Hi.
Too often I am faced with bullshit. Lets unpack the bullshit.
but first: an excerpt from an IM I sent someone tonight after finding my laundry soaking wet and full of lint after I paid quality campus cash for it to be dried in the dorm dryer.
i am so going to cut thru nyus beurocratic process tomororw morning and get that dollar back on my campus cash card, and get an apology from some ass kissing administrator.
they might think that nobody will pursue this because of the mere pence involved, but I surely will. It is the principle, and if nothing else, I am a woman of principle.
So I lug with me, day by day, an antiquated suitcase chock full 'o shit, of the bull flavor.
1. Peanut butter and co. They have peanut butter, but since it's dubbed "gourmet," it runs $6 a jar.
2. The entire NYU Health and Wellness Center. I will unpack this more juicily upon request. Lets just say that on average, I get shot down there by self- important pseudo- MD's about 75% of the time I go. Either that, or I'm told to give whatever the problem/ ailment "a few days," after which the treatment is "a few more days"
As for the Mental Health aspect, express distress and you'll be granted a scrawled perscription to one of about 12 SSRI's that they circulate around the NYU kids, respectively. It's a toss- up which one you'll get. Have been known to favor Cymbalta, Prozac, Paxil, and Anthrax.
As for the ten free therapist sessions, the best advice I got from mine freshman year was that when I was feeling down, anxious, or sad, I should try to "see a movie, read a book, work on a jigsaw puzzle, or go to a museum."
Where is the duncecap when you really need it?
3. Vanilla ice cream. Effin gross.
4. makeup.
5. Asian people wearing blue or green colored contacts.
Why? It would be like me, a white person, getting a lip replacement so I had lips characteristic of a black person, wearing a frizzy wig, and ditto with nose and above re lip. Why be something you're not? Just take a chill.
6. In a certain Gallatin 3- hour long class today a certain teacher- who- shall- not be named was absent, and left us with instructions to lead class ourselves, and what to do. There were 10 different instructions. The entire class showed up, and proceeded to follow all of her directions. What do we make of such a phenomenon? Do people actually care about something? Before they turn 45?
7. when teachers say "this idea that/of" and proceed to say a painfully obvious thing, like "self and other," or some other hackneyed axiom. Oh, I know. "it's cliche for a reason!"
8. Teachers that use words from our youngster parlance to curry favor with us.
9. Teachers who amplify and exaggerate minute technical difficulties in the classroom to get suck-up laughs from the class. We don't care that you forgot to plug in your computer, or the projecter is on the blink. Just do your thing, we'll do ours, and switch to Gallatin.
10. ASsignment pads. Use your hand, it will never get lost.
11. The last hour of latent-ness this poor post has endured due to my internet voyeurism with regards to the "Kimmel 17+1 unnamed gutsy student"
Wednesday 25 February 2009
Tuesday 24 February 2009
middle of the night
so lately, been wond'rin, who will be there to take my place
when im gone
you'll need love
to light the shadows on your face
remember that song? I could google it and write down what it is, but i wont botha.
too bad this household is in shambles right now. more than it usually is, even. but usually i am cool with it. now, because there is 9 people dwelling here overnight instead of the usual 4, resources are scarce, and sleeping options are limited. A Mad search for a pillow that began at 5 am ends now, with this pillow *cocks head towards pillow.* But who can sleep now? And where to sleep? And how can I sleep in this chilly atmosphere of expats who save money by not using heat in the dead of winter?
What is an expat?
What will today bring. I have a couple of things lined up in my head for landmarks/benchmarks, as I try to do for every day in order to maintain my steadily dwindling grip on functional productivity and overall action with a forward trajectory. The things I have lined up are less than something that is not so mammoth<
BLOODY HELL< the punctuation and caps lock are all of the sudden majorly fucked up on this ole compaq number reminiscent of a simpler time with more crude tools< (comma) sheepskin wardrobes, (ITS BACK!) and the third thing that was a sign of the times that served as the heyday of this compaq[t] [not] compy need not be written here because the point has been rendered moot by the reappearance of the comma after the blessed word 'wardrobes.'
The daughters of the deceased woman and the brave harrowing souled grandpa are bustling about the kitchen, making coffee, doing the dishes, wiping up surfaces in preparation for "later" (what happens later? Will let all of you eager readers/ voyeurs into my daily life know.) These are the vision of strength for us all, having come from a modest American home, vaguely Jewish, vaguely patriotic, vaguely vagabonds in Northeast Philly. I expect them to break down, the 2 girls, today they play 2 roles hand in hand: daughters and mothers. Organizers of the proceedings, whatever they may be, and mourners of a woman who has been a rock for me for my first 20 years.
A rock? now I can't remember hardly anything. So much of my time spent with her, I feel like, was sort of me trying to appease my guilt for perhaps taking her for granted my whole life, for not milking her for all of the information, posterity, and lessons that I could have been. So I painted this happy- go- lucky picture of myself for her, a spunky girl with a fiery drive, specific interests, and significant talent in some areas of note, and some of disgrace.
I overhear these women debreifing in the kitchen. Debreifing? The emotions are thick like soup sans water. The perpetual humming of a modern household, be it the deceptive heating system, the cieling fan above me, or the pipes and washing machine below me (Yup! I'm perched atop a whirring washing machine! Kewl) Every vocalization is made with that underlying wimpering waver that might as well provide subtitles in 3 languages "I am about to cry, and doing my utmost to hold in my tears till a more socially acceptable time"
luckily for us all, that time is in T minus 2.5 hours. Or something.
My mother, desperate for an entity to blame, to place her grief upon regally, is suspicious of the nursing home. Did they give her dinner that last night? Did they forget about her, in her catatonic state in her hospital bed in room 429 (yes I made up the number, but that's what gives tear- jerking memoirs like this one their street cred) as she used a steadily diminishing capacity of her brain and her body shut off its systems that were not needed or even foremost, silently, without warning any of us explicitly of their plan to close up shop later that night? Did they not pause to thicken her apple juice enough so she would be able to swallow it without choking on the transient, gurgly liquid that would never be enough to coat her innards or contribute to the human body's 75% of water?
My dear aunt, my mother's sister just gave me a rundown of the proceedings. First funeral home, then quick car ride to gravesite. Solemn, respects, eulogies, local Chabad Rabbi as leader, as per the life change of my cousins family roughly a decade ago. All this interspersed with and accented by seemingly arbitrary Jewish customs of misogyny like the fact that despite our families lack of able- bodied males who will be present (my father will watch from an undisclosed panoptic location, the priestly gene pool coursing through his veins detectable only in the teltale surname grounds for a life on the outskirts of cemetaries, graveyards, funeral zones. Back to my run-on: we need 6 "pallbearers," they must be male. The 2 children and 4 of the 5 grandchildren are female. Out of the running. We women may very well sit idly by while my family and the Rabbi try their durndest to find some migrant workers, perhaps a deaf-mute dwarf, a gravedigger's Cretian apprentice, anyone with a penis 'n scrotum to help defy gravity as they steadily lift the wooden box which contains my grandma's body wrapped in a shroud. Her soft soft skin, once wrinkled by old age, she was past that point. Beyond the wrinkled skin stage is a sagging, windblown facade. Weathered and leathered were her arms and hands, they once witnessed the ivory keys of concert pianos up close and personal, pounding, tickling, and pressuring the polar colored yet integrated keys of the upstanding instrument slash furniture item. Her teeth: light green and brown, yellow and off- white, the subject of a minor tragedy she once told me about- "the dentist made a mistake" she said simply. I haven't seen her teeth as anything but puffy- cloud white since the day I learned my colors and was in her presence. Her body is one thing. But where is the rest? If there is some sort of communion with god in an afterlife, or limboland, does it feel to her like it has been forever, or for never, as time as we know it probably holds no meaning 'out there'? Does she even feel. I don't want to ask these questions because I formulate the questions within the limitations of our world of time, space, emotions, apologetics, rhetoric, and mixed metaphors, sour grapes, and paralysis, orgasm and overdose married in a union so precious that no proposition number 8 would consider approaching it with a 200- tefach pole. cubit pole.
