meth head

i woke up in the middle of the night in a state somewhere between waking and dreaming. i knew i was awake, but i was having a dream moment. i jolted up in bed and looked to my left, where my sleeping laptop light, for a moment*, seemed to glow menacingly at me, and i thought it was a flashlight, or a microphone, that someone was watching me as i was sleeping. i imagined sirens, cop cars coming screaming down the street to snatch me. suddenly, i had bolted out of my bed and was frantically trying to pick up and hide the meth equipment i had imagined were in my room, beakers and tubes laying around on the floor beside my bed. i realized i was being crazy, so i gained control of my body and turned on the light. stood there in disbelief for a moment, in the stark sudden brightness of my room, and had to convince myself it was a dream.

i have been watching way too much Breaking Bad.


* that moment that also occurs when you look at the second hand of your watch and for a moment, that second seems to grow longer than any other second that comes after it due to your anticipation. is there a name for this brief slowing of time?

punch drunk

this is what i wanted to be as a kid:

the fluid movements, the unstoppable energy, the unabashed confidence, the arms over the head abandon – girl can dance.

this is like a video essay of why everyone should put their pride aside and step out onto a dance floor every once in a while and let it all flow. we'd be happier people if we didn't judge each other and ourselves and limit our movements to the expected and normal parameters. i get little chills every time i see this video because she's not afraid to writhe on the floor and punch and jog in place if that's how she wants to interpret the song's progression. and she looks so damned good doing it.

funny or die

lately i have been having dreams that wake me up doing funny things. the other day i fell asleep on a plane and woke up whacking my hands against my leg, like i was clubbing an animal or something. the other night i woke up laughing at something i found hysterical.

last night i woke up from a dream in which i was getting ready to write a blog post ostensibly so hilarious, i found it necessary to pry open my laptop and, half-asleep, without my glasses, and in the dark, type myself this reminder for myself in the morning:

"by the end of his career, Rodney Dangerfield was as sophisticated as Lao Tzu himself"

in my dream, the blog post was going to look like this:

my reasoning, in the dream, was that the juxtaposition of the images would be so hilarious, it would be a hit on the interwebs. so, there you go.

life imitates art

“But maybe all art is about just trying to live on for a bit. I mean, they say you die twice. One time when you stop breathing and a second time, a bit later on, when somebody says your name for the last time.”

– Banksy

i feel lost. like in the last few months my spirit has cleaved in two, the rotten depressed and dark parts remaining here while the other bits floated away, too light and airy and dreamy to be bound to these desolate remains. "O... these fragments I have shored against my ruins." sometimes i feel like i can see the other half of me off in a distance, or i feel like i am that distant self looking back at the miserable remains and pitying her. it becomes hard to recognize myself in a mirror. how do i get those lost parts of me back?

as a kid i would lie awake in bed at night, imagining death and the unrelenting continuance of time without being able to participate in it, of lives without my presence. of being forgotten. i didn't want fame, but i didn't want to get lost in time and forgotten. i think this is the fear that underlies the pursuit of fame – a desire to never die.

the other night i lay in bed, sobbing because i could feel that sense of dying, could feel my loosening grip on my dreams, ambitions and aspirations from when i was a kid. i used to want to be something unusual, to be earth-shattering. i wanted to be destined for extraordinary things. and i felt, as i examined my life, considered the turn of recent events, and the availability of options before me, that my life had become rather extra ordinary. and as i thought of an image of myself as a child and the image of myself now, i began to cry. i never thought it would come to this, to being another unhappy adult stuck in a monotonous lifestyle with dreary rituals and nothing beautiful to celebrate. is this what happens? we grow old and comfortable and stuck in daily procedures and stop imagining different possibilities? i'm 25 and yet i feel old, weary, life-deprived, sick of the limited options (watch a movie, take a walk, read a book, work / be a mother, teacher, accountant, secretary). i don't want to be just another anything.

