the hospital. It was just my aunt and I, and my uncle was very agitated talking about how he was constipated. He would be awake for five minutes talking and then immediately asleep again. While before he wasn’t in much pain apparently he’s in a lot of pain now. My aunt said they gave him liquid morphine today when they visited.

He survived the death sentence by five years

and now we’re basically just waiting.

We’re trying to think about positive things (my aunt Gail called me an hour ago and was so excited talking about these cheap vacation rentals in Wildwood they found for this summer) but there’s always this layer of impending horror layered over our interactions. It’s marching inexorably closer, and even though I never was close with my uncle (his personality made that impossible for anyone), it’s going to be heartbreaking to see my grandma have to put one of her children in the grave.

I’m not even sure how I’m supposed to feel about this whole situation. I’m just dreading it. I absolutely adore my grandma and I wish I could spare her this, but it’s just going to happen. She has the peculiar ability to let other people’s problems drag her down too, and I really hope that won’t happen.

I had so much fun yesterday though, Matt and I went to see Asobi Seksu at Le Poisson Rouge, this little venue in the Village. They recorded this acoustic version of a bunch of their songs and so this tour was all acoustic at small venues. I have to say, even though that bitch is like 4 feet tall she is an amazing singer. She was in this white dress with gigantic white heels just like on the cover of the album. I was expecting a gaggle of those wapanese fags, but it was actually not a bad crowd.

She did this rendition of “Layers” that made me weak in the knees. Imagine this, but only with vocals, glockenspiel, and xylophone in a very intimate venue. Matt and I were probably three meters from her, max. They didn’t disappoint.

After that, we went to this night called Trash at the Studio at Webster Hall (yes, I know, you’re thinking Webster Hall, ultra-douchey) but this was actually really fun. They played Blur, Gossip, Yelle, Cut Copy, and a bunch of other great stuff.

Today I wasn’t really in a big hurry to get home, because I knew my mom was up in bumfuck nowhere with her boyfriend. Matt and I watched the latest Kathy Griffin DVD (She’ll Cut a Bitch) and I went home. I did some work on Josh’s website, and then went downstairs to paint for a while. I think it came out pretty good, but we’ll see what happens tomorrow. I think I need another brush just for white—no matter how much I clean the brushes I can never get all of the old paint out. I guess it never occurred to me to Google that, I just got one of my most saturated brushes clean as a whistle, so tomorrow I’ll be attacking my new masterpiece with more paint.

Did I mention that I also scored Jorge Luis Borges’ Collected Works at the Union Sq Barnes and Noble? I have to say, Strand is great and all, but I never find anything there. I’ve read a lot of the ones that were published in Labyrinths, but since I lost that on the plane back from Oklahoma, I thought it would be wonderful to read every single story he ever wrote.

I’ve been in front of my computer for the past few hours but I have no idea what I’m doing. Well, for most of that time I was really painting and just using my computer as a jukebox, but I feel like reading Gizmodo just makes me want a Nexus One that I don’t really need (and would frustrate me with the lack of a good keyboard).

Sometimes I’m not sure what I’m doing. I’m feeling really apathetic about the school year. I suppose it’s because I’m probably going to have to delay graduate school for another year because of the smattering of classes that didn’t transfer. I’m going to apply anyway, and if I don’t get into any good programs then so be it.

In a lot of my classes my professors talk about finding our unique voice. I guess it’s impossible to step outside one’s writing and read it critically, but I feel like I’ve already found my voice.

I suppose I always considered school as just a formality. I’ve read more than they will ever make me read in college, I’ve written more than would ever be required (of course, not formal writing, but still).

I’m going over the guide for my major and getting quite confused. There’s this whole section for English electives, yet the online system has a bunch of things in that category and they aren’t counted towards my degree. Maybe everything your major has to be taken at the college that you matriculate from? I need to schedule a meeting with the English department chair.

I was feeling really apathetic tonight and I was looking at apartments in Queens and Washington Heights and Brooklyn—anywhere I could possibly afford. it’s really strange, the rents aren’t that much higher than Sacramento at all. I don’t understand why everybody doesn’t just move to New York. Usually when I’m looking for apartments I’m in my “sick of being so stressed out” mode and wanting to just go into a fugue state. I think it’s this whole concept of my life being in two places that’s got me feeling a bit discombobulated.

I did hang up my cloud painting over my workstation, and it looks very good. I had all these ideas of what I was going to paint over the clouds, but I actually kind of like the clouds by themselves. I think it’s the most upbeat thing I have painted in a long time.

I’ve been listening to the Smiths all night, mostly because it’s Matt’s favorite band and all. I always had a smattering of the singles, but never downloaded the entire albums before. I got them in Apple Lossless. I always loved Bigmouth Strikes Again, This Charming Man, and Pretty Girls Make Graves, but There is a Light That Never Goes Out is creeping up on my list.

