making good on my $37

Things I Ate at the Christmas Buffet Today:

• 3 lbs of prosciutto
• brie
• breadsticks
• salmon
• 3-4 glasses of sparkling white wine
• green beans and tomatoes
• a hearty cup of mulled wine
• 4 lbs of mashed potatoes
• a river of gravy
• turkey
• walnuts
• a single chicken skewer
• blueberry tart
• 5 scoops of ice cream (2 chocolate, one mint, one rum raisin, one unknown)
• one christmas cookie
• one sip of coffee
• no water

how dreams (and books?) are made

Gaetano:
why don't we try doing this thing where you write a poem and i create an image at the same time

but we don't tell each other what the we're creating

and then morph them together into a collection of random pairs
kinda like the exquisite corpse but the only thing joining them is the juxtaposition on the same page

me:
that would be really cool actually

and it'll keep me on it (writing)

Gaetano:
given the physical distance i'm sure we could make up some bullshit in the forward to make it artsy

me:
hahaha

or we could just transcribe this convo

Gaetano:
that would give away the secret sauce though

Gaetano:
if we do it like once or twice a week we'll have a book in no time

Things I Will Do Before The Office Holiday Party Tomorrow

(aka the last free food and alcohol binge of the year)...

• catch up on the backlog of student papers that need marking
  
• start work on my proposal for a 5% Christmas bonus
• clean my desk*
  
• gird my loins (x3)

*or shoving all my loose papers in binders & drawers

the haunting

last night i flipped out because i found a huge ass roach in the bathroom. i immediately went under the kitchen sink and grabbed my little can of Raid and proceeded to spray like there was no tomorrow. It’s worth mentioning that I couldn’t bear to actually be in the same bathroom while I sprayed the lil wretch, but stood a good 9 feet away raining down all my Raid wrath upon his little twitching body.

I left the roach there, belly up, behind the bathroom door. Mostly because the cloud of Raid was impenetrable at this point, but also partly because I didn’t have the spine to wrap a paper towel around it’s body and feel the awkward crunch of it’s exoskeleton under the pressure of my thumb. so he just lay there, haunting the hinges of the door.

that night, i dreamt of roaches.

"and already, I feel the weight of centuries smothering me. Some girl a hundred years ago once lived as I do. And she is dead. I am the present, but I know I, too, will pass. The high moment, the burning flash, come and are gone, continuous quicksand. And I don't want to die."

Sylvia Plath, circa 1950

A Wonder

Here is an intriguing profile of Toni Morrison, the only living American Nobel Laureate and the writer who probably has had the most impact and influence over me, especially in my understanding of character and language.

"But it's not just our common vulnerability to mob psychology that ties the rest of us to last week's tragedy. It is also our common love of stuff. Indeed, it is hard to imagine a starker illustration of our true priorities. Oh, we pay lip service to other things. We say children are a priority, but when did people ever press against the door for Parents' Night at school? We say education is a priority, but when did people ever bang against the windows of the library? We say faith is a priority, but when did people ever surge into a temple of worship as eagerly as they do a temple of commerce?"

Leonard Pitts, responding to the recent death
of a Walmart worker on Black Friday

On Gratitude

on violence

i've learned to avert eye contact. it's a discipline formed not from peace or respect, but a base desire for the absence of conflict.

she was a small vietnamese girl, hair straightened and streaked with red, wearing the type of frilly party dress one typically wears at the age of 15, when one wants to declare loudly the presence of legs, titties, and hormones.

and boy, were those legs, titties, and hormones grilling me in my slummy, wife beater and lounge pants splendor. she stared as we waited for the elevator to come down, and while i could feel her slimy condescension oozing my way, i can't say i was very affected by it. it hasn't been the first time.

at least, until she walked into the elevator and, without pausing, hit the "close" button just as i started walking in. the heavy doors caught me on my shoulder ever so slightly, impeding neither my progress nor disrupting my balance, as those doors can be prone to do.

as i caught her glance in the mirrored walls of the elevator, her self-content smirk at what she had done, the physical non-injury gave way to a visceral anger. i seriously contemplated grabbing a handful of the girl's hair and slapping the cool off her face.

even in front of what seemed to be her sister and her nephew.

being a foreigner is like that sometimes. unable to defend yourself with words, unable to decipher the myriad language and signals of innumerable others, you lose the nuance of your emotions. the smallest slights and non-incidents give way to irrational anger, acts of violence disproportionate to their provocation.

a minute long ride in an elevator becoming an exercise in quelling a riot of impulse.

December Is On the Horizon

, originally uploaded by 11sixteen.

this is important

"Torture and abuse are against my moral fabric. The cliche still bears repeating: Such outrages are inconsistent with American principles. And then there's the pragmatic side: Torture and abuse cost American lives.

I learned in Iraq that the No. 1 reason foreign fighters flocked there to fight were the abuses carried out at Abu Ghraib and Guantanamo. Our policy of torture was directly and swiftly recruiting fighters for al-Qaeda in Iraq. The large majority of suicide bombings in Iraq are still carried out by these foreigners. They are also involved in most of the attacks on U.S. and coalition forces in Iraq. It's no exaggeration to say that at least half of our losses and casualties in that country have come at the hands of foreigners who joined the fray because of our program of detainee abuse. The number of U.S. soldiers who have died because of our torture policy will never be definitively known, but it is fair to say that it is close to the number of lives lost on Sept. 11, 2001. How anyone can say that torture keeps Americans safe is beyond me -- unless you don't count American soldiers as Americans."

Matthew Alexander, "I'm Still Tortured by What I Saw in Iraq"

A Thousand Splendid Suns

"With the passing of time, she would slowly tire of this exercise. She would find it increasingly exhausting to conjure up, to dust off, to resuscitate once again what as long dead. There would come a day, in fact, years later, when Laila would no longer bewail his loss. Or not as relentlessly; not as nearly. There would come a day when the details of his face would begin to slip from memory's grip, when overhearing a mother on the street call after her child by Tariq's name would no longer cut her adrift. She would not miss him as she did now, when the ache of his absence was her unremitting companion -- like the phantom pain of an amputee."