when i was young i wanted to be a writer, a dancer, a storybook illustrator. i wanted to be a wild animal. i wanted to make everlasting art.

and now all i make is dollar bills.

take the initiative

i dreamt last night that i discovered an old forgotten live session of Bruce Springsteen's, in which he plays a set of 11-13 songs, with lots of soaring violin and a video of someone hang-gliding or flying an open top plane. lots of blue, yellow and green. and the music, though beautiful and folksy, was less like Bruce and more like The Frames. but it was beautiful and the first song was called "Take The Initiative" and i coveted it as part of my growing Bruce collection.

in the dream i was Bruce's tour assistant, but in the form of Portia de Rossi. the Boss was playing a set and i had to stop him to tell him there was someone trying to bomb his tour bus. the Bruce came right off the stage and tackled the terrorist and beat him with his own (the terrorist's) golf clubs. end of story! Bruce for President!

i then woke up at 8:40, which is kinda early for me, feeling like it was really late and i must be dreaming still, because i felt so well-rested.

---

as part of my new year's resolutions and my birthday-initiated self-reform, i am making a conscious effort to make tv and internet less of a daily habit. i think i've grown too accustomed to frittering away my days with these technological distractions and have grown tired of reaching the end of my day realizing i haven't done anything productive, haven't created anything or bettered myself. the worst and most embarrassing time-suck is Facebook. yesterday, i decided i was going to do it, i was finally going to just delete my account and be done with it. it's super annoying, omnipresent, ever-controlling, and a constant source of anxiety (what are people on the net seeing of me? who is looking at it? is there something that could prove deterrent for future employers?) and yet so many of my friends use it that to delete it makes me worry i'll be left out. gah, the trials and tribulations of our modern existence!

so, as of today (and last night too) i have been limiting my Facebook time to ONCE a day. that means i only get to check it once, and after that i can't until the next day. and, i only get to check my notifications, and i only get to approve friend requests, not go seeking them out on the internet. it probably seems silly and trivial, but i think it will help wean me off of this artificial community and start creating real relationships with people again. and, my hope is that after doing this for weeks, i can get it down to just checking Facebook on fridays, and then after that, maybe i'll get down to just once a month, and then, inşallah, maybe i'll be able to delete it altogether from my life.

i'm also trying to limit my use of the internet and tv to about 5 hours combined, which is actually a LOT of time spent on these machines when you say it out loud, but that should say something about my prior habits. the average american spends 5 hours of the day just watching tv and roughly 250 billion hours per year with the idiot box. i'm trying to shave off a little of that time and make it more meaningful. i guess we'll see how it goes but i'm hoping it makes for a happier and less aimless 2011.

welp, my hour's almost up so i should get going!

-stephan!e

oh, and if you're wondering how much time the average american spends watching tv, these nifty scientific reports proved illuminating:

American Time Use Survey Summary

Television & Health

don't call me chicken

i had a dream last night where me and my boyfriend were driving around late at night looking for a place to eat before driving a long way home. we were in some dark and desolate country-looking town. my bf made us stop at a gas station so he could get cigars. i filled up gas. then he saw this chicken and biscuits place and wanted to stop there for food. he got out and talked with ppl in line while i waited in the car. i watched a man that looked like Mickey Rourke but smaller wearing a jean jacket and some bleached hair drive a big semi past my car and pull up to the side of the chicken place. he got out and fumbled with something in the ground, and i realized he was digging for a gun. two people appeared in the dark alley and asked him what he was doing, told him to stop, and he shot them. then an old man with a long beard who looked like a Hassidic Jew version of Paulo Freire walked up minding his own business on the other side of the chain link fence at the end of the alley and Mickey shot him too. then he ran away. i went inside to get ben. the sign at the chicken place said it was $36 dollars for a chicken and biscuit sandwich, $56 if we ordered two. we could also donate chicken and biscuits to charity. there was a really skinny woman there with big glasses who said they were so good she came every night. an asian man in a metallic puffy jacket came with a big canvas bag to collect his donations for the night. ben decided he didn't want chicken and biscuits after all and decided to leave. we walked to the car and i started yelling, 'why don't you want to eat there? why can't you decide what you want?' i started the car and it made a strange fast sound like gunshots. i looked over at ben and asked, 'did that sound weird?' he gave me a look and we sat in the car a bit to let the car warm up. i felt strange and was about to lock the doors, when a strange fat middle-aged man with stubble all over his face and wearing a haiwaiian shirt came up to the car, opened the back door on the driver's side and asked what we were doing. i told him to shut the door. he laughed. 'driving around at night with two twenty-somethings, sure seems safe.' i freaked out and slammed down the gas and did zig zags in the parking lot and thru somebody's lawn and into the street where i kept swerving around, even though i saw a sign posted that said no swerving (a swervy black arrow with a red line thru it). i was swerving mostly to try to shut the open door in the back of the car. i looked to ben and told him to close the door. he sat very still and said no. i asked him if the fat guy managed to get in the car and ben said no. 'why won't you shut the damned door!??' i started thinking something was extremely wrong with him. and then ben looked at me and said 'there's someone else in the car.' and then i woke up.

whoa scary right? and i still had chick-fil-a a few hours later.

across the sea

last night i dreamt my partner and i were floating on a couch on an icy vast ocean. it was pristine blue but opaque. i jumped in and took a swim around and then it occured to me there might be sharks. ben me and my dad set afloat in a large glass tupper ware container and a spoon and tried to drift across to the gas station across the sea. sharks circled us everywhere. a tall man in our camp was eaten because he couldn't fit into the shoe they were trying to use as a boat. we went on a tv show at the end of the dream to tell people all about it.

murderville

i had a really nice dream last night. the kind of dream that makes getting thru today a lot easier, just the thing i needed. in my dream i was at some dismal party and i wasn't having any fun, so my friend K asked me to sing a song (for karaoke, no less!) called "Escape from Murderville" or something like that by the Smashing Pumpkins (though the song itself sounded more like it was by the Talking Heads) and it was all about casting off the expectations for a (financially) successful mediocre suburban life, and starting to live with excitement and vigor and daring. we were singing and dancing to it and i actually felt some sense of relief.

i woke up still singing the song and googled "Murderville" but nothing useful came up. now i want to write this song and perform it in real life.

"buy a big house and forget who we were? fuck that, let's go dancing."
-stef

Why Mondo Should Have Won: Project Runway, the American Dream, Mondo Guerra, and the depiction of difference in reality television

you'll always be a winner in our eyes, Mondo

I just can't believe that Gretchen, who seemed to only skate by challenge after belabored challenged, made it to the final, and then was declared the winner. It felt like I was being slapped in the face. I feel insulted as a viewer of the show. Forget about fashion and aesthetic, because that is all, as Kors said, "subjective." It''s sometimes painfully clear that the judges are making decisions based on ratings rather than actual design. Michael Costello, debatably, made it much farther in the competition due to his ability to stir up drama, than on his talent alone. The same, I think, could be said of Gretchen, who repeatedly showed drab, boring clothing that sank her to the bottom two. She clearly knew how to play the reality TV game, and to her credit, it served her well. Too well. Her spot in the final three was a credit to her ability to manipulate, to pander to the camera, and stir up drama.