It’s 1:00 and I’ve squandered my reading time. But I did hash out a bunch of stuff about my courses.

It’s 2:00 and I’ve squandered my reading time talking to someone that lives in the same building as me…but I did get a hilarious story out of it. I need to fictionalize it. ASAP.

2:30 and I found another cute Washed Out fan vid:

Click here to view the embedded video.

Click here to view the embedded video.

No actual music video, unfortunately. I’m making one this summer if she doesn’t.

I need to write this other paper, but I spent the past 20 minutes trying to get the campus Internet to work, and I’ve given up. I turned on this hidden setting in my phone to make it only work on 3G, and I’m tethered. Fuck the Willy P IT department. I think I’m going to go down there and try to talk to someone tomorrow. They put up this snarky sign in the dorms saying we shouldn’t use wireless routers.

First, WTF? If you fucks had actually hooked up wireless, then we wouldn’t need to. Why not just pass out fucking CompuServe discs?

Shitty IT makes me livid. I’m sorry, but if you’re twice my age and don’t know how to run a fucking network, just quit. Go home. Hang yourself in cat5 cable. Please. The Internet users of Willy P will thank you.

Anyway, once it stopped working I went down to the gym to jog for a while. Ran into Marvin, we’re trying to plan a party for next week, but my budget is looking pretty conservative. I can’t believe I got paid on Friday and I only have $200 until next payday. Well, I worked a bunch today and I’m going to be putting in full days after Wed (I can only hope I don’t have any big assignments).

I’m getting through these winter days listening to songs about summer, and picturing my perfect summer day: waking up at eleven, taking a drive down to the beach, putting my iPod on and taking a nap in the hot sand until one or two. Go out for a nice satisfying swim, then dry out and munch on sandwiches, maybe take a long walk to the pier or the other end of the dunes. I need mental gymnastics to get through this winter.

I met my lit professor today for the first time. He’s a spirited, interesting guy. He is passionate about poetry and is terribly intelligent. I like a teacher that is very interested in his/her subject. No matter what it is, that type of enthusiasm is contagious for me. I was srsly totally involved in this lecture about Walt Whitman. I realize that this period of literature (civil war to WWI) isn’t the period I hate, it’s the period right before that where everyone was stuck on a strict adherence to rhyme and meter.

I’m taking my mom to the Taken by Trees show next month, which should be supercute! I’m also strangely hopeful that I might have a cute Valentine’s Day this year. Last year was totally fun (Sam and I got drunk as hell) but sometimes it’s nice to go out for dinner with someone special.

I also got tickets for Washed Out, which I’m totally excited to see live ever since Mario told me about the EP.

This is a rather music-heavy post, which I usually hate in other people’s blogs. But music is its own smokescreen. It sounds like bullshit to pontificate about how I can’t tell-all any more, but I really can’t. Music is one of those safe subjects that I can always go on about. People, on the other hand, are more difficult to write about because whenever you write, you’re creating a reality parallel (or, many times, perpendicular) to what others are experiencing. Telling what you really feel also gives up all your cards. It’s sort of disheartening to think of life as a game like that, but having people know your true intentions and true feelings is like sending the Iagos of the world an engraved invitation.

This one goes out to those in California (and the Midwest):

Click here to view the embedded video.

I feel like my intellectual life has been neutered with my inability to air my true feelings, but perhaps that’s the way it’s supposed to be. I need to start writing stories again. It’s better to sheath observations of human nature in fiction.

I just want to say I miss summer soooo bad. I watched this video this guy made from his Caribbean vacation with this High Times song behind it, and I was just dying to jump in the ocean.

Click here to view the embedded video.

The grammar assignment isn’t much, I just have to read a few pages. I’ll do it in between classes.

I miss summer.

so.

much.

I’d give anything to just run down the burning sand and dive into the bathwater-warm Atlantic right now.

So, I bought my tickets to California also. I’m leaving New York June 17 and doing a week in SF, a week in Sac, and a week in Reno, give or take a few days. I might go back and forth a bit, Mario and I were talking about maybe doing some kind of Sac expatriate meetup at the Merc or something odd like that.

I’m still in debt, but at least I’ll be looking forward to an amazing vacation. I’ll still be telecommuting while on “vacation,” so that will be rather odd, but I’ll still get to see everyone I miss.

I’m loving Taken by Trees and Washed Out. Such a great EP.

This probably sounds really scattered, but it’s late and I’m not really tired. I forgot my pillow yet again, so I’ve got to just deal. My bed is so uncomfortable, I’ve got to remember to get an egg crate thing.

All of my undone tasks are catching up with me. I’m supposed to have all this stuff done for work but really I only have 50% done if that. I wish I had a switch that I could turn myself off and go to sleep.