Khaled Hosseini | A Thousand Splendid Suns

Teacake & Tariq

I just finished the second novel by Khaled Hosseini, which I can say is as riveting and a quick a read as his first (The Kite Runner, for all those rock dwellers). I find Hosseini's sense of timing/his pacing exceptional. There have been many books in my adult life that have moved me, many books whose language, whose voices resonate against the strains of my own life. But there have been few books that I can say I could literally not put down; I can say that of both of Hosseini's novels. I zoomed through the book's 400 pages in a couple days and felt absolutely satiated (even though I have some issues with the ending...but that's neither here nor there for now).

I also have a new lit-crush.

A lit crush, as I know it, is an affection you develop for a fictional character. An affection deep enough that you will compare real people to this character, and often find the real people lacking. An affection that begs the character to leap off the pages and transform you the way he/she transforms the story.

A lit-crush can last a lifetime.

My first and foremost lit-crush has been (and prob always will be) Teacake from Zora Neale Hurston's Their Eyes Were Watching God. Upon every re-read I see his flaws all the more clearly, his gambling, his recklessness, his violence, his flirtatiousness that would drive me up the wall if he were ever my man. But despite all of that, I find myself comparing the men I meet to Teacake. I realized that it isn't because Teacake was such an admirable man...rather, he strikes such a deep chord with me because I feel such a connection to Janie. Upon meeting some new (or old) fellow, and asking myself "is this my Teacake?" (which, err...I *have* done before) it's not because I want a 3D incarnation of the character. No.

I want to feel the things Janie felt through Teacake. I want a man who makes me feel the way Teacake made Janie feel. Budding and alive like that.

With A Thousand Splendid Suns, I have a new lit-crush in Tariq. Again, here is an honorable, completely likeable and appealing character that stands on his own. But what I really love about him is all the things he meant to Laila. In some ways, he reminds me of some of my best relationships. It's a strange mix of nostalgia and longing that he arouses.

Like all crushes, that trace of pain, that ever present yearning, is what makes the feeling so memorable and so delicious.

file under "pitiful"

Voters Fail the Test

"Out of 2,500 American quiz-takers, including college students, elected officials and other randomly selected citizens, nearly 1,800 flunked a 33-question test on basic civics. In fact, elected officials scored slightly lower than the general public with an average score of 44 percent compared to 49 percent.

Most bracing: Only 27 percent of elected officeholders in the survey could identify a right or freedom guaranteed by the First Amendment.

....the ISI pose a bedeviling question, as crucial as any to the nation's health: Who will govern a free nation if no one understands the mechanics and instruments of that freedom?"

Happy Birthday Gaetano!

If you know me, then you must know Gaetano. And if do know this wonderful man, then you must know he recently had a born day. Or as he would call it, a B(eyonce) Day.

He currently runs the site, Ha/f Culture, which apparently is really big in Eastern Europe, and gets his paycheck being a huge dork in a clean suit in Boston. Or an "engineer."

Which means that not only is he smarter than me, but he's smarter than me and he looks better than I do in tight pants. The audacity. More than that, he knows all the best restaurants, the newest music, and where all the secret Bostonian sneaker bodegas are. And his girlfriend is hot.

All of this would make me hate him, were he not such a genuinely lovable, remarkable, funny and generous human being. Gaetano is, in many ways, the older (360 days, to be precise) brother I never had. I love him because he likes reading my poems. I love him because of afternoons spent on the lake, kayaking (or rather, him kayaking, and me throwing in a couple strokes here and there). I love him because he used to be a fat kid, because he has a 5 o'clock shadow by 9:30 am, and because, just by being himself, he reminds me of all the potential that life has: for fun and debauchery, for art and music and literature, for exploring ourselves and the world around us.

So, thank you for that. And a very, very happy birthday.

The Refinery

On Friday night, Paul, Andrea and I went to Vasco’s, a popular expat spot in Saigon which, after over a year of living here, I had yet to sit down and order a drink from.

One of the things I love about a city like Saigon is how history creeps up into the surroundings, suddenly and unexpectedly. “The Refinery” — the complex that Vascos is nestled in — is named such because it was once a big opium refinery. One need look no further for evidence than to glance up at the archway where, clearly visible, in an artfulness and grace not so easily found in this city, sits a gorgeous carving of opium poppies.

on my 23rd birthday

1. woke up to the sounds of filipino streets: a caucophony of rattling engines and roosters, brooms sweeping pavement, dog fights and blaring horns, and birds that screeched like monkeys. my cousins were still sleeping on a mattress on the floor. birthday girl got the bed.

2. humble birthday breakfast: scrambled eggs and rice, sweet sausages and bacon. chocolate milk. the kind of breakfast i've had so many times when i was growing up: wholly comforting, satiating, and utterly forgetable. my cousins and i discussed our plans for the day, including the possibility of getting a tattoo. i had been awake for 2 hours and already, was feeling like i needed a nap. the chocolate milk had fully reverted me back to childhood.

3. we watch: love guru, the movie. fail.
we take : a nap with the a/c on blast. WIN.

4. in Quezon City, the water is turned off everyday between 11 and 4 in an effort to conserve resources. so, if you want to take a shower, flush the toilet, or brush your teeth during those hours, it has to be done old school, using a bucket and large, plastic tubs of water filled from earlier that morning or the previous night. as a seven year old in the philippines, i had the most visceral reaction to the sight of those plastic buckets by the toilet. they represented a sort of uncivilized disorder, a departure from the clean, cold efficiency of the bathrooms in my house, where the toilets always flushed by themselves, the lights were always bright, and hot water rushed forth from the left spigot.

at 23, that prejudice has given way to practicality. that and a strong dose of "get over yourself."

5. my camera is out of battery and i forgot to bring my charger. i promise myself to buy batteries at the concert that evening, but of course, that never happens. hence, you will not see any photos of my birthday in this post or on flickr.