All of a sudden religious practices are at the forefront. As if they were about to transmit all of the sacred truths that must be passed on to the newer generations, they flesh out the details of the Jewish mourning process. In the face of fear, loss, and as we are forced to make lingering eye contact with the morbidity of those who concieved us, vowed to never decieve us, which is what brings us here today, humbly before those who we live before, but blindly, naively, not until it's too late. In the face of the above, we cower and cling to ritual. I am sure someone like Rene Girard, Rene Descartes, Joyce Kilmer, or some other god forsaken famous stuffy man whose 'work' has been widespread for it's academic clout, no by coincidence sporting the blatant name of a female, has written on such human phenomena before. Fuck them. I see it right here, so they may have been born first, but I am me. Can anyone blame them? They consider the garments they wear, which should be torn first, the outer or inner shirt? Are these chairs too high off the ground for us to sit on for the next week, and how do we convince dad/grandpa that this is not an occasion that deems fasting an appropriate response?
This lurker of a thought wants to be typed up here: What if my grandpa can't take this unspeakable anguish and he submits to natural forces and causes, as a preemptive measure to avoid the upcoming weeks, months, maybe even years, that he will be forced to live in solitude while being surrounded by the other elderly who he is unable to shoot the shit with. He is just too wound up in his retired- aeronautical engineer world of reviewing the rules and regulations that allow the nursing home to run without a hitch: the way the residents choose their meals for the next day on small blue slips of paper. The morning, afternoon, and evening routine with medicine, hygiene, futile socialization attempts, and sleep patterns. The heating system, the new fangled technology of remote control television, a box that is both a clock and a player of the classical music compact discs my mother incessantly borrows from the library for him/them/just him now I guess...
So I guess I won't be getting to sleep before the funeral. I am kinda glad I wrote this though. Would be kinda sour if the compaquter croaks right now. We could stage a double funeral.
when im gone
you'll need love
to light the shadows on your face
remember that song? I could google it and write down what it is, but i wont botha.
too bad this household is in shambles right now. more than it usually is, even. but usually i am cool with it. now, because there is 9 people dwelling here overnight instead of the usual 4, resources are scarce, and sleeping options are limited. A Mad search for a pillow that began at 5 am ends now, with this pillow *cocks head towards pillow.* But who can sleep now? And where to sleep? And how can I sleep in this chilly atmosphere of expats who save money by not using heat in the dead of winter?
What is an expat?
What will today bring. I have a couple of things lined up in my head for landmarks/benchmarks, as I try to do for every day in order to maintain my steadily dwindling grip on functional productivity and overall action with a forward trajectory. The things I have lined up are less than something that is not so mammoth<
BLOODY HELL< the punctuation and caps lock are all of the sudden majorly fucked up on this ole compaq number reminiscent of a simpler time with more crude tools< (comma) sheepskin wardrobes, (ITS BACK!) and the third thing that was a sign of the times that served as the heyday of this compaq[t] [not] compy need not be written here because the point has been rendered moot by the reappearance of the comma after the blessed word 'wardrobes.'
The daughters of the deceased woman and the brave harrowing souled grandpa are bustling about the kitchen, making coffee, doing the dishes, wiping up surfaces in preparation for "later" (what happens later? Will let all of you eager readers/ voyeurs into my daily life know.) These are the vision of strength for us all, having come from a modest American home, vaguely Jewish, vaguely patriotic, vaguely vagabonds in Northeast Philly. I expect them to break down, the 2 girls, today they play 2 roles hand in hand: daughters and mothers. Organizers of the proceedings, whatever they may be, and mourners of a woman who has been a rock for me for my first 20 years.
A rock? now I can't remember hardly anything. So much of my time spent with her, I feel like, was sort of me trying to appease my guilt for perhaps taking her for granted my whole life, for not milking her for all of the information, posterity, and lessons that I could have been. So I painted this happy- go- lucky picture of myself for her, a spunky girl with a fiery drive, specific interests, and significant talent in some areas of note, and some of disgrace.
I overhear these women debreifing in the kitchen. Debreifing? The emotions are thick like soup sans water. The perpetual humming of a modern household, be it the deceptive heating system, the cieling fan above me, or the pipes and washing machine below me (Yup! I'm perched atop a whirring washing machine! Kewl) Every vocalization is made with that underlying wimpering waver that might as well provide subtitles in 3 languages "I am about to cry, and doing my utmost to hold in my tears till a more socially acceptable time"
luckily for us all, that time is in T minus 2.5 hours. Or something.
My mother, desperate for an entity to blame, to place her grief upon regally, is suspicious of the nursing home. Did they give her dinner that last night? Did they forget about her, in her catatonic state in her hospital bed in room 429 (yes I made up the number, but that's what gives tear- jerking memoirs like this one their street cred) as she used a steadily diminishing capacity of her brain and her body shut off its systems that were not needed or even foremost, silently, without warning any of us explicitly of their plan to close up shop later that night? Did they not pause to thicken her apple juice enough so she would be able to swallow it without choking on the transient, gurgly liquid that would never be enough to coat her innards or contribute to the human body's 75% of water?
My dear aunt, my mother's sister just gave me a rundown of the proceedings. First funeral home, then quick car ride to gravesite. Solemn, respects, eulogies, local Chabad Rabbi as leader, as per the life change of my cousins family roughly a decade ago. All this interspersed with and accented by seemingly arbitrary Jewish customs of misogyny like the fact that despite our families lack of able- bodied males who will be present (my father will watch from an undisclosed panoptic location, the priestly gene pool coursing through his veins detectable only in the teltale surname grounds for a life on the outskirts of cemetaries, graveyards, funeral zones. Back to my run-on: we need 6 "pallbearers," they must be male. The 2 children and 4 of the 5 grandchildren are female. Out of the running. We women may very well sit idly by while my family and the Rabbi try their durndest to find some migrant workers, perhaps a deaf-mute dwarf, a gravedigger's Cretian apprentice, anyone with a penis 'n scrotum to help defy gravity as they steadily lift the wooden box which contains my grandma's body wrapped in a shroud. Her soft soft skin, once wrinkled by old age, she was past that point. Beyond the wrinkled skin stage is a sagging, windblown facade. Weathered and leathered were her arms and hands, they once witnessed the ivory keys of concert pianos up close and personal, pounding, tickling, and pressuring the polar colored yet integrated keys of the upstanding instrument slash furniture item. Her teeth: light green and brown, yellow and off- white, the subject of a minor tragedy she once told me about- "the dentist made a mistake" she said simply. I haven't seen her teeth as anything but puffy- cloud white since the day I learned my colors and was in her presence. Her body is one thing. But where is the rest? If there is some sort of communion with god in an afterlife, or limboland, does it feel to her like it has been forever, or for never, as time as we know it probably holds no meaning 'out there'? Does she even feel. I don't want to ask these questions because I formulate the questions within the limitations of our world of time, space, emotions, apologetics, rhetoric, and mixed metaphors, sour grapes, and paralysis, orgasm and overdose married in a union so precious that no proposition number 8 would consider approaching it with a 200- tefach pole. cubit pole.