When the judges and producers were making their final decision, they really should have thought about taking the pulse of their audience. I think that it should be apparent, to anyone at this point, that PR is less a show about fashion, than it is about ratings. PR has struggled with ratings and maintaining a steady viewership, going from being an exciting new reality show when it first debuted on Bravo, then being downgraded to Lifetime (network for sad housewives). You'd think the PR producers would be more careful with their audience. Instead, Season 8 took us repeatedly through confusing and catty judging, deplorable camera-pandering and unnecessary drama-stirring (from Ivy to Michael C. to Gretchen) and yet, in the midst of all that, Mondo was a consistently shining star. He was endearing in all his faults, and amazingly, honestly, real. He had real struggles and tribulations to overcome, yet through all that, his talent was apparent and brilliant, and his personality and demeanor, his conduct with fellow contestants and his candidness with the audience, were classy and heartfelt. Every week, I tuned in to watch, not because I care about fashion, but because I cared about Mondo, because I had a genuine interest in his talent, and because watching his struggle with darkness and the conversion of pain to deplorable, exuberant beauty and joy was heart-wrenching, captivating, and deeply inspiring. The PR producers must not have known it, but they'd stumbled upon a reality tv treasure, someone who not only delivered beautiful art, but had a touching message for our troubled times. And that is something much higher, much more important, much more real and much more permanent than "fashion." It was talent, it was life, painful and dark and compromising and imperfect life. And that is why so many viewers, so many young people, so many minorities and people of color and queer (and straight) people loved Mondo, cheered for Mondo, needed to see Mondo win.

Even in terms of the fashion, it established a binary between White/bourgeois/safe/acceptable and minority/carnivale/risky(risque)/daring/marginal. Despite Nina's comments that Gretchen's collection was more "ready to wear" and thus, more salable, it was, to be honest, ready to wear and salable to a very specific demographic: hipster girls with money. Mondo's collection, though theatrical, was not strictly high fashion in the sense of couture and extravagant money and luxury. These were clothes made from a man who has suffered and lived on the edge of privilege but never been a part of it. Gretchen, despite all her weepy confessionals to the camera about credit card debt and homelessness, has had much more access to material wealth and privilege, and it shows in her designs. When she makes clothes, they're for herself, for what she envisions women to be, what she thinks women want to be. And, to be honest, it's a very white-washed, hipster aesthetic. It also must be noted that though they are "easy sexy" and bohemian in feel, they are made for a higher class woman, and nothing irritates me more than bobo couture (bobo = bourgeois bohemian). It's the same irritated feeling I get when I go shopping and I hear hipster elitists lamenting the common people's refusal to commit to organic food and locally grown produce and blah blah. Look, while I buy local and organic as much as I can, I don't judge and patronize others for not having the means to do so. Organic food is very much a privilege perpetuated by poor farming and agricultural practices as well as government subsidies. But, I'm getting sidetracked.

Mondo was so refreshing to watch because what he produced was new. He possessed so much raw talent, was guided and inspired by personal experience and cultural upbringing, that it felt like he was not only introducing a new, daring aesthetic to the world, but a new perspective, a new experience, and one that has been largely ignored and been waiting to gain recognition and voice. Mondo had given this experience - of suffering, of marginalization, of being an outcast and being misunderstood - a voice and a face, and many viewers latched onto that, became endeared to that.

What irks me most about the finale is what it seems to say about our culture, and race, and class, and tv. Mondo represented an epic underdog of the times - an HIV-positive Hispanic gay man, with artistic aspirations - battling it out to have his dream validated in a modern arena - a reality tv show - against a waifish blond girl from, ostensibly, the upper-middle class. Giving Gretchen the win was like denying that dream that all of us shared with Mondo, and denying that importance that he gave to that story so many people share. It was saying that tv and "fashion" were more important than passionate, real life and talent. And, I think because of that, a lot of people will turn their tvs off to PR in the future, if they haven't already. I didn't even bother finishing watching the episode. It smacked a little too much of "to the victor go the spoils" and I wanted to remember, instead, an alternate reality where I thought it was possible for the Mondos of the world to win.