5. lunch at japanese restaurant with cousins and Tita Edith. Spicy tuna rolls, spicy salmon sushi, gyoza, & california rolls (with the awesome addition of mango). i sip on my iced tea and watch a very attractive young sushi chef who is busy cleaning up the counter. he's wearing a bandanna tied around his head in such a way that it's a mix between a do-rag and a gypsy head dress, something about it i find incredibly sexy. a bit of sadness rims my gaze because he not only is he completely unaware of me, but it occurs to me that he probably has no idea how handsome he is. he's got a deep brown tone, the kind of color you get when you mix a cup of cinnamon tea with just the softest splash of milk, his complexion is flawless and his skin glows underneath the recessed lights of the restaurant. because he is dark, and because this is a country that advertises skin bleachers as if they were holy water, all of these amazing qualities are probably dismissed or -- even worse -- radiate on, unnoticed.

6. we arrive at the rihanna/chris brown concert about four hours ahead of time. immediately, i'm disheartened by the sight of the flat, open field. given my towering height of 5'1, i can tell it's going to be a long night.

then i discover that beer will not be sold at the venue and i want to kick whoever planned this concert in the groin.

7. hours pass before finally, under the dark of night and the red of the stage lights, Chris Brown appears on stage hanging upside down from a cable. the pre-pubescent girl in me (the one that drinks chocolate milk for breakfast) screeches and squeals out as she recognizes his (GASP) bare arms. said girl also monkeys up her cousins' shoulders in order to perch and screech her approval of the young singer.

i'm pretty sure my inner tween threw her training bra at him.

8. rihanna complains about how quiet the crowd of 70,000 is. we're not quiet girl, we're just freaking hot and the acoustics are shite in a what is essentially an open field/parking lot. plus you're hot but you're kind of boring when you perform. dig the leather though.

then she sings umbrella and the crowd (including inner tween) goes wild. cue chris brown to saunter in a hoodie and khakis to sing his slice of the remix, and inner tween creams her limited too pants.

9. everyone is too hot and tired for the afterparty. in the interest of (quality) time, we decide to walk to a nearby restaurant to order sisig and beers. because of the unbelievable mass of hungry humanity around, we put our names on the waiting list and sit on plastic dinosaurs, waiting for the call from on high, beckoning us to drink and be merry.

but no call comes.

we wait, and we wait, and we wait.

people exit in short, inconsequential spurts.

we wait some more.

finally, a full 10 minutes before last call, we are let in. tired, disgruntled and utterly repelled by all manner of gladiator sandals (well, I was at least), my cousins and i are unable to muster up any conversation while drinking our San Miguels and crunching on fried kang kong.

they are out of sisig, the bastards.

10. a long cab ride later, we are home at last. the converses are unlaced and i scrub the sweat and makeup off my face, exhausted and yet a bit regretful that i hadn't done more. the day seemed more about regression than reinvention. just as well, reinvention is a bit of an obsession for scorpios.

i remind myself that tomorrow i will wake up to the sounds of filipino streets again; brush my teeth from the shower faucet; spend $40 at the airport on magazines and trinkets and, as the airplane roars off the runway, refuse to look out the window at the sight of Manila falling beneath me.

bon to the voyage

will see you back on the other side of 23.

That is, if you don't die of acute cuteness first:


Once upon a time... from Capucha on Vimeo.

on plane rides

i feel like someone needs to come into this apartment and drag me out by the hair. i've been home since 2:00 this afternoon, but i havent been able to muster much in the area of energy or motivation. granted, this week has been mighty rough on me, particularly the back end of it.

i'm anxiously awaiting my short weekend jaunt back down to the philippines for my 23rd birthday. lately saigon, more than i can remember, has been suffocating, and this trip feels much like coming up for air. almost as much as seeing my family, though, i look forward to being on a plane again.

i love the feeling i get while in transit -- especially planes and trains. that feeling of detachment -- so much so that it sits on the outskirts of the ethereal at times. i feel so disconnected from the realities of my destination, the cold and sometimes cruel ground beneath my feet. i turn inward in the best way possible, viewing myself as if that self were merely another square of woods, a small tributary winding it's way around pockmarked patches of earth.

it may be a universal thing. it may be a characteristic of journeymen/journeywomen, the kinds that spend large pieces of their lives with their feet on one soil and their nose searching the scent of another. it may just be an age thing. either way, i doubt it's just me.

even as i'm coming up for fresh air, in itself, the journey up and (yes, back down) will offer a really good opportunity to reflect on what things i need to leave behind in the next year, what needs to be carried over, and what else is left to be met.

in search of a pick me up

In a small effort to combat what has been a horrible, terrible, AND no-good very bad day, I've decided come up with a shortlist of things that help soothe the rough edges and bring me peace of mind (even if just a sliver).

1) The November pictures from the Sartorialist. With flicks from Rio, Moscow, and NYC, Sart is providing some grade-A fashion escapism. This is a personal fave: not anything that I could ever picture myself wearing, but wonderfully light, fun, and a bit reminiscent of dragonfruit.

2) Peppermint tea. In a country that loves it's coffee, I'm a devout tea drinker. My cup of peppermint tea is simple, to the point, and invigorating enough to give me that much needed boost to teach unmotivated Vietnamese students at 8:00 am.

Which I'll have to do tomorrow. Joy.

3) Reading advice columns. It's self-help meets voyeurism, and I have to admit I've applied advice from Carolyn Hax's problems to my own life, and have recycled her advice to others. In some ways, it's a reassuring reminder that what I'm going through, in the scheme of things, isn't so difficult -- or, if it is, that I'm not the only miserable soul in the boat.

4) Samba music. Mood facelift with a twist of lime.

5) Pineapple & ham pizza -- with fresh basil. My comfort food used to be mashed potatoes, but in their (formidable) absence (you might imagine, Vietnam isn't a big potato country), my PHB pizza concoction is stepping into the gap. Add a michelada (another wonderful hybrid: beer + tabasco sauce + lime = the endearing mongrel of drinks) and you got yourself a paaartay. Or at least, enough flavors to put your pity party on pause.