All of a sudden religious practices are at the forefront. As if they were about to transmit all of the sacred truths that must be passed on to the newer generations, they flesh out the details of the Jewish mourning process. In the face of fear, loss, and as we are forced to make lingering eye contact with the morbidity of those who concieved us, vowed to never decieve us, which is what brings us here today, humbly before those who we live before, but blindly, naively, not until it's too late. In the face of the above, we cower and cling to ritual. I am sure someone like Rene Girard, Rene Descartes, Joyce Kilmer, or some other god forsaken famous stuffy man whose 'work' has been widespread for it's academic clout, no by coincidence sporting the blatant name of a female, has written on such human phenomena before. Fuck them. I see it right here, so they may have been born first, but I am me. Can anyone blame them? They consider the garments they wear, which should be torn first, the outer or inner shirt? Are these chairs too high off the ground for us to sit on for the next week, and how do we convince dad/grandpa that this is not an occasion that deems fasting an appropriate response?
This lurker of a thought wants to be typed up here: What if my grandpa can't take this unspeakable anguish and he submits to natural forces and causes, as a preemptive measure to avoid the upcoming weeks, months, maybe even years, that he will be forced to live in solitude while being surrounded by the other elderly who he is unable to shoot the shit with. He is just too wound up in his retired- aeronautical engineer world of reviewing the rules and regulations that allow the nursing home to run without a hitch: the way the residents choose their meals for the next day on small blue slips of paper. The morning, afternoon, and evening routine with medicine, hygiene, futile socialization attempts, and sleep patterns. The heating system, the new fangled technology of remote control television, a box that is both a clock and a player of the classical music compact discs my mother incessantly borrows from the library for him/them/just him now I guess...
So I guess I won't be getting to sleep before the funeral. I am kinda glad I wrote this though. Would be kinda sour if the compaquter croaks right now. We could stage a double funeral.
Monday 23 February 2009
Dry foods are more than just that 3 letter word, dry. I mean be it saltines (eat 6 within one minute- you will not be able to!) or krumbly challah that will turn crunchy if left exposed to the open air for over 5 minutes, or uncooked pasta, the way that my mouth responds in the similar way that it does to the suction-y dentist tool that is meant to suck our all your saliva. No, even more than that. Because the small pieces that
You know what? How can I finish writing of the sensations felt in my mouth on my grated tongue when I bear direct witness to my uncle plotting different ways to enhance the mood of the shiva house through rude comical signs and items to serve as reminders of our own mortality. For example: My grandpa, being what i presume is completely normal for a later octogenarian, has a bit of trouble getting to the bathroom on time. So in preparation for whatever post- funeral festivities occur at this suburban Philly moderno- turned self- inflicted pigsty, (read: house) a sign was pasted on the powder room door, the only place on the ground level floor to let out urine in a socially respectable manner. The sign reads "Please use upstairs toilet if able- bodied enough to walk up the stairs."
This anarchist with side flavors of Breslov Hasidut, militant weapons, outright racism against all non- whites and non- Jews. My uncle, once a pot- smoking deadhead who embodied the unlikely blend of two stereotypes: the aforementioned, and the Arab and Muslim hating, gun and hunting loving militant with a severe case of both pre and post traumatic stress disorder constantly brewing under his taut skin stretched over decades of hard fat buildup.
A direct quote:"Oh here we go- for the treatment of chronic idiopathic constipation- Go Upstairs." He hastily flips the pages of JAMA magazines (Journal of American medical Assoc), and other such obscure pamphlets of medical literaure searching for relevant or not_ so relevant ads that might relate vaguely to my ailing grandpa. To accomplish what? Stir up an already simmering kettle of distraught, anxious women with rapidly graying hair, secretly angsty teens, and the absence of traditional familial stability?
You know what? How can I finish writing of the sensations felt in my mouth on my grated tongue when I bear direct witness to my uncle plotting different ways to enhance the mood of the shiva house through rude comical signs and items to serve as reminders of our own mortality. For example: My grandpa, being what i presume is completely normal for a later octogenarian, has a bit of trouble getting to the bathroom on time. So in preparation for whatever post- funeral festivities occur at this suburban Philly moderno- turned self- inflicted pigsty, (read: house) a sign was pasted on the powder room door, the only place on the ground level floor to let out urine in a socially respectable manner. The sign reads "Please use upstairs toilet if able- bodied enough to walk up the stairs."
This anarchist with side flavors of Breslov Hasidut, militant weapons, outright racism against all non- whites and non- Jews. My uncle, once a pot- smoking deadhead who embodied the unlikely blend of two stereotypes: the aforementioned, and the Arab and Muslim hating, gun and hunting loving militant with a severe case of both pre and post traumatic stress disorder constantly brewing under his taut skin stretched over decades of hard fat buildup.
A direct quote:"Oh here we go- for the treatment of chronic idiopathic constipation- Go Upstairs." He hastily flips the pages of JAMA magazines (Journal of American medical Assoc), and other such obscure pamphlets of medical literaure searching for relevant or not_ so relevant ads that might relate vaguely to my ailing grandpa. To accomplish what? Stir up an already simmering kettle of distraught, anxious women with rapidly graying hair, secretly angsty teens, and the absence of traditional familial stability?
Sunday 22 February 2009
2 songs: killer queen and bohemian rhapsody.Why is Queen so good? The contrast, the assured sound that persists through the songs despite the erratic words and genre, the crispness coupled with the childlike carefreeness. The asymmetry. These contribute to the goodness, but are really just words.
I am currently polishing off a zesty bag of sour cream and onion ruffled potato chips. I dislike sour cream and onions but together in the form of whiteish/greenish powder stuck to the fried ridges in a chip, well the only word I have is "mmm". Are there other words like that, 3 of the same letter? There is zzz, kkk (more acronynm). So the chips: I put one or a few into my mouth onto the front part of my tongue, let out some preliminary chews,let them soak for about 2 seconds, and then suck vigorously inward so that I extract a juice that is flavored and spicy oil. And that's all for the chips, folks, the inside of the bag has been licked, once shiny silver with oil, now slicked down silver with a thin coating of my laden saliva on it, especially in the bottom corners where the crumbs tend to frequent.
Is doing an extracurricular hobby type activity for ten hours in one weekend excessive? Is this blog excessive? I have gotten pretty positive feedback thus far, be it through comments here (although those are sparse) facebook, in person, or telepathically (the most and least at the same time) And I thank y'all for your continued concerted efforts to bolster my back.
Whistles away now, because I did not sleep for 2 nights now. Fading fast, bleary and dream.
I am currently polishing off a zesty bag of sour cream and onion ruffled potato chips. I dislike sour cream and onions but together in the form of whiteish/greenish powder stuck to the fried ridges in a chip, well the only word I have is "mmm". Are there other words like that, 3 of the same letter? There is zzz, kkk (more acronynm). So the chips: I put one or a few into my mouth onto the front part of my tongue, let out some preliminary chews,let them soak for about 2 seconds, and then suck vigorously inward so that I extract a juice that is flavored and spicy oil. And that's all for the chips, folks, the inside of the bag has been licked, once shiny silver with oil, now slicked down silver with a thin coating of my laden saliva on it, especially in the bottom corners where the crumbs tend to frequent.