I’m seeing Asobi Sesku next week, which should be awesome. I had this whole semioticsblarg to write about this show I saw, but my wrists are killing me and I just don’t have time. Maybe later when I’ve finished the other 10,000 things I’m doing and then can find some kind of time-space inversion to do voice-recognition in at my college.

I know I should sleep, but it’s one of those nights where I just can’t. I didn’t realize that Showgirls is like two and a half hours long, so it’s 4 a.m.

I should just lie down and hope the nausea subsides.

UPDATE:

So it’s 8 a.m. the next day, and wow. I’ve been puking all night, every hour or two, and I’ve puked up that whole pizza. I feel so dehydrated and drained. There’s few things I like less than vomiting. The thing is, when you’ve been drinking vomiting isn’t so bad because you’re already drunk. Vomiting sober is ten times as terrible.

But I took a hot shower and I think I might be able to actually fall asleep. Fuck you, food poisoning.

Yesterday I went with Matt to this bar off Bedford Avenue to see some bands. We had a few drinks and talked about music for a while. I’m beginning to believe that the standard by which all fat people what we judge is officially Beth Ditto. I mean, somebody can be fat, but the real question is are they Beth Ditto fat?

I’m getting back into the routine of writing, which of course will be completely torn asunder by going back to school, but it’s good to get back into it anyway.

I’ve been going out so much that I haven’t been getting much reading done. Tonight I’m going out to see Showgirls with Yevgeny, it should be totally fun.I feel like I should have so much more to talk about, but I’m rather drained. Maybe I should start writing one of those stories that I’ve been bouncing around my head.

So yesterday was The Drums. There were actually two other opening bands that were great. Well, Eight Effects Pedals American Apparel Ad was great, and Lead Singer Needs to Start Doing Coke was good.

So that night I was supposed to meet up with this guy Matt who I knew that was going to the show anyway, and we hit it off amazingly—probably because 80% of our conversations until that point were gushing about how much we loved The Presets and twenty other bands.

We loved the show and went to this other bar afterwards, got deliciously smashed and danced to this inept DJ that would only play 20 seconds of each song. It was the most fun I’d had in a while. They played Around the World and I totally did the dance.

So, long story short, Let’s Go Surfing is stuck in my head yet again. I just need to see Crystal Castles (again), Glass Candy, and The Golden Filter and then I can die.

Also, I really do want to go surfing. Why isn’t it summer yet? WTF. Those of you that live on the East Coast, I’ll be dragging your asses with me to Sea Bright as soon as it’s above 80 degrees out. :)

DISCLAIMER: Nothing in these letters are real, it’s her delusions. I’ll try to elucidate what’s wrong in editor’s notes. I don’t know what to do with these letters other than to post them. Maybe that’s the only way I can process it.

Some were absolutely incoherent, like this mess:

Go to bank — I am send message. Get one of girls to get to attorney —

1. Change the bank account — change to another bank if no change at that bank.

2. Change — My Bank Account to me [her name] to just mine. how much is there monthly Call Orrin [her boyfriend] if — Keep same payments — except what is Anton’s — my name and yours if they won’t accept just my acct — I will get to bank from here if I can’t I will [authorize?] some-one else — my sister or ?

And then there are ones that sound almost lucid, like this one:
(front)

(back)

Dear Anton,

Such a long time I know—however, my son [my dad] has put me in prison as a sick person.—this is my second year for this [she's only been there six months] and I have not one anything—I have not been ill—at all—not even a sniffle [the obsession with sickness is a remnant of Christian Scientist teaching which doesn't believe in disease or seeing doctors] but they—the place I am in doesn’t care as they get the money—which [my dad] pays for from my money—every person in here is ill but I have not had one ounce of illness and I am locked in my small room I do get out for the meals—this is my second year—no one will help me—none of my family no doctors—I have not seen a doctor ever [she had cancer, and did chemo, that's the only reason she's alive] —I hope all the others who are sick—I should be the nurse—hopefully I will escape this year but I do need a place to go—as I got away before and they found me at my house (about a block away. Keep your prayers going for me—I am very healthy and active so don’t worry about that—I will find a place to go—but it is very crowded now[.]

I hope things are well with you—do not mention anything about me if you write me they read everything before the patient can see them—if not urgent for them the patient does not get it—I hope all is well with you—no address here so good luck—I would love to see you[.]

There were a few more in that envelope postmarked January 9, 2010, mostly papers with tons of things vaguely about the family but not making any sense scrawled all over them.

I can’t read the postmark on the second letter, but it was sent in January and arrived a few days later. She filled a whole page front and back with text, and a smaller note. The small note was the most (and least) lucid one I had read so far.

Hi Anton,

forgive me for sending the report about your brother. I don’t know what I did to him to make him hate me so—and all the mean things he does constantly.