Kathleen Parker is quickly becoming one of my favorite columnists

"The alternative to criticizing, several friends have mentioned with perfectly straight faces, is to say nothing at all. Alas, I've always been partial to Alice Roosevelt Longworth, who said, 'If you haven't got anything good to say about anyone, come and sit by me.' Not only is the conversation likely to be livelier, it is also likely to be truer. "

Kathleen Parker
[full article here]

feeling in a mark twain mood today

"...no country can be well governed unless its citizens as a body keep religiously before their minds that they are the guardians of the law and that the law officers are only the machinery for its execution, nothing more."

Mark Twain
"The Gilded Age"

all falls down

Today is also the anniversary of the collapse of the Berlin Wall. A nice bookend to a week that's seen some pretty impressive blocks come tumbling down.

the sheer volume of wonder

"What I Know for Sure"
Bob Hickock

Some people, told of witness trees,
pause in chopping a carrot
or loosening a lug nut and ask, witness
to what? So while salad
is made, or getting from A to B
is repaired, these people
listen to the story
of the Burnside bridge sycamore,
alive at Antietam, bloodiest day
of the war, or the Appomattox Court House
honey locust, just coming to leaf
as Lee surrendered, and say, at the end,
Cool. Then the chopping continues
with its two sounds,
the slight snap to the separation
of carrot from carrot, the harder crack
of knife against cutting board,
or the sigh, also slight, of a lug nut
as it's tightened against a wheel. In time,
these people put their hands
under water and say, not so much to you
but to the window in front of the sink,
Think of all the things
trees have seen. Then it's time
for dinner, or to leave, and a month passes,
or a year, before two fawns
cross in front of the car,
or the man you've just given a dollar to
lifts his shirt to the start
of the 23rd psalm tattooed
to his chest, "The Lord is my shepherd,
I shall not want," when some people
say, I feel like one of those trees,
you know? And you do know.
You make a good salad, change
a wicked tire, you're one of those people,
watching, listening, a witness to whatever this is,
for as long as it is
amazing, isn't it, that I could call you
right now and say, They still
can't talk to dolphins
but are closer, as I still
can't say everything I want to
but am closer, for trying, to God,
if you must, to spirit, if you will,
to what's never easy for people
like us: life, breath, the sheer
volume of wonder.

sidenote: this poem, in a way i can't properly describe, captures a bit of that nebulous feeling i've had in the past week... that sense of the mundane & the amazing.

Barack Obama, 44th President of the United States of America

"I just want to do God's will. And He's allowed me to go up to the mountain. And I've looked over. And I've seen the promised land. I may not get there with you. But I want you to know tonight, that we, as a people, will get to the promised land. And I'm happy, tonight."

MLK 1968

"There's new energy to harness, new jobs to be created, new schools to build, and threats to meet, alliances to repair.

The road ahead will be long. Our climb will be steep. We may not get there in one year or even in one term. But, America, I have never been more hopeful than I am tonight that we will get there.

I promise you, we as a people will get there."

Obama 2008

(all Obama photos via washingtonpost.com)

go vote.

....it'll make you feel big and strong.

Bob Schieffer

to fully appreciate the post below

read this short summary/review of Beau Sia's "a night without armor II: the revenge."

p.s.

i really
don't like
jack kerouac
or
the way
you give
blowjobs.

Beau Sia

Susan Sontag

Information will never replace illumination. But something that sounds like, except that it's better than, information -- I mean the condition of being informed; I mean concrete, specific, detailed, historically dense, first hand knowledge is the indispensable prerequisite for a writer to express opinions in public.

Susan Sontag, "The Conscience of Words"

This is something I've mulled over before -- the difference between knowledge & information. Though she's talking specifically to and about writers, I do wish this expectation could be extended to all media and, really, all participators in democracy.

sweet november

i've always been soft for november.

i can't even front as to why: it's my birth month, so i always feel a jolt of rejuvenation during this month. the fact that it comes so close to the end of the calendar year adds to the feeling of introspection: assessing who i am at the close of another 365 days, where i've been, what's been done, and slowly turning around to face the next set of challenges.

especially in the weeks going into my birthday, i go inside of myself and shut the doors. there is a reverberation of change deep inside of me, one that is currently coursing through the veins of the world. in my conversations with people, there seems to be an almost universal restlessness. an itch for -- shit, i don't even know, i can't put my finger on mine, and i somehow doubt that most other people can concisely point to theirs either. but we're reaching.

coming to vietnam was, in many ways, a desire to return to some sort of embryonic stage. a retreat into a foreign land in the hopes of stepping back into the familiar with new eyes. i think vietnam has, in that sense, exceeded my expectations. the way i view the world, my country (countries?), and my countrymen has changed irrevocably.

i welcome that. it would be a waste, i think, to come into each and every city, town and country, each and every year, unaltered. the years tailor you, taking the basic fabric -- the fundamentals, as our politicians would like to say -- and stretch, fold, pleat, rip apart and stitch back together all that you are and capable of being.

truth be told, i feel as though i've been 22 for five years.

& i'm not quite sure how to end this blog, mainly because i came into it not knowing what i was going to write, but also because this is the sort of thought that will unravel slowly, dutifully, and on it's own accord.

unraveling the cloth of a year. that's what it feels like. quietly, purposefully, that's what it will come down to.

a horoscope

(freewill astrology originally found via teenybooks)

i half-believe in horoscopes. while the daily predictions don't really hold any water for me, i can't deny that i do demonstrate a lot of the traits ascribed to my sign: scorpio. this horoscope, on the other hand, hit the proverbial nail on the head. while i won't be investing in tarot cards anytime soon, i may just peep in on this site regularly.

What do you tend to do when you're squeezed between the demands of authority and the healthy need to rebel? How do you respond when the past and future are at odds? What resources do you draw on when the person you have always been starts to evolve into an interesting new form that you don't recognize? You've come to a fork in the road, Scorpio, when you will be asked to deal with these questions on a larger scale than before. My advice? Study your past so thoroughly that you'll be able to keep it from repeating itself, and open your mind to possibilities you've rarely considered.

it's true

we grow up, but we stay -- essentially -- the same people we were when we were 7.

quasi-family reunion 2008:

cheers to the elitist washington media

heaven... or paradise?

my mom just presented me the choice...