Is doing an extracurricular hobby type activity for ten hours in one weekend excessive? Is this blog excessive? I have gotten pretty positive feedback thus far, be it through comments here (although those are sparse) facebook, in person, or telepathically (the most and least at the same time) And I thank y'all for your continued concerted efforts to bolster my back.
Whistles away now, because I did not sleep for 2 nights now. Fading fast, bleary and dream.
Saturday 21 February 2009
Crumbs + Satisfaction
crumbs are cool because they get into the nooky nitty gritty spots of my life. For starters, my keyboard. For middlers, the floor mixed with dust and wayward hair under my desk. For finishers, my goshdarn fingernails!
The statistician, er, satisfaction that I get from cleaning the crumbs out of my keyboard is severalfold.
Fold 1: The q-tip never fails to emerge from betwixt my keys with at least some discoloration, from either dust, food, or general grime! (who, bee tee dub, was the most inspiring war general in all of the 20th century.)
Fold 2: I get to blow a short hard burst of air every so often to disrupt the 9.8 m/s squared force that gravity is exerting on them
Fold 3: After I've done as much as I can i look on the screen and see that I have sufficiently fucked up my computer, sent several people spam- like IMs, and google searched lengthy combinations of numbers, letters, and punctuation marks, all inadvertently!
I thoroughly got distracted. I'm listening to some queen songs over and ovary.
It's kinda nice. My body is shot to heck, but I cannot stay in this cabin(et) until sleepytime. I shall try and find some ruckus to be a part of. Best case scenario- it will involve good pizza, garlic knots (ok maybe not both, that'd be hella indulgent, especially after playing hockey for a record 7 hours.) puns, words, body communication, laughter, and substance. Oh, and hopefully it won't include money, politics, buzzwords, exploitation, sexploitation, drudgery, small-talk, and fallacies.
That's a lot more negatives than positives right there. Hmm.
Over Under Through- anywhere a mouse can go is where you'll find me.
The statistician, er, satisfaction that I get from cleaning the crumbs out of my keyboard is severalfold.
Fold 1: The q-tip never fails to emerge from betwixt my keys with at least some discoloration, from either dust, food, or general grime! (who, bee tee dub, was the most inspiring war general in all of the 20th century.)
Fold 2: I get to blow a short hard burst of air every so often to disrupt the 9.8 m/s squared force that gravity is exerting on them
Fold 3: After I've done as much as I can i look on the screen and see that I have sufficiently fucked up my computer, sent several people spam- like IMs, and google searched lengthy combinations of numbers, letters, and punctuation marks, all inadvertently!
I thoroughly got distracted. I'm listening to some queen songs over and ovary.
It's kinda nice. My body is shot to heck, but I cannot stay in this cabin(et) until sleepytime. I shall try and find some ruckus to be a part of. Best case scenario- it will involve good pizza, garlic knots (ok maybe not both, that'd be hella indulgent, especially after playing hockey for a record 7 hours.) puns, words, body communication, laughter, and substance. Oh, and hopefully it won't include money, politics, buzzwords, exploitation, sexploitation, drudgery, small-talk, and fallacies.
That's a lot more negatives than positives right there. Hmm.
Over Under Through- anywhere a mouse can go is where you'll find me.
Friday 20 February 2009
Questions & Rhymes: updated after the JUMP
Questions
1. TBNYU reports that negotiations have begun. Who exactly is doing the negotiating, and when is it/has it been taking place?
-"we'll fund TWELVE Gaza kids NYU educations. k?"
-NO can do. It must be 13.
2. What is mace? What is tear gas? What is pepper spray?
-one or more of these was used tonight. I know this because at about 1:20 AM I a guy near me began pouring out the contents of his SmartWater bottle into the eyes on the man next to him, as this man pulled down his eyelids. I asked "why are you pouring water on his face?" -"He got maced." was the curt reply. Maced man was groaning a bit, or perhaps that was just my heart.
3. Is charlie (aka: hero of our time) missing class for this?
4. Why, oh why would any of these students be willing to be arrested and expelled? Arrested, fine. But expelled? That means even more wasted money that goes into Sexton's butt pocket.
5. Why doesn't the world remember that we are all people? We're all the same. They shouldn't try their gosh darndest to amplify alleged differences in the name of boredom, or more ironically, democracy.
6. Where is Jsex in all of this? I daresay he be renamed John "low-profiler" Sexton
Rhymez
democracy + hypocrisy
exposure + disclosure
B-A-N-A-N-A-S + T-U-I-T-I-O-N
school + school
streets + streets
something-eese + "fuck the police"
justified + occupied
impossible + possible
Wittyish Sign:
"Sex Fuckston"
bye.
1. TBNYU reports that negotiations have begun. Who exactly is doing the negotiating, and when is it/has it been taking place?
-"we'll fund TWELVE Gaza kids NYU educations. k?"
-NO can do. It must be 13.
2. What is mace? What is tear gas? What is pepper spray?
-one or more of these was used tonight. I know this because at about 1:20 AM I a guy near me began pouring out the contents of his SmartWater bottle into the eyes on the man next to him, as this man pulled down his eyelids. I asked "why are you pouring water on his face?" -"He got maced." was the curt reply. Maced man was groaning a bit, or perhaps that was just my heart.
3. Is charlie (aka: hero of our time) missing class for this?
4. Why, oh why would any of these students be willing to be arrested and expelled? Arrested, fine. But expelled? That means even more wasted money that goes into Sexton's butt pocket.
5. Why doesn't the world remember that we are all people? We're all the same. They shouldn't try their gosh darndest to amplify alleged differences in the name of boredom, or more ironically, democracy.
6. Where is Jsex in all of this? I daresay he be renamed John "low-profiler" Sexton
Rhymez
democracy + hypocrisy
exposure + disclosure
B-A-N-A-N-A-S + T-U-I-T-I-O-N
school + school
streets + streets
something-eese + "fuck the police"
justified + occupied
impossible + possible
Wittyish Sign:
"Sex Fuckston"
bye.
Thursday 19 February 2009
TBNYU Kimmel Occupation is a Cospiracy
Certain people need to be applauded, first off.
1. Charlie Eisenhood. He has a strange last name, he plays ultimate frisbee, and he is doing every NYU student a huge service. I was there last night with him for a little bit, and his staunch stoicism and serenity in a time of turmoil is admirable.
**Alert!** Apparently more kiddies got in the room and a guards arm was broken? That's what WSN and NYULocal say... that kinda sucks. No 2 ways about it. No broken bones. SWEEEET!
Still, I cannot contain myself- this is excitement I have not yet encountered! The rush of adrenaline with the threat of risk is something to write home about. Not literally, though, as my mother has already warned me fiercely to "stay away from those hoodlums" and that people who feel strongly about the middle east "have a tendency to turn violent very quickly." (No kidding- insert sardonic reference to my right- wing background here-)
OK, other commendations:
2.Ned Resnikoff. A friend linked me to his blog, in which he writes clearly and succinctly what so many have been saying on nyulocal's comments all day.