It is so good to hear from you and I am so proud of you-come and see me anytime—I would love that-I am here 24 hours a day

My room is number 110. Love you—can’t wait to see you and your family—you can use my house to stay in—I don’t think anyone is there[.]

Love, Mom

Doesn’t this one seem totally rational? There are a number of problems. First, it’s very unclear who this letter is actually to. My dad and I have the same name, so I’m assuming in the beginning that it’s to me because she mentions the “mean things he does constantly” and she’s very angry at my dad for putting her in the home. However, I don’t have a brother, and my grandma isn’t my mom.

So if you interpret it the other way that it’s to my dad, then who’s the brother? My only uncle died two years ago, so there’s really no logical way to parse this. Possibly she’s writing to some combination of my father and I in her mind. That’s the real terror of dementia— that an outsider could read this letter and think it was written by someone with full control of their faculties. You know, when I first got that letter she sent for my birthday it brought me to tears, mostly because she was begging to be set free almost with the voice of a child. These seem to be almost loving.

She mentions her house in the last line “I don’t think anyone is there.” The house was sold last year.

The majority of the letters either don’t make sense or are kind of positive in a weird way. I guess maybe I should feel good that she’s writing me even if she really has no idea what she’s saying or who I am. It’s clear from these that she really does love my dad and I, but is totally baffled about her situation. I wish I could go see her. I need to buy my tickets to go to California soon.

So last night I went out with Jason to see The Science of Sleep at the Alliance Français theater up on 59th St. It was a beautiful theater with very comfortable seating, but as Jason astutely pointed out it smelled like old people. The normal clientele of the Alliance seemed totally blindsided by the movie. We ended up talking with this older couple who point-blank asked us why we liked the movie and why Michel Gondry has critical acclaim. I couldn’t really come up with a concrete answer, but I think the film is totally cute.

Tonight I’m going to see The Drums at the Bowery Ballroom. I had no idea they became this giant buzz band overnight, it seems like only a few months ago I was seeing them perform at tiny shows at Mondo and then dancing with the crowd for the rest of the night. I miss those summer nights. Still, the Bowery Ballroom show is sold out. By some curious alignment of the stars a few days ago I met this guy that runs a music blog, and it turned out that we had been to a whole bunch of the same shows over the past six months. It was almost comical, his pictures would be from the right side of the stage and mine would be from the left or vice versa. So, of course, we were both going to the show tonight. Our IM conversation was mostly us gushing about how much we love The Presets, Fever Ray, Röyksopp, et al and how ridiculous and tasteless most people are.

I’m totally stoked about the show, but I think I need to get there earlier than usual because it’s sold out. I wish I didn’t have to work, I’d probably go down to the Museum of Contemporary Art and watch those video installations for a while before the show.

Jason and I are always talking about writing and literature, and this year I’m making a conscious effort to write more. That’s my New Year’s resolution. I got to present him with a copy of his novel that I designed covers for and had printed on lulu, he was so excited. It only showed up yesterday so I haven’t actually read it, but I’m sure it will be fun. We were craving sweets later in the night and in walking to Magnolia we passed the IFC Center, which is playing Jason’s favorite movie ever, Showgirls. I admit I haven’t seen it in forever, but I remember how hilarious it was, and we’re totally going. Does anybody want to go see Strange Days? I thought that was a movie that would surely be improved by being shown on the big screen.

I’m also freaking out about this Kurosawa retrospective. There is just not enough time for everything amazing going on around here. Also, Blue Velvet and Labyrinth are being shown this week. Yeah, never enough time in the day.

Although I’m in the middle of a few books, the one that has my most rapt attention is this one called Four Arguments for the Elimination of Television. It’s also incredibly quotable.

I totally don’t understand people’s reluctance to use mass transit in Manhattan, but this passage from the book from the chapter on advertising kind of makes me understand where it comes from.

People who take more pleasure in talking with friends than machines, commodities and spectacles are outrageous to the system. People joining with their neighbors to share housing or cars or appliances are less “productive” than those who live in isolation from each other, obtaining their very own of every object. Any collective act, from sharing washing machines to carpooling to riding buses, is less productive to the wider system in the end than everyone functioning separately nuclear family unit in private homes. Isolation maximizes production. Human beings who are satisfied with natural experience, from sexuality to breast-feeding to cycles of mood, are not as productive as the not-so-satisfied, who seek vaginal sprays, chemical and artificial milk, drugs to smooth out emotional ups and downs, and commodities to substitute for experience.

A large subtext of advertising is that we need to segregate ourselves from each other, that way we’ll need to buy more things.

The book also spend a lot of time talking about Brave New World versus 1984, as well as talking about the 1972 movie Solaris. Very interesting, but too multifaceted to talk about here.

Okay, I need to get back to work, since my lunch break is just about over. I should charge up my camera batteries for the show.