Boracay

-or-

Palawan?

oh mother-daughter bonding in the motherland....it's good to be B right about now

countdown to the philippines

...3 days (!)

"Witness to whence I came, where I am. Witness to what I've seen and the possibilities that I think I see."

go tell it...

"Jimmy was a combination of coquette, preacher boy and arrant wit all in one -- in other words, a cunt."
Frank Corsaro

"Please don't mind or be embarassed by any of my more hysterical outbursts. I'm like that on the top sometimes, but I'm very sound at bottom."
James Baldin

i've been stuck on this james baldwin biography for a while, partly because i haven't been reading as regularly as i'd like, but also because it just ain't easy reading. it's quite thorough, which is good, and much attention is paid to the minutiae of his life. while this is illuminating, it does mean one can't simply run through the pages.

what i have appreciated most about the book, however, has been the dominance of baldwin's voice throughout. baldwin's ability to perceive the people and the times he lived in has always left me in awe, so i'm quite happy to stumble upon more of insights, particularly in regard to the tumult of the '60s.

moreover, what i've found especially interesting are how particular insights, specific to his times and his life, are so applicable to the present. a couple that i found particularly striking --

"Despair is a sin. I believe that. It is easy to be bleak about the human race, but there are people who have proved to me that we can be better than we are."

"For everything is changing, from our notion of politics to our notion of ourselves, and we are certain, as we being history's strangest metamorphosis, to undergo the torment of being forced to surrender more than we ever realized we had accepted."

"Generations do not cease to be born, and we are responsible to them because we are the only witnesses they have."

from baldwin's own words, it's clear that "bearing witness" dominated his outlook on writing. there was a definite social consciousness to it -- strongest and best expressed in his essays, but also in his novels and plays. he understood, perhaps as much as anyone else would ever be capable of understanding, that intricate kinship between the personal and the political.

he once said that he wanted to be an honest man and a good writer -- in that order. humble as those goals may sound, his words stand as testament to the power of the two.

everyday occasions

i'm a bit of an epicurean when it comes to new clothes.

in my mind, i want to prolong the enjoyment, the feeling of "newness," to delay the gratification and -- to some degree -- fake a certain nonchalance by not trotting them out at first go. there are also flimsy thoughts of propriety: to save the perfect outfit for it's equivalent occasion. but i never do. i (nearly) always bust it out on the first go -- shoes, jewelry, shirts, purses, dresses, you name it. it's not a desire to show off, nor even to revel in their newness. it's because i can't wait for that perfect event or date in order to feel that good -- who's to say that such a day would ever come? because everyday is an occasion worth dressing up (or down, or which-so-ever-way you please) for.

exhibit a: hamming it up for a college fashion show circa winter 2007. here, you see my affinity for hoop earrings, grey, and uhm...cocktail dresses that resemble cupcakes.

inspiration information

found this lovely blog via tumblr the other day, and this particular picture inspired the short post below. i also have to credit her for pointing me towards fredflare, which is a veritable candyland of goodies. i mean, can we touch and agree?

i am hopeful
i wish i could sing like aretha, if just for a day
i love what i've been given
i dance best alone and in my underwear
i sing to the peril of those around me
i think out loud
i really believe basil is underutilized
i need to drink more water
i should stop biting my nails
i can shake it like a polaroid picture
i like it like that
i make really good scrambled eggs
i keep good company and good faith
i always sneeze twice

bring it on home to me

, originally uploaded by pitulineten.

sunday night

it's 1:12 am, just finished writing an article to cap out a deliciously long sunday. a gluttonous, home-made brunch to begin the day, Flight of the Conchords and a nap to soak up the time in the middle, and a good amount of reading and writing to fill out my evening. first time since the end of the week that i've gotten to sit down and have a good, long chat with the boy too, which i'm quite happy about -- i was feeling a guilty that we hadn't talked much the past few days.

this week promises to be another long one. each week i try to align my priorities -- what i want to accomplish, things i will focus on over the next seven days. i gotta cough up money for a new membership, i'll be correcting papers every day this week (and into the weekend), i have to book a much delayed trip to the Philippines, not to mention start planning my tour of the US in January. basically, the theme for this week will be sorting shite out.

at the beginning of each month, i usually try to set a singular focus -- something i particularly want to improve on or dedicate myself to for the next thirty days. in past months i've thrown myself into budgeting, hitting the gym regularly, photography, and minimizing my wardrobe. i'm still debating as to how i want to spend this october: i've been guilting myself for some time now over my lack of commitment to regular writing and reading, though there's an opportunity a friend recently offered to get involved in meditation, which typically isn't my thing but she managed to sell me on it. there's also the issue of budgeting for the coming months and learning vietnamese -- which i still haven't done, though it's been a year since i've been in the country.

it's been a year since i've experienced autumn -- my favorite season, most likely because it merges life and death in such a dramatic, sensory way. the brilliance of red apples and the swollen spheres of golden pumpkins, the crunch of dead leaves on concrete, the crispness of the air. in the permanent summer of the tropics, these sights, sounds, and smells sit outside of daily life, though they remain vivid in my memory.

regardless, even without the sensations of autumn, i find this time of year to be, more than any other, the most introspective.

a delicious end to a long week

i have cheesecake in the fridge

i've marked all the papers i've taken home for the weekend.

still have half a bottle of wine left.

there's lightning flashing outside my window.

methinks i like how this weekend is shaping up so far...

as a lover of language...

...this slaaays me. i have vietnamese students that can answer questions more directly, succinctly, and/or eloquently.

"Palin has an odd tendency to use the same word twice in a sentence, as in, 'The people of American realize that inherently all political power is inherent in the people,' or, about John McCain, 'He can surpass the partisanship that must be surpassed to deal with an issue like this.' Or, combining word repetition with another Palin verbal tic, word dropping, this about the economic meltdown: 'Well, you know, first Fannie and Freddie, different because quasi-government agencies there where government had to step in because the adverse impact all across our nation, especially with homeowners, is just too impacting.'"

via Ruth Marcus on WashingtonPost.com

late september resolution

I've been quite pathetic on the updating and blogging tip this month.