3. Whoever made the comment about the Gaza-themed party. I want those 13 lucky Gazan kids to be bombarded with vegan food, purple torches, and super-skinny topless girls with bubble-wrap-manila-folders as signs. We'll see how in line the interests are.
Conspiracy Theory:
this whole thing is a ploy. John Sexton paid off TBNYU! to stage this stint, in order that the University recieve mad press, and most importantly, for each and every one of us. Have you ever felt such a sense of urgency about your school? I certainly haven't. Not even when GSP was laughed at in the All- University games freshman year. Not even when John Beckman won the Nobel prize for being quoted uhaving using words sans a smithereen of substance day in day out in the WSN.
This is our time, guys. This is the community we have all been yearning for. Take a side, or don't. Laugh at the 'whackjobs' as one acquaintance dubbed them, or consider them martyrs. Either way, there will be snark, (ala Damon Beres, whom I do not know.) blogs, and students who agree with you, and are more than willing to flesh out these ideas over the suicide-proof facades of Bobst.
Essentially, this is the catalyst for the most meaningful, heated, and passionate conversation and dialogue that has occured at NYU for a long time. Kudos to us for caring about the Kimmel Marketplace!
As far as the food they got for free:
Total bullshit. I want free dinner, vegan or not. Owen Moore= ultimate big brother.
1. Charlie Eisenhood. He has a strange last name, he plays ultimate frisbee, and he is doing every NYU student a huge service. I was there last night with him for a little bit, and his staunch stoicism and serenity in a time of turmoil is admirable.
**Alert!** Apparently more kiddies got in the room and a guards arm was broken? That's what WSN and NYULocal say... that kinda sucks. No 2 ways about it. No broken bones. SWEEEET!
Still, I cannot contain myself- this is excitement I have not yet encountered! The rush of adrenaline with the threat of risk is something to write home about. Not literally, though, as my mother has already warned me fiercely to "stay away from those hoodlums" and that people who feel strongly about the middle east "have a tendency to turn violent very quickly." (No kidding- insert sardonic reference to my right- wing background here-)
OK, other commendations:
2.Ned Resnikoff. A friend linked me to his blog, in which he writes clearly and succinctly what so many have been saying on nyulocal's comments all day.
3. Whoever made the comment about the Gaza-themed party. I want those 13 lucky Gazan kids to be bombarded with vegan food, purple torches, and super-skinny topless girls with bubble-wrap-manila-folders as signs. We'll see how in line the interests are.
Conspiracy Theory:
this whole thing is a ploy. John Sexton paid off TBNYU! to stage this stint, in order that the University recieve mad press, and most importantly, for each and every one of us. Have you ever felt such a sense of urgency about your school? I certainly haven't. Not even when GSP was laughed at in the All- University games freshman year. Not even when John Beckman won the Nobel prize for being quoted uhaving using words sans a smithereen of substance day in day out in the WSN.
This is our time, guys. This is the community we have all been yearning for. Take a side, or don't. Laugh at the 'whackjobs' as one acquaintance dubbed them, or consider them martyrs. Either way, there will be snark, (ala Damon Beres, whom I do not know.) blogs, and students who agree with you, and are more than willing to flesh out these ideas over the suicide-proof facades of Bobst.
Essentially, this is the catalyst for the most meaningful, heated, and passionate conversation and dialogue that has occured at NYU for a long time. Kudos to us for caring about the Kimmel Marketplace!
As far as the food they got for free:
Total bullshit. I want free dinner, vegan or not. Owen Moore= ultimate big brother.
Budget Disclosure as Buzz Word
I am curious to see what will go down as the potential for altercation and friction between students of TBNYU! and the administration/(may spill over onto security guards) increases.
I do not with to disclose my identity here, although it is not too difficult to figure out, but let us see how the 'Kimmel Occupation' unfolds.
Something I've noticed: people inflate everything. And shamelessly, too. Like, say I am in WSP and someone begins to remove their clothes, and then someone else follows suit (hehe). I will mostly likely be audibly privy to a cell phone call from a passerby like myself to one of their friends/ confidantes, in which they will assert something along the lines of "everyone in the park is stripping!"
Inflation comes in different forms. Not everything is worth saying, and if something is worth saying, but nothing else, then perhaps it should'nt be.
I took a nap before. I sort of meant to, sort of didn't. That has been happening pretty much since I began college. The sleeping during the day thing. Am I just doing it for additional stimulation? That is my biggest fear and also my biggest comfort (that it is pinpointable). About anything. Ever. I woke up and was confused for a sec about what day and time it was, you know, the whole bit. But something that crossed my mind before I drifted into slumber was this blog.
I realize that earlier tonight I wrote about the escapade finding the crackers in the garbage outside of Gristede's, and I could have slapped my forehead repeatedly. I did not want this blog to be a mere journal, where I write stuff that happens to me and stuff I feel somewhat strongly about. I don't know what I want it to be, but I want to to shine like a super-superstar and be different from all the others. How do I get to that point? And how can I put my feelings into words without sounding like every other college student in the blogospheah?
I do not with to disclose my identity here, although it is not too difficult to figure out, but let us see how the 'Kimmel Occupation' unfolds.
Something I've noticed: people inflate everything. And shamelessly, too. Like, say I am in WSP and someone begins to remove their clothes, and then someone else follows suit (hehe). I will mostly likely be audibly privy to a cell phone call from a passerby like myself to one of their friends/ confidantes, in which they will assert something along the lines of "everyone in the park is stripping!"
Inflation comes in different forms. Not everything is worth saying, and if something is worth saying, but nothing else, then perhaps it should'nt be.
I took a nap before. I sort of meant to, sort of didn't. That has been happening pretty much since I began college. The sleeping during the day thing. Am I just doing it for additional stimulation? That is my biggest fear and also my biggest comfort (that it is pinpointable). About anything. Ever. I woke up and was confused for a sec about what day and time it was, you know, the whole bit. But something that crossed my mind before I drifted into slumber was this blog.
I realize that earlier tonight I wrote about the escapade finding the crackers in the garbage outside of Gristede's, and I could have slapped my forehead repeatedly. I did not want this blog to be a mere journal, where I write stuff that happens to me and stuff I feel somewhat strongly about. I don't know what I want it to be, but I want to to shine like a super-superstar and be different from all the others. How do I get to that point? And how can I put my feelings into words without sounding like every other college student in the blogospheah?
Wednesday 18 February 2009
Thank You... + Melba Toast
...Dearest NYULocal blog for heeding my tip and posting a bit of my humble words on your widely trafficed website. I assure you that you are the best.
Yesterday, on my way from somewhere to somewhere, I passed the Gristede's on University place and 8th st. Yes- the one that always puts up a welcome back NYU students sign in their door/window at the start of each new semester.
Anyhow, thanks to freegan.info, and certain Gallatin comrades who promulgate minor-league dumpster diving here in the village, I knew that the pile of transparent garbage bags outside this particular supermarket is often one filled with fanciful loot. And this time, on a dejected walk home from NOT the town hall meeting, (See post below), I took a look-see. Right there on top was a bag filled with (and only with) sealed, fresh, clean, boxes of assorted crackers. Tomato basil bagel chips, garlic and plain melba toast, and Kashi TLC Cheddar Cheese Crackers. [there was also a lone box of chocolate/marshmallow/raspberry pastries, but they looked horrid and torrid.] I considered grabbing a couple of boxes, but then I realized I should just take the whole bag. I lugged it over my shoulder, and not half a block later, came across a (presumably) homeless man holding out a mangled and gritty paper cup. I dropped the bag of crackers in front of him and said "have at it." I didn't really say "have at it," I merely offered him some boxes of crackers. He obliged, and I went on my way with a lighter load to lift. At Union Square south-west, I laid out about 8 boxes neatly along the perimeter of the rim of the fence around the Ghandi statue, hoping someone who needed would find them, and took the rest into my room.
