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Her email

Apr. 30th, 2007 | 11:41 pm
mood: jubilant

So Winter Break 2007:

From (crystal's email)@gmail.com
To (christina's email)@gmail.com
11:35 pm

"Okay, so here's my prediction: For $400 a piece, we can cross 9
states, visit 4 national parks, hike the grand canyon, go to Las
Vegas, and "be home in time for Christmas" in sunny California. Stilll
thinking, or did I just totally convince you to come to California
with me for Christmas?"

This is why I love my life. and scratch what i said earlier about no more allnighters this year.

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(no subject)

Mar. 25th, 2007 | 01:50 am

the party DJ is playing Missy Elliott and it makes me real happy. i have such a crush on her, no lie.

i was talking to someone today about we both don't write anymore. i've lost faith entirely in my ability to feel something so much that i have to write about it. i'm taking a creative writing class, and words are coming out but i know how much they don't matter. the last copy of my zine from high school is now lost. but i was looking at it earlier and i miss that kind of fresh adolescent writing. it wasn't angsty, i don't think. more so just overly passionate and romantic and hopefulness to the point of having a bitter aftertaste. i dont' write anymore, let alone things that i would read again and cry from. i guess maybe sometimes with papers, but not those really either. she has faith that i'm still a poet, and really it was crystal i was talking to. she said that's one of the reasons she fell for me, not necessarily the Writing, but the Poetry. Poetry as a world view, as a particular way to observe people, situations, and nature. I definitely don't have that anymore. i don't know where it went, college what did you do with it? maybe that kind of Poetry only exists with immaturity, if so-i wish for immaturity. but the safe kind that is all energy and extreme sensitivity and no self-centeredness and retrieving pieces of the world only to use for my own personal advances. She says that when we're in Kenya, I should write a poem everyday. how exhilarating and daunting that would be. a poem each day, and make it a special project, that's what she's going to do, but she's a creative writing major. she's a writer, the kind of writer that even though she goes through dry spells, she still has this deep deep resevoir that's always running somewhere inside of her. and it just takes something to spur it and all she can do is write and write and open new documents for the scraps. she says she's not disappointed that i don't write so much anymore but i know that can't be true. even i'm a little dissapointed. but i need to keep her because she still believes i'll publish an anthology someday. that's the kind of person you need to stick around. the one who fell in love with the Poet and will wait as long as it takes for your anthology to come out. how did i get so lucky?

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(no subject)

Mar. 2nd, 2007 | 05:09 pm
mood: Invincible

by this time tomorrow i'll be well on my way here:


by this time a year from now, I'll be on my way...


in Nairobi, hob nobbin' it with UN representatives, talking trash in Swahili with some Coke-sipping teens, taking day trips to the Serengheti or Mt. Kilimanjaro, scuba diving in Mombasa, talking to midwives in the Rift Valley. I was a lot worried about getting into study abroad, and the relief is incredible.

this was the kind of week where you write two twenty page papers (one grant proposal/one midterm) in three days. this was the kind of week where you skipped all the classes you had that midterms weren't due in. this was the kind of week of two all nighters (not in a row). this was the kind of week where you feel you're only fooling yourself. but it seems like it's all worth it now. i'm gonna finish up my work shift, mosey on home to scream with crystal about how fucking incredible our lives are, and forget about how much work it took to get to today.

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side note

Nov. 22nd, 2006 | 03:16 pm
music: metric

listening to metric makes me eager to go home. it is memory music. i want to watch colorful foreign films with large groups of people. actually metric makes me think of summers past and driving to and from jordan's house. so much music taken with her! i get really dissapointed when i listen to an old cd and it makes me smile but then i realize i'm smiling because i'm remembering her. i had to get all new music tastes after that. i always get a weird feeling before i go home. bleck

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(no subject)

Nov. 17th, 2006 | 07:28 am
mood: pensive
music: out of habit

today, i led my first alliance meeting. i have idealic expectations for how i'll present things and people will be entranced and engaged, and they'll run outside without shoes or coats and start tearing down walls. Demolishing houses brick by brick, taking sledgehammers to concrete and hand to aluminum sidding like a finger to a fine-tooth comb. They'd just start tearing down houses and peering inside them. perhaps salvaging windows but everything else could go. but i led my first alliance meeting.

and i'm in an ani mood. maybe it's gsa madness reminding me of high school that brings back that fine appreciation for ani texture. the roughness of her voice, the sing-songy talking. i don't listen much anymore but when i get in those moods it's like calling home.