I could blame it on work.

The second half of a semester is always a bigger time-sucker. The writing gets more intensive, which means I'm marking more student writing and spending a bit more time in school preparing lessons. I also am quite lucky to have a class that I really, really enjoy teaching, and I work harder in making the lessons more interesting and engaging for them.

I'm also experimenting with some new approaches in teaching. Nothing radical, but things that are more student centered, where they really are directing the focus and energy of the classroom in a more organic and natural way. For the first time in a while, I'm truly excited about the actual method of teaching.

I could also blame it on my ambitions to write outside of blogging.

I've been a bit better about keeping a journal, and for one week there in early September, I was alloting a set amount of time each day dedicated solely to writing. Not journaling or blogging, but throwing myself into creative work.

As I said, that lasted a week.

So here's my late September resolution, to be more dedicated to this space.

Pinkie swear & shit.

the seconds, the minutes, the hours

(photo by razorbern.)

waiting...preparing...gathering & arranging our littlest hopes...

fashioning a life.

i've decided

i need to wear more red.

for real for real.

(via The Sartorialist)

"The most common way people give up their power is by believing they don't have any."

Alice Walker
(via Women Against Sarah Palin)

night...life(?)

nightlife?, originally uploaded by 11sixteen.

It is hugely unfortunate that the first big story about Palin -- other than questions raised about whether she fired the head of the Alaska state police for refusing to dismiss her former brother-in-law -- concerned her 17-year-old daughter's pregnancy. It's not just that Bristol Palin should be left alone, but also that the intense interest in this story gave McCain's bullies an excuse to push aside legitimate questions about Palin's record and knowledge.

...[W]hat matters is not Palin's personal life but whether she is prepared to assume the presidency if called upon. The actions of McCain's lieutenants suggest that they know the answer. And they are doing everything they can to keep the media from finding it.

full article, by E.J. Dionne Jr., here

intellectual dishonesty & the evil, evil media

I am concerned with what columnist Leonard J. Pitts has, rightfully, called intellectual dishonesty. All campaigns are at fault for this, particularly during election season, but sweet Jesus, the RNC really brought intellectual dishonesty to new levels.

From Palin's speech (well delivered, but more snark than substance), to the revision of recent history (McCain's courageous "outsider" position wasn't on the surge, but on IMMIGRATION), to Mitt Romney's "errr, what?" inducing comments, intellectual dishonesty was everywhere.

The most disturbing of all this, however, is the full call to arms against the media. To illustrate this point of the "evil, elitist media," the RNC rolled out a Reagan video, showcasing the conflict between Regan and the video.

Except...there was no conflict between the media and Reagan. Reagan was a media DARLING. As was John McCain the Maverick....before he became John McCain the Reformer, Re-Forming his opinions on all the things the Former John McCain stood for.

And now, shuffling Palin off until she receives "respect and deference" from the press? Respect, I understand. Aretha could tell you, we all want respect, but DEFERENCE? When have we known the press to defer to any political candidate, especially when they were running for office? Moreover, when would that ever be a good thing?

The British media doesn't even show deference to the bloody Royal Family, for God's sake. If you really want to show you're ready for this job, and that gender really isn't an issue, then go out there and take your press beating like a man, Ms. Palin.

the games we play

this is inspired by an article i recently read in a magazine called, "the games we play," which talks about the little games that we carry on from childhood to adulthood.

full disclosure on the games i still play:


i lip sync all the time. not just discreet mouthing of the words while i'm on my computer, either. i mean, full on hairbrush-as-a-microphone, facial contortion, i am woman hear me convincingly-mimic-a-roar splendor.

i play with my hair in the shower, using shampoo to sculpt my hair into sudsy masterpieces. my favorites include: anne as a rooster, anne as elvis, anne as a hard core punk, anne as a tsunami, and anne as alfalfa.

i choreograph dance routines in the shower and in my bedroom, and will usually act out some of the moves until i realize i have neither the skill nor the know-how to perform my routines. oh, but they're so dope!

i have conversations with myself all the time, though usually not out loud. i'll essentially run through an entire dialogue with someone in my mind -- sometimes a close friend, sometimes a casual acquaintance with whom i'd like to have such a conversation one day. the convo will usually be about politics or sex or memories or love or relationships, all those things that knead my thoughts, that i hope to one day be wise about though i'm still, clearly, a novice.

i thumb-war when there's a lull in conversation.

i used to pretend i was some sort of woodland animal before i went to bed and when i woke up: that i had to burrow deep inside the covers to sleep and protect myself from all manner of evil night time villains (panthers, ghosts, cougars, robbers, etc). i still feel this way when i wake up in the morning, except the evil villain is work.

on occasion, i still try to see if i can move things with my mind. or will somebody to do something, like call me.

on nights when i'm home alone, i sometimes put on lipstick -- a color i haven't put on in a while, like a deep hibiscus red or my glossiest, stickiest cotton candy pink. lipstick melts off my lips like ice cream down a waffle cone, so i never really get to enjoy lipstick at work or out in public. but at home, poring over a book or a fresh piece of writing, or even just watching a movie, my lipstick becomes a naughty secret held between the walls, a pop of glamour, evidence that i'm still my favorite audience to play dress-up for.

...and thank you for your endorsement...

Memo To Sarah Palin

[originally published here, by Michael Kinsley]

"Our son Track is 19. And one week from tomorrow…he’ll deploy to Iraq…. My nephew Kasey also enslisted…. My family is proud of both of them…. In our family, it’s two boys and three girls…. From the inside, no family seems typical. That’s how it is with us. Our family has the same ups and downs as any other…. Todd is a story all by himself…. We met in high school and two decades and five children later he’s still my guy…. My parents are here tonight, and I am so proud to be the daughter of….”

Did someone forget to tell Sarah Palin that families are off-limits?

ooOOooo, it's ON bitch! (part II)

A list of books that Palin supposedly wanted banned during her tenure as Mayor of Wassi-whogivesadamn. This list hasn't been verified, though several sources have been cited in regard to Palin's desire to ban certain books from Alaska's public libraries.