Would anyone like Melba toast or Kashi Cheese crackers?
I don't know why they were tossed, but there are no expiration dates, and I assure you I am as sane as ever after having eaten some. Just read my blog.
Yesterday, on my way from somewhere to somewhere, I passed the Gristede's on University place and 8th st. Yes- the one that always puts up a welcome back NYU students sign in their door/window at the start of each new semester.
Anyhow, thanks to freegan.info, and certain Gallatin comrades who promulgate minor-league dumpster diving here in the village, I knew that the pile of transparent garbage bags outside this particular supermarket is often one filled with fanciful loot. And this time, on a dejected walk home from NOT the town hall meeting, (See post below), I took a look-see. Right there on top was a bag filled with (and only with) sealed, fresh, clean, boxes of assorted crackers. Tomato basil bagel chips, garlic and plain melba toast, and Kashi TLC Cheddar Cheese Crackers. [there was also a lone box of chocolate/marshmallow/raspberry pastries, but they looked horrid and torrid.] I considered grabbing a couple of boxes, but then I realized I should just take the whole bag. I lugged it over my shoulder, and not half a block later, came across a (presumably) homeless man holding out a mangled and gritty paper cup. I dropped the bag of crackers in front of him and said "have at it." I didn't really say "have at it," I merely offered him some boxes of crackers. He obliged, and I went on my way with a lighter load to lift. At Union Square south-west, I laid out about 8 boxes neatly along the perimeter of the rim of the fence around the Ghandi statue, hoping someone who needed would find them, and took the rest into my room.
Would anyone like Melba toast or Kashi Cheese crackers?
I don't know why they were tossed, but there are no expiration dates, and I assure you I am as sane as ever after having eaten some. Just read my blog.
Tuesday 17 February 2009
Screw NYU
They really do treat the students like shit. It's not a rumor, not a scandal that the over-privileged kids spread so they can whine about hierarchy. It's true. And here is how I know:
I was eating lunch in Kimmel today, innocently reading the WSN, when I came across an ad for one of President John Sexton's "Town Hall" Meetings tonight at 9 pm in Kimmel 904. "Sweet." I thought, I can finally make it to one of these and see what the hell the SCRC/TBNYU kids are all badgering about. I have never heard him (John) answer questions candidly, and for the amount of money he makes us all spend to go here (I know I know, we don't have to enroll.) and lack of budget transparency (Which means, for the layperson, that there is no official statement made as to where our tuition money goes, and where money that is given by filthy rich fundraisers, including alumni, goes. So NYU could be spending our tuition money on the "Stress vegetables" they give out from the health center, and the tacky "tear it up" T-shirts with the obscene claw-print on the back, and the pomp and riffraff of A baseless event such as "100 Nights Before Commencement" before prioritizing that our money go towards assuring good teachers, or purchasing textbooks for us, or what have you. )The important stuff, essentially.
Now, where was I. Oh right, why I wanted to go to the town hall. Basically, I as a full- time matriculated student at NYU want to avail myself of the opportunities that are presented to me that ensure the student body as a whole a somewhat democratic and fair footing to remain between administration and students. Y'all get that, right?
If it got boring, I'd peace.
Unfortunately, I didn't get the chance to even enter the room of the meeting. I smelled trouble from the moment I stepped off the elevator on the 9th floor. 3 security guards greeted me with the seemingly irrelevant question "are you a graduate student?" I replied that I was not, to which they shook their heads and said "then you cannot go any further." I said "let me just try," and they did not object. So I walked to room 904, whereupon 2 more security guards greeted me outside the door. I recognized one of them; a burly middle aged white- haired man whose long waxen face could very well be a Modigliani. They, too, asked if I was a graduate student. I said no. They said "the town hall is only for graduate students."
"That's not what was written in the ad in the WSN today" I said
"Actually, you're wrong. It specified that it was only for grad students." He then darted inside the room, where I could see our beloved President donned a hoodless NYU sweatshirt, an amicable smile, and a trim white beard. I also noticed that there was approximately 5-10 people in attendance at this point (9:05 pm) and nearly 40 empty seats (I'm not the best estimator, I disclaim).
The security guard returned with the newspaper ad, which reads [and I quote] "President's Town Hall Meeting For Students of NYU Graduate Schools. All Graduate Students Welcome!"
OK, so it specifies graduate school, which I must have skipped over in my initial perusal at lunch today. But nowhere does it state that undergraduate students are unwelcome. So I replied to the security guard "Next time it should specify somewhere that undergraduates are not welcome."
"It's not about 'unwelcome' miss, it's just not for you."
"So I'm not allowed to sit in the back and listen?"
He turned to Mrs. Kimmel, a woman who frequents Kimmel, and thereby I deduce has some position of authority in this pasty yellow building. She said "we will be sure to alert you of the next town hall meeting for undergrads, but you have to leave now."
Defeated, I retreated to the handicap stall of the bathroom, and promptly cried. I write it plainly, because this is how it happened. I am still not sure why this encounter reduced me to tears. Or, shall I say, induced me to tears. I was frustrated, sure, but enough to cry? Methinks not. Maybe it was one of those 'right-beneath-the-surface emotions that was just waiting anxiously to hook onto a plausible catalyst for the camel's-back-breaking straw and open the floodgates. Either way, I had to walk back past these guards, into the elevator, and down to the 4th floor new shiny Kimmel laptop computer lab, open till 11 pm every week night.
As far as being treated like shit, this all came right after I passed a resident of my dorm walking away from an RA hovering above about 10 full pizza pies in the lobby of my dorm. I asked kindly and with a smile, "can I have a slice?" "Are you in the event?" He replied with biting sarcasm, cocking his head toward our 'lounge', which was full of students listening to a man with a combover talking about real estate.
Shot down, again.
The most difficult test attending NYU is how to reconcile myself with this newfound sense of brazen entitlement I feel surge inside of me with every 'free food', or even not-so-free- food, or anything else, encounter I come across. The real world isn't vying for my approval, I guess.
75 reasons not to talk to boys
I oddly enough, don't feel all that shitty. Maybe I'm distracted, or distracting. Or in denial. But I don't think I'm in denial. This in regards to the fact that I've been inevitable preparing myself for my grandmama's death for the past week. This preparation occured in my head, except for today, a culmination of sorts, I jetted down there for a 'final visit', and it was what it was.
I certainly have been walked in on in the bathroom a few too many times lately for it to be a mere coincidence. In public places, lets see. On the NJ Transit train, and in a diner, yea. Those both happened on consecutive days. A part of me doesn't care. The part that doesn't care is also the part that doesn't feel the need to eat with utensils, pee anywhere but nature, be too civil, and pay for stuff. That's right, folks. I lack a basic moral gene. In the presence of a huge corporation, when there is some smallish trinket to be swiped, or had, such as a granola bar, a fruit, or who knows what, I feel awash with a sense of bold entitlement. My mind zeroes in on the fact there there is a thing to be had. And how the place this thing came from has millions more of the same thing, and it means more to me than it ever will to the cardboard box from whence they came.