i've been trying to write for catharsis (to say something real) through academic papers. It only works for so long. copying down an audre lorde quote for point IIIB.i. of my twenty page paper when all i really want to say is, i understand. or what i really want to say is, i forgive you, or i love all of this. but i chug along, spewing lines and lines of references in proper American Ethnologist format, when what i feel myself sending out is, this is your life and my life too and i'm giving meaning to it. i'm doing this for you. but i'm tired of using academia. it's like a very big truck. powerful but with little maneuverability. i feel like running again. chest heavy and heaving matching rhythms of feet, meter by meter, patter of finger to key so adroit i grow confused how i got from place to place from inside to on the page. i miss that.

in two days it will be our anniversary. no joke. funny how it's gotten bigger and stronger but subtler, smaller, calm. i can't really restrain myself to say something crude like i love and respect and admire her more than i love and respect and admire anything ever. what a stupid thing to say but it would be an understatement nonetheless. i've learned from past experience not to expect too much, not to be too hopeful, not to promise things that could quickly change but i may have to risk repeating history with this one (she's teaching me how to be optimistic too)

after nearly four years, i have another chance to experience a native american sweat lodge. mmmmm. i hope i don't sound like an anthropologist.

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(no subject)

Aug. 22nd, 2006 | 04:57 pm

I got the sweetest card from my grandma cz, my dad's mom. i surprised them last Thursday, visiting and bringing flowers from the farmer's market, and i guess they were really really happy!
She wrote:

Grandpa and I really enjoyed your suprise visit the other day. Did you see the bi smile grandpa had when he discovered who was at the door? The flowers are so pretty. Thank you for being so thoughtful :). You know we both like flowers. You certainly turned a "ho-hum" day into a very special one.
Hope every thing goes well for you this coming school year. We will be thinking of you.
Really enjoyed the one on one time we had. You mean so much to us. You were our first grandchild. All our love
Grandma + Grandpa Cz

And then the part of the card that has already printed text it said: You really made my day! and she crossed out the my and put 'our'. I never really thought about older people, especial my grandparents before this time coming home. you don't even realize, when you're so young, that they exist and have lives and feelings; they are simply old people-expired.

visiting my grandma and her room mate in the nursing home, Francis, and visiting my other grandparents, made me feel a part of what it is to live. it allowed me to see how life can change but people, maybe, have the same feelings. you can be 90 years old with Parkinson's and dementia, wearing bibs called "food catcher" and shaking in your bed as you watch Wheel of Fortune, you can be 76 living with your half blind and deaf silent husband in a lake house, or you can be a melodramatic teenager trapped by the ensuing deterioration of a relationship, you can be any of those people and still feel equally lonely, still feel like you could exert so much more enthusiasm and passion than what your current mold of life allows, what a culture's expectations of you because of your age and level of ability allows. i never really thought of it.

this week i could somehow empathize and feel the same. hearing that me listening to my grandma talk for 2.5 hours about my aunt building a new house, about my cousins going to drama camp, about my grandma's cataract surgery, that little bit of time made their day. made her day enough to sit down and write a card to me. i think that's amazing.

i spend 2.5 hours a day on the computer some days, and i affect no one. it just makes me think of all the times i thought, hey i should write to my grandma-and that time a diversity speaker came to beloit, and in her speech she demanded that we send a card to our grandparents, no matter what, immediately after we left-and guess what? like most of the people in Eaton Chapel, I left completely compelled to write and never got around to it. couldn't find their address, didn't know what I'd say...and i never realized that it could brighten their day.

i just feel like, this week, when i was dwelling so much on having my day brightened by her five minute call-i could be brightening others' days. things i don't think as significant at all. i was their first grandchild, ahead by many years; i never thought anything of that. Also, i never thought of grandpa as having feelings. he stolidly talks about fish, the level of the lake, road construction. his idea of recreation is sitting in front of the window in his living room to watch his neighbor's place as some guys take a chainsaw to a tree in their backyard. my grandma even explained, "he likes that kind of stuff. he likes to see what all the commotion is about." but maybe there's more to it than that. maybe, just like me, he is capable of seeing the beauty in flowers, in family, in vibrant life, and in children and the process of time pushing them through life.

I'm 19 and my idea of excitement is traveling to Uganda, white water rafting, an Ani concert. and by comparison, my grandma's is getting to talk to her first grand child. getting to tell her her story. i think that's unbelievable.

i feel like, at 19, my ears are wider, my eyes stronger, my chest more open. i am able to see things in people and to carry them in me with a depth and a palette that i didn't have at 16 or 17. I'm so grateful for it.