A Wrinkle in Time by Madeleine L’Engle

As I Lay Dying by William Faulkner

Canterbury Tales by Chaucer

Death of a Salesman by Arthur Miller

Forever by Judy Blume

Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone by J.K. Rowling

James and the Giant Peach by Roald Dahl

Lord of the Flies by William Golding

One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez

Our Bodies, Ourselves by Boston Women’s Health Collective

The Adventures of Tom Sawyer by Mark Twain

The Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger

The Color Purple by Alice Walker

The New Teenage Body Book by Kathy McCoy and Charles Wibbelsman

Webster’s Ninth New Collegiate Dictionary by the Merriam-Webster Editorial Staff

[(via librarian.net) via rach]

ooOOooo, it's ON bitch!

Dear John McCain,

You were right. Women support other women, because most women can empathize with most other women. For this reason, a lot of women vote for other women. Some women will vote for another woman, just because she's a woman. Some women won't care if this actually benefits them.

But you forgot one thing. It's kind of important.

Women love supporting other women.

But not as much as they love hating other bitches.

self pleasure

One of my favorite indulgences is taking myself out on dates. I've always been a bit of a loner, going to cafes, restaurants, movies and even house parties by myself. I used to treat these events like regular ol' things: a simple preference, some quality time to myself, a matter of convenience. But recently, soon after I discovered the things that pleased me most -- the tomatoes, the wine, the patent leather heels, the chunky bracelets, the pink eyeshadow, the silk and the cotton -- and developed my taste in and knowledge of those things, I decided to give them back to myself.

So, some nights, especially after a particularly harrowing work week or hectic weekend, I put on one of my favorite dresses. Pair it with terribly insensible heels, jewelry that flashes even the night time. I pluck my eyebrows, rub lemon lotion from head to toe, even top it off with a thick, sopping handful of body oil. It's on these occasions I put on lipstick, it never makes sense any other time: not when I'm kissing someone, or teaching, or trying to gulp down lunch in the 20 minutes before or in the middle of classes. Lipstick, like cool, is one of those I put on but seems to slide off me five minutes later.

But for myself, I'll entertain the notion.

I even put on my best draw's. Not for some half hope of what good I might stumble into on the way to dinner or sitting at the restaurant bar, but because I firmly believe in my own goodness. That goody-goody gumdrop feeling made possible by bright yellow dresses that catch the night wind in their hems, or towering heels that add their own beat to the concrete syncopation. That magic that comes when the flight in your step threatens to eat up every horizon God dared to paint.

I dress myself up for that feeling, from the inside out. I soak myself in that feeling, from the inside out. And when I'm done soaked up full of the food I love and the music that grooves me and the thoughts and books that send me home in the middle of this strange city, when I catch a glimpse of myself in the twinkling windows of Saigon, I just get so happy that I got the privilege of taking her home with me.

extraordinarily ordinary

"In probing the common standards of normality, Wood has made a surprising discovery: Being normal is actually extraordinary. It's an unusual combination of specific traits that all have to do with being extra likable. The people who see themselves as most normal (and are seen that way by others) are much less neurotic than the average person, uncommonly easy to get along with, unusually respectful of propriety, and highly responsible.

Normal people may be nicer than average, but they also have character traits that aren't universally appealing. They're not adventurous. They're not above average in intelligence, nor are they outgoing. Truth be told, a lot of our best qualities are unusual. A sense for music like Mozart's is certainly exceptional. So is the ability to speak six languages, or the courage to leap onto the subway tracks to save a stranger's life."

Psychology Today

Wow, just think, now we'll be able to tell our daughters, "you can grow up and be anything you want to be. Why, you could even be some old-windbag's-strategic-womb-carrying-ploy-designed-to-siphon-votes-from-enbittered-Clinton-supporters-and-disgruntled-and/or-undecided white-women-everywhere!

Or, an astronaut!"

anticipation

I haven't posted a video in a while, and in the building anticipation for what Obama has to say tomorrow morning (or tonight, for those of you on the other side of the international date line) it seems fitting.

An oldie in internet time, but a damn amusing video nonetheless.

the last pages

I finished Isabel Allende's memoir, "My Invented Country," last week, but was hesitant to place the book on my shelf -- out of reach of my attention -- because I still wanted to linger on the last couple pages. As anyone who has fell in love with books knows, there is nothing quite so satisfying as a really, really good ending.

I really took to this book, as I mentioned earlier, because it honed in on two central themes of my life thus far: writing and home.

The last two pages tie up those two themes in a way that I found neither forced nor overly sentimental, but poignant and perfect satiating. Probably, because she had spoken so directly to my experiences and my own world view. Of course, we can't help but be drawn to the things that so eloquently articulate us and what we know:

In the slow practice of writing, I have fought with my demons and obsessions, I have explored the corners of my memory, I have dredged up stories and people from oblivion, I have stolen others' lives, and from all this raw material I have constructed a land that I call my country. That is where I come from.

&

I am a writer because I was born with a good ear for stories, and I was lucky enough to have an eccentric family and the destiny of a wanderer. The profession of literature has defined me. Word by word I have created the person I am and the invented country in which I live.

Did TLC teach you NATHIN, Rihanna?

Rihanna reportedly fired her business manager after discovering she only has
$20,000 left in her bank account.

Don't worry, girl, there's still plenty of room for you under Chris Brown's umbrella. But please, if the gov't has to reposses anything, let that shirt be the first to go.

so, what did you think of China?

"In decades at the Post, this is the first event I've covered at which I was certain that the main point of the exercise was to co-opt the Western media, including NBC, with a splendidly pretty, sparsely attended, completely controlled sports event inside a quasi-military compound. We had little alternative but to be a conduit for happy-Olympics, progressive-China propaganda. I suspect it worked."