What's the deal with chest hair? Does it matter? I think that anything that amplifies / exemplifies / embodies the difference between genders is a turn on, simply put.
I certainly have been walked in on in the bathroom a few too many times lately for it to be a mere coincidence. In public places, lets see. On the NJ Transit train, and in a diner, yea. Those both happened on consecutive days. A part of me doesn't care. The part that doesn't care is also the part that doesn't feel the need to eat with utensils, pee anywhere but nature, be too civil, and pay for stuff. That's right, folks. I lack a basic moral gene. In the presence of a huge corporation, when there is some smallish trinket to be swiped, or had, such as a granola bar, a fruit, or who knows what, I feel awash with a sense of bold entitlement. My mind zeroes in on the fact there there is a thing to be had. And how the place this thing came from has millions more of the same thing, and it means more to me than it ever will to the cardboard box from whence they came.
What's the deal with chest hair? Does it matter? I think that anything that amplifies / exemplifies / embodies the difference between genders is a turn on, simply put.
Monday 16 February 2009
Well, I didn't mean to "publish" that last post already, but I cannot figure out how to edit / continue my draft. So I guess I'll run the risk of being a blogaholic, but there are worse fissures.
On the way back from frisbee I stopped in a deli. That means bad news. I eyed the oreos, the vegan packaged dinners, the parfaits, the Reeses, and finally settled for the ole Yukon Gold Onion 'n Garlic Terra chips. Of which, by the way, I have never successfully purchased a bag of without eating it all in one sitting. I told myself I'd do it this time, but now that I'm at the computer with it, I know there's no chance.
Some things never change.
The bag of chips cost $4.50. Cash only. I sighed heavily and did the quick Cohen- considerations in my head that I have done and am fated to always do until the end of my life:
"A bag of chips versus 2.5 subway rides..."
"Decent good quality zesty chips"
"Is this emotional eating?"
"Is there something wrong with buying a bag of chips?"
"Recession prices abound, inflated costs cannot be avoided.
etc.
What does it all mean?
*Update: I finished the chips, and am now eating cabbage. "Yes, cabbage."
Onto important things.
Maybe for the summer I should make a pros 'n cons list about staying in the city or going someplace else.
NYC:
Pros
-familiar
-easy access to family, new and old
-established hockey playing opportunities
-ditto for frisbee
(sheep meadow, mccarren, wsp, a club team!?)
Cons
-same.
-been here done it.
-how we gonna pay the rent
-dirty sticky smelly rude
Somewhere else:
good because its new and all that goes along with that,
bad because its new and all that goes along with that,
sports opportunities? cool people? worthwhile job?
yea.
bee T Dub.
I hate that everything is bullshit, and only once you get a tiny foot in the door of stuff in the real world do you realize that words so often have nothing behind them. Some highlights:
-teacher exaggerating exasperation over technical difficulties experience in the middle of a class with one or more of the following: projector, slide, computer, wire, youtube clip (you know, for the 'with it' teachers that try to cater to our generation x/y/z/couch potato penchants) basically anything with electricity. And then of course all the students respond in kind with the obligatory burst of laughter, without fail, each and every time teacher rolls eyes, sighs, or cusses relating to the technical difficulty.
geez, guys.
On the way back from frisbee I stopped in a deli. That means bad news. I eyed the oreos, the vegan packaged dinners, the parfaits, the Reeses, and finally settled for the ole Yukon Gold Onion 'n Garlic Terra chips. Of which, by the way, I have never successfully purchased a bag of without eating it all in one sitting. I told myself I'd do it this time, but now that I'm at the computer with it, I know there's no chance.
Some things never change.
The bag of chips cost $4.50. Cash only. I sighed heavily and did the quick Cohen- considerations in my head that I have done and am fated to always do until the end of my life:
"A bag of chips versus 2.5 subway rides..."
"Decent good quality zesty chips"
"Is this emotional eating?"
"Is there something wrong with buying a bag of chips?"
"Recession prices abound, inflated costs cannot be avoided.
etc.
What does it all mean?
*Update: I finished the chips, and am now eating cabbage. "Yes, cabbage."
Onto important things.
Maybe for the summer I should make a pros 'n cons list about staying in the city or going someplace else.
NYC:
Pros
-familiar
-easy access to family, new and old
-established hockey playing opportunities
-ditto for frisbee
(sheep meadow, mccarren, wsp, a club team!?)
Cons
-same.
-been here done it.
-how we gonna pay the rent
-dirty sticky smelly rude
Somewhere else:
good because its new and all that goes along with that,
bad because its new and all that goes along with that,
sports opportunities? cool people? worthwhile job?
yea.
bee T Dub.
I hate that everything is bullshit, and only once you get a tiny foot in the door of stuff in the real world do you realize that words so often have nothing behind them. Some highlights:
-teacher exaggerating exasperation over technical difficulties experience in the middle of a class with one or more of the following: projector, slide, computer, wire, youtube clip (you know, for the 'with it' teachers that try to cater to our generation x/y/z/couch potato penchants) basically anything with electricity. And then of course all the students respond in kind with the obligatory burst of laughter, without fail, each and every time teacher rolls eyes, sighs, or cusses relating to the technical difficulty.
geez, guys.
Sunday 15 February 2009
To keep Me Going
I think that is why I do stuff. And everyone. And I can make that assertion about the whole world too. But frisbee practice is soon. NYU women's ultimate frisbee. It's a phenomenon all its own. Maybe I should make a list of phenomena. Sometime I will. Or maybe I just dub something a phenomenon because it distances it and makes me feel that my feelings of apprehension and unsureness towards it are more valid. Some stuff, I feel like I have mastered/ conquered. Cooper Frisbee I have mastered. It was something that used to cause me thoughts like "who are these people, what right do i have to play with them, am i a part of this group, am i good enough, etc" but now I don't have those thoughts anymore, in fact, I often have opposing thoughts. But NYU frisbee, im still somewhere along the continuum. Probably that's just how it will always be. I need to remember to consciously weight the pros and cons before I invest in it, or anything, though. That seems like a sensical way to make decisions.
Some people can't spell! Even full grown college kids or adults, dub them as you wish, cannot spell. I don't understand this, yet another phenomenon, of a differing scale. I mean it's forgiveable if you cannot spell "comeuppance" but not something like "facetious" or "reminisce." You know who you are. Actually, you don't. And neither do I. But I know that you're out there.
Speaking of MLA, take note of my punctuation and capitalization. That is novel.
You may wonder: Why is this blog called "Crystal Caves?" (read: crystal caveth) (don't).
Some people can't spell! Even full grown college kids or adults, dub them as you wish, cannot spell. I don't understand this, yet another phenomenon, of a differing scale. I mean it's forgiveable if you cannot spell "comeuppance" but not something like "facetious" or "reminisce." You know who you are. Actually, you don't. And neither do I. But I know that you're out there.
Speaking of MLA, take note of my punctuation and capitalization. That is novel.
You may wonder: Why is this blog called "Crystal Caves?" (read: crystal caveth) (don't).
Saturday 14 February 2009
ok so essentially nobody is reading this but me. if i even count as a reader. Am I reading the words in my head before i think them/write/type them/ say them/ execute them? What does reading even mean?