Why Mondo Should Have Won: Project Runway, the American Dream, Mondo Guerra, and the depiction of difference in reality television

you'll always be a winner in our eyes, Mondo

I just can't believe that Gretchen, who seemed to only skate by challenge after belabored challenged, made it to the final, and then was declared the winner. It felt like I was being slapped in the face. I feel insulted as a viewer of the show. Forget about fashion and aesthetic, because that is all, as Kors said, "subjective." It''s sometimes painfully clear that the judges are making decisions based on ratings rather than actual design. Michael Costello, debatably, made it much farther in the competition due to his ability to stir up drama, than on his talent alone. The same, I think, could be said of Gretchen, who repeatedly showed drab, boring clothing that sank her to the bottom two. She clearly knew how to play the reality TV game, and to her credit, it served her well. Too well. Her spot in the final three was a credit to her ability to manipulate, to pander to the camera, and stir up drama.

When the judges and producers were making their final decision, they really should have thought about taking the pulse of their audience. I think that it should be apparent, to anyone at this point, that PR is less a show about fashion, than it is about ratings. PR has struggled with ratings and maintaining a steady viewership, going from being an exciting new reality show when it first debuted on Bravo, then being downgraded to Lifetime (network for sad housewives). You'd think the PR producers would be more careful with their audience. Instead, Season 8 took us repeatedly through confusing and catty judging, deplorable camera-pandering and unnecessary drama-stirring (from Ivy to Michael C. to Gretchen) and yet, in the midst of all that, Mondo was a consistently shining star. He was endearing in all his faults, and amazingly, honestly, real. He had real struggles and tribulations to overcome, yet through all that, his talent was apparent and brilliant, and his personality and demeanor, his conduct with fellow contestants and his candidness with the audience, were classy and heartfelt. Every week, I tuned in to watch, not because I care about fashion, but because I cared about Mondo, because I had a genuine interest in his talent, and because watching his struggle with darkness and the conversion of pain to deplorable, exuberant beauty and joy was heart-wrenching, captivating, and deeply inspiring. The PR producers must not have known it, but they'd stumbled upon a reality tv treasure, someone who not only delivered beautiful art, but had a touching message for our troubled times. And that is something much higher, much more important, much more real and much more permanent than "fashion." It was talent, it was life, painful and dark and compromising and imperfect life. And that is why so many viewers, so many young people, so many minorities and people of color and queer (and straight) people loved Mondo, cheered for Mondo, needed to see Mondo win.

Even in terms of the fashion, it established a binary between White/bourgeois/safe/acceptable and minority/carnivale/risky(risque)/daring/marginal. Despite Nina's comments that Gretchen's collection was more "ready to wear" and thus, more salable, it was, to be honest, ready to wear and salable to a very specific demographic: hipster girls with money. Mondo's collection, though theatrical, was not strictly high fashion in the sense of couture and extravagant money and luxury. These were clothes made from a man who has suffered and lived on the edge of privilege but never been a part of it. Gretchen, despite all her weepy confessionals to the camera about credit card debt and homelessness, has had much more access to material wealth and privilege, and it shows in her designs. When she makes clothes, they're for herself, for what she envisions women to be, what she thinks women want to be. And, to be honest, it's a very white-washed, hipster aesthetic. It also must be noted that though they are "easy sexy" and bohemian in feel, they are made for a higher class woman, and nothing irritates me more than bobo couture (bobo = bourgeois bohemian). It's the same irritated feeling I get when I go shopping and I hear hipster elitists lamenting the common people's refusal to commit to organic food and locally grown produce and blah blah. Look, while I buy local and organic as much as I can, I don't judge and patronize others for not having the means to do so. Organic food is very much a privilege perpetuated by poor farming and agricultural practices as well as government subsidies. But, I'm getting sidetracked.

Mondo was so refreshing to watch because what he produced was new. He possessed so much raw talent, was guided and inspired by personal experience and cultural upbringing, that it felt like he was not only introducing a new, daring aesthetic to the world, but a new perspective, a new experience, and one that has been largely ignored and been waiting to gain recognition and voice. Mondo had given this experience - of suffering, of marginalization, of being an outcast and being misunderstood - a voice and a face, and many viewers latched onto that, became endeared to that.