[full article, "They Made the Buses Run On Time" here]

Living in Vietnam, I gotta word up this article. I've seen first-hand Vietnamese reluctance to over-step bureaucracy or "chain of command." Our situation is much milder, however, because China is what Vietnam would be if the government were more efficient, had a better grasp of technology, and could funnel their resources and energy correctly. Which is a bit scary.

fashion lust...

this is a prelude to another (longer) post, that i've been wanting to write for some time. its inspirations can be credited to the blogger, style rookie, a (very) young blogger who's miles ahead of the game in terms of fashion and style. what i like the most about her, however, isn't her fashion sense (although, let's be real, she's in the 92nd percentile in terms of dopeness and she hasn't even hit her teens yet). it's her earnestness in her desire to learn more about fashion and design, and the fun she's having developing a style that is completely her own -- which really, is what style is all about.

myself, i love parsing issues that deal with creativity, particularly design and aesthetics, because they sit outside of my expertise, so discovering the sartorial me has been an enthralling and engaging turn in my life.

i have a hard time throwing out magazines, instead spending an inordinate amount of time poring over the spreads and features: the color harmonies and palettes, the styling, the silhouettes, the mood, the narrative each outfit tells. i've taken to cutting out particularly intriguing/inspiring tidbits from my favorite magazines in a large sketchbook so I can easily refer to them, and keep them for posterity. i find that simply gathering all the pieces soothes me, like aesthetic therapy.





fashion, i believe, is a practical art -- much in the same way as language. to paraphrase tim gunn, fashion IS a language of its own -- a very personal language. for this reason, i follow fashion, admire it, like it, maybe after a few drinks and a few flips through a particularly artful spread, lust after it, but i doubt that i could ever earnestly LOVE it.

fashion folly

i said i don't think i could ever love fashion, because i don't think i could take it quite so seriously. granted, fashion does have a sense of humor -- sometimes -- but the wearisome thing i see in fashion is it's tendency to take itself way too seriously.

disclaimer: though they're often used synonymously, i don't regard being fashionable equitable to being stylish. fashion is to religion as style is to faith or belief; fashion is much more regimented, me thinks.

Exhibit A:

take, for instance, the following quote from Refinery29's Interview with model, Erin Wasson. now, Erin seems like a fabulous person, really. but i just found this part of the interview absolutely ridiculous...

What fashion trend would you like to see curl up and die?
"Leggings, dude. If I see one more girl showing off her bad ankles, I'm going to vomit. It's just not cute."

Really, dude? Bad ankles?? I mean, I'm with you on the leggings -- on the basis that they're borderline hipster/20-something fashion cliche -- but bad ankles? What are those? Are they like ashy ankles? Or cankles? The cankle set (wisely) tends to veer away from leggings. Actually, for that matter, what are GOOD ankles? Do those even exist? Is there some sort of medication I can take? Has Dove come out with a therapeutic cream yet? The bad ankle miscreants of the world must know!

It's pretentiousness like this which makes you want to keep the fashion world at arm's length sometimes. Take the difference between the Facehunter and the Sartorialist. They're both style, not fashion, blogs, but the former caters to a younger, more street look than the latter. Moreover, while their expressed purpose is to highlight the stylishness of the everyman/woman the Sartorialist tends to focus on an older (one could argue, more timeless) set, and notable fashion insiders.

The difference isn't in the level of style, but the audience and the "models." What I admire about the Sartorialist is the straight-forward nature of his photos. Often, they're not wearing anything particularly amazing, new or "directional." But you always get a sense that these people are comfortable in their own skin; that they pop up in the morning looking like that, and tumble down into bed looking the same way; that it's all, in fact, effortless.

I don't always get that from the Facehunter. There are times (granted, only a few) where everything, the shot, the fashion, and especially the model, looks so contrived -- a replica of what the person thinks fashion should be. It's what fashion is, but what style should never be: forced.

Exhibit(s) B:

Love the color palette, the mix of stripes and florals, the proportion looks dope, but the look-away pose KILLS it for me. she ends up looking stiff in what would be a really fresh, young outfit.


Another look-away pose, with the dreaded addition of the hand-to-the-face. Seriously, they made us all do this in our garish elementary school photos, you know, the ones in front of a faux forest/bay window background ("chin up, okay now look over at the birdie, okay if you could just move your hand like...okay, grrreeaaat!"). it looked stupid then and it's not doing her any favors now.


again, this would be a really fresh look if it didn't look as though it were shot to promote a line of purses and handbags. i can almost hear the same creepy 4th grade photographer say "okay, now let's see the bag, okay... a little to the left, now tilt your head, peerrrrrfect." also, this whole pigeon-toed model pose thing has always struck me as odd when i see it in the high-fashion glossies. i've been [slightly] pigeon-toed, i've seen people who are naturally pigeon-toed, there's NATHIN haute couture about it. which begs the question, does this chick naturally turn her bubble gum-pink footsies inward (endearing) or is she mimicking something she's seen elsewhere (awkward)?

like i said before, love facehunter -- really -- and the vast majority of his shots are nothing short of fabulous. but if we can just cut the crap and be ourselves, whatever those selves may dress like, i think we can spare ourselves more than a few awkward photos.

and cover up those bad ankles.

1:45 am

eating [my favorite] korean vanilla & red bean ice cream [comes in a crispy wafer shaped like a fish, easily my favorite snack/desert food EVER], having spent a good saturday engaging & indulging my creative self.

some fruits of my efforts:



a fully updated flickr. woop woop!

a letter from Jaques Rogge

"It's one thing for the Chinese government to jail dissidents, to forge the passports of underage gymnasts, and to set up official protest zones and then arrest anyone who applied to use them. These are matters that I met with disciplined silence, or as I so adroitly put it, with 'quiet diplomacy.' But I cannot ignore Bolt's disturbing spontaneity. Him, I feel compelled to rebuke.

...'I think he should show more respect for his competitors and shake hands, give a tap on the shoulder to the other ones immediately after the finish and not make gestures like the one he made in the 100 meters,' I said.

...Some people might ask what separates Bolt from other athletes who have celebrated unselfconsciously here...How is he different, for instance, from the U.S. women's beach volleyball team, which shrieked, hugged each other, cavorted, and fell about in the sand for several minutes, before congratulating its opponents?


Isn't it obvious? They are women in bikinis."

[the full -- BRILLIANT -- article is available here]