I played hockies all day today. Now I'm eating Lay's "Baked!" potato chips, and they are horrendous. cooking something in an alternative way is fine and respectable, but nobody, nobody wants to munch of flat skin colored pieces of dried parchment that resound in their ears as they try and chew the flaky mess.
Well that did it, now I'm not finishing the bag.
"It's in the bag." = we will win. I like that phrase.
I wish it was tomorrow, and then the next day. I wish I was more sure of my feelings about Grandma dying. She is going to die very soon. They know it, she knows it, and I know it. I mean, I am trying to know it, but it's tough. And it's tough to know whether I know it or not.
Hockey here in the city is nice. It's got a rough and worn edge to it, and after about 8 months of playing with these crowds I feel somewhat comfortable. Well, sometimes more than somewhat. Can't believe it's been 8 months though. What a good prosperous activity for me to involve myself in, and minimally pricey. On the smother hand. There are some less stable and some more stable people. Is it a community? A hockey community? or are we just people. I'm leaning towards the people side.
I played hockies all day today. Now I'm eating Lay's "Baked!" potato chips, and they are horrendous. cooking something in an alternative way is fine and respectable, but nobody, nobody wants to munch of flat skin colored pieces of dried parchment that resound in their ears as they try and chew the flaky mess.
Well that did it, now I'm not finishing the bag.
"It's in the bag." = we will win. I like that phrase.
I wish it was tomorrow, and then the next day. I wish I was more sure of my feelings about Grandma dying. She is going to die very soon. They know it, she knows it, and I know it. I mean, I am trying to know it, but it's tough. And it's tough to know whether I know it or not.
Hockey here in the city is nice. It's got a rough and worn edge to it, and after about 8 months of playing with these crowds I feel somewhat comfortable. Well, sometimes more than somewhat. Can't believe it's been 8 months though. What a good prosperous activity for me to involve myself in, and minimally pricey. On the smother hand. There are some less stable and some more stable people. Is it a community? A hockey community? or are we just people. I'm leaning towards the people side.
Friday 13 February 2009
More
The travails of a sore and scratchy throat. written by Allen Ginsburg.
It's where I'm at, and I wouldn't scoff at the suggestion that it was partially self inflicted, to pull an intangible wool over my eyes about the truth of the situation in Central Jersey. Or maybe I wish that. Or maybe I don't even care. No, I care. A good way to know if something matters to me is to gauge how often it appears in my dreams, and to what degree. And is it a lucid dream or a passing frenata?
There will be more.
It's where I'm at, and I wouldn't scoff at the suggestion that it was partially self inflicted, to pull an intangible wool over my eyes about the truth of the situation in Central Jersey. Or maybe I wish that. Or maybe I don't even care. No, I care. A good way to know if something matters to me is to gauge how often it appears in my dreams, and to what degree. And is it a lucid dream or a passing frenata?
There will be more.
Thursday 12 February 2009
Dude, creating a blog...
...is so fucking tender. I am overcome by the immeasurable joy that accompanies my current consumption of oreos with peanut butter. At long last, my buds are at it again, and I can taste phewd!
And Boy, is it good.
So I daresay it's a fine line between doing something so others see it and react, or think things, and doing something because you want to do it. (I know, - maybe you only want to do it so that the others will do said things...) But I don't particularly feel the need to defend my decision to 'cave' and create this blog. Perhaps it will moph into a Vlog. Or better yet- a sloth.
Still not sure which of my facets to brandish here. I'll let my nonexistent readers 'n lurkers do the choosing. That means, newbies, that you should comment with whichever of the following choices tickles your fancy:
1. Alternative Sports girl. Rough and tumble, thick skinned, always on the lookout for a pickup game of volleyball, hockey, or ultimate frisbee. Few other things interest her, save a couple of hapless quirks that scream "I'm distinct!"
2. Sensitive Pariah. Not totally sure what 'pariah' means, but this girl is soft spoken, somewhat shy, stands up for what is right, and sits down for what is wrong. She spends her time hanging out with the disabled population of the world. Has a penchant for autistic behaviors in the young and old, but especially the young.
3. Jew Cynic. Expletive that cash- guzzling Yeshiva education right down there where it belongs. For this I am what? Awash with enough guilt to last 3 priests-turned- molesters their lifetimes, I cringe easily and avoid crowds in the metro-area sans telltale signs of a Jewish presence in order to save myself from perishing at the hands of my self- inflicted ennui that pervades me without religious Jews to mock.
4. Feisty Perv*. After the sun goes down, or in the presence of males who dote upon her, she flirts ever- so- subtly- as to not alarm the pigeons squawking nearby. I can't say any more. Oh yes: has linked you to one or more of the following: frumteens, calmkallahs, tefillindate, kinkyshiduchin, you get the idea. I guess in that vein, she is inextricably linked (those 2 words have to be said in a pair, ya know) to #3.
All right, that's going to be it for now. I suppose to separate what makes me into the amalgam of cells I am is to compartmentalize for the sake of a lower purpose. I'm not sure if I want to be dabbling in that just yet. Nor am I sure what it means, if it means anything.
My fear now is that this has all been too much in the language of my own head and will not be understood by anyone. I guess it can't matter.
*Pretty risky to publicize here, but I may just leave it in for the shock value. Not everyone is privy to this persona.
And Boy, is it good.
So I daresay it's a fine line between doing something so others see it and react, or think things, and doing something because you want to do it. (I know, - maybe you only want to do it so that the others will do said things...) But I don't particularly feel the need to defend my decision to 'cave' and create this blog. Perhaps it will moph into a Vlog. Or better yet- a sloth.
Still not sure which of my facets to brandish here. I'll let my nonexistent readers 'n lurkers do the choosing. That means, newbies, that you should comment with whichever of the following choices tickles your fancy:
1. Alternative Sports girl. Rough and tumble, thick skinned, always on the lookout for a pickup game of volleyball, hockey, or ultimate frisbee. Few other things interest her, save a couple of hapless quirks that scream "I'm distinct!"
2. Sensitive Pariah. Not totally sure what 'pariah' means, but this girl is soft spoken, somewhat shy, stands up for what is right, and sits down for what is wrong. She spends her time hanging out with the disabled population of the world. Has a penchant for autistic behaviors in the young and old, but especially the young.
3. Jew Cynic. Expletive that cash- guzzling Yeshiva education right down there where it belongs. For this I am what? Awash with enough guilt to last 3 priests-turned- molesters their lifetimes, I cringe easily and avoid crowds in the metro-area sans telltale signs of a Jewish presence in order to save myself from perishing at the hands of my self- inflicted ennui that pervades me without religious Jews to mock.
4. Feisty Perv*. After the sun goes down, or in the presence of males who dote upon her, she flirts ever- so- subtly- as to not alarm the pigeons squawking nearby. I can't say any more. Oh yes: has linked you to one or more of the following: frumteens, calmkallahs, tefillindate, kinkyshiduchin, you get the idea. I guess in that vein, she is inextricably linked (those 2 words have to be said in a pair, ya know) to #3.
All right, that's going to be it for now. I suppose to separate what makes me into the amalgam of cells I am is to compartmentalize for the sake of a lower purpose. I'm not sure if I want to be dabbling in that just yet. Nor am I sure what it means, if it means anything.
My fear now is that this has all been too much in the language of my own head and will not be understood by anyone. I guess it can't matter.
*Pretty risky to publicize here, but I may just leave it in for the shock value. Not everyone is privy to this persona.
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