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(no subject)

Aug. 5th, 2006 | 09:38 pm

i'm on lunch break. what a strange time to be eating lunch (which really means frozen corn).

i love this place so much i ate a pound of strawberries in less than 24 hours. i'm going to miss the fruit so much. san francisco the land of fruits and fruits. one of which i've had much more experience with. the watermelons too! they're the size of grapefruits and so so delicious.

i love working at the bookstore. as lame as it can be because of its size and corporate nature, a co-worker and i snuck off to the music section to hacky sack (is it a noun and a verb?) and to program the music list with animal collective and built to spill. sometimes i like working there.

mostly, i wanted to write and say, i miss crystal. times one thousand. i'm not used to sleeping alone, coming home to an empty house, not having her to talk to or listen to. we couid talk or not talk for hours and still find things not to talk about. (we actually both liked a movie for once).

i made reservations for the lone star motel in wells, nevada. looking good. we're sleeping on some girl's couch when we stop in laramie. i told crystal and she freaked out. she likes to make fun things like that. when i save scraps of paper and eat food out of the garbage.

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(no subject)

Aug. 4th, 2006 | 08:11 pm

jerkworthy made a post with emails that his mom sent him while he was away. there's something about letters from moms sending words to their babies who are no longer babies that makes them so important. they don't have to say much but it feels like everything. so i'm posting the emails my mom has sent to me since i left for california in late may. i wish i would have saved the ones from the school year.

i'm doing another thing i had always hoped to do. meet my mom outside of being her child. being her child is most definitely not easy. but being a separate life, i'm starting to see what it's really like to be her. it makes me sad to see what her life is really like, loneliness, insecurity and physical pain, but i can see what keeps her going, how she copes and it's astonishing. the scary thing about moms is that they'll always be stronger than you. maybe you won't see it right away but eventually, every hateful, resentful, and spiteful path will lead you to finding that moms are always stronger than you. and then, they'll always be there for you. that's really hard for me to take.

her letters to me ffrom June 3rd to July 7thCollapse )

it wasn't until after i read jerkworthy's mom's words that i ever thought to really think about anything my mom has written. in fact, it's always embarrassed me, her spelling mistakes, let alone punctuation and grammar.

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(no subject)

Jul. 21st, 2006 | 01:26 am

it's hard for me to appreciate the bay area when i live here every minute. we took a trip to LA and hollywood and saw an african-american transgendered prostitute in white stillettos pick up her next john at a crosswalk. LA is full of sin and misery, but not the fun kind like in SF. Not like sodomy and shameless vainity; they're the crack to our cocaine. They tag the trees there; Birch and Palm trees oozing some sad black sap, individuals' illegible nicknames. Los Angeles makes me sad. Southern California in general. We nearly drove into a crime scene, before they set up the line of pink flares. It's hot there. We walked around and spat on reagan's star and tried to find beautiful people when all we could find were sad people or rich people. I can't count how many times we got lost, eighteen hours on the road, round trip, figuring in all the missed exits. we came home and went grocery shopping for the next trip and i bought her orange juice and a doughnut. our neighbor is a firefighter and he told us a story on the porch about Divas, a transgendered bar/prostitute out post in the Tenderloin, and now we're going to go there with him next week. Last week we saw An Inconvenient Truth and of course, everyone should see it. I missed home. SF is the perfect blend of cool weather, hills, ocean, city, and grime. living here + not knowing what i'm really doing + 'sophomore slump' is making it hard for me to imagine going back to beloit.

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SF Pride

Jun. 27th, 2006 | 01:25 am

Hey look it's Jennifer Beals, grand marshall at the Pride Parade. I called into work sick, food poisoning, and we drove into the city. I found us an amazing parking spot (actually we had to walk through chinatown to get to the main drag) it was a miracle that we found a spot.

I'm learning to drive a stick shift and to manuever five lane freeways. Enjoying the golden hills and unbelievable temperature and enduring the nauseating affluence of Marin County. Trader joes is a sin i cannot resist. I've already racked up thirteen dollars worth of library fines and found myself lost in the tenderloin area of the city wondering why i can't get the scent of piss out of my mouth.

I feel like a machine though. Working three part time jobs, all with very different people. one has a cast of social outcasts and nerds, another an all spanish speaking latino crew and the third a gang of barely teenage girls. it's all very new. i wish i had my bike, our foot exploring is limited. but the hiking here is like no other. i felt like i was in a metamucil commercial-hiking through golden wheat colored hills at sunset.

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