What irks me most about the finale is what it seems to say about our culture, and race, and class, and tv. Mondo represented an epic underdog of the times - an HIV-positive Hispanic gay man, with artistic aspirations - battling it out to have his dream validated in a modern arena - a reality tv show - against a waifish blond girl from, ostensibly, the upper-middle class. Giving Gretchen the win was like denying that dream that all of us shared with Mondo, and denying that importance that he gave to that story so many people share. It was saying that tv and "fashion" were more important than passionate, real life and talent. And, I think because of that, a lot of people will turn their tvs off to PR in the future, if they haven't already. I didn't even bother finishing watching the episode. It smacked a little too much of "to the victor go the spoils" and I wanted to remember, instead, an alternate reality where I thought it was possible for the Mondos of the world to win.

avocado couch

i opened an etsy account the other day, because of recently developed aspirations to start crafting from home instead of working a 9-5 job (this is because, more than likely, i will no longer have my teaching position at school next year due to budget cuts, and due to a lack of interest in devoting myself full-time to graduate school, will most likely be living at home, not “at home” as in with my parents (not that there's anything wrong with that b/c my parents are exceedingly lovely ppl), but in a home, that is, a dwelling-place, or, what i imagine to be just one large room with carpet and a window (because that's all i need), so, anywhere really).

ANYWAY! the etsy shop i opened is called Avocado Couch, and when/if it opens, will probably specialize in random things made of felt, hand-bound books, t-shirts with strange animal pictures on them, stationery, and who knows what else. i think mostly i just want to stay at home (/”inside”) and sit on the carpet, and cut paper with knives and sew things. that would be nice.

this will be my banner!

-stephan!e

---

!edit! i just realized that etsy requires a registration fee, and considering i have no start up money to speak of, no "products" to sell (yet), and no customers (yet! haha, i kid!), it seems unwise to pay a website for services i could more or less undertake myself. so! for now, or, in the future when this finally comes to fruition, i can post things i make on this website you are currently staring at and taking the time to read (thank you!) and i'll include my contact info and we can hassle each other over prices and all that performative business-talking bullcrap on the phone or via email. really, it would just be so wonderful to have little creations of mine wandering around out there. that's what i'm really in it for, not the money, or the fame, i just want to make things. livin' the dream y'all!

alligators in the sewers

i know, it's been a long time since i've posted, and shame on me for letting this fall by the wayside. before i forget, HAPPY 2010!(it's going to rock so much harder than 2009, don't you agree?) and also, a recollection of a dream i had last night:

my friend Dave who incidentally goes to grad school at UCLA (but who i haven't seen in months despite living just blocks away from each other) asked me to come over to check out this crazy-looking condo he was thinking about renting for him and his new girlfriend, who may or may not have been pregnant. when i got there, my immediate thoughts, i remember, were "sweet dang! how much money does a grad student at UCLA make?!" – because the place featured impressive (albeit confusing) post-modern architecture and, the real point of interest for me, an expansive lagoon/swamp/"koi pond" underneath the deck. this is what i felt most obligated to check out for my friend. i tip-toed closer to the water, and observed the alien-looking marine plant life, as well as some strange movements on the surface. i saw some kind of mechanical alligator head, which looked like a wind-up toy, but then i couldn't be sure, so i got creeped out and discouraged from venturing a toe into the water. i searched the depths, murky and deceptively deep, looking for fish and now, alligators.* i informed my friend that i believed water of unknown depths to be dangerous.

we moved further along the deck and i observed fins skimming the water. i looked on closely, tensely, awaiting dolphins or sharks. first, dolphins, and i thought about friendly swims with porpoises. but shortly after, sharks emerged too, and i thought of thrashing water and sharp bites on the ankles. i delicately lowered a shoe'd toe beyond the level of the deck, offering it up to the depths below to see how eager and hungry the marine ecosystem below me was, but Dave snatched me up before the sharks and alligators did.

we moved inside as my friend told me how much his new investment was going to be, "$500, 000 for rent." rent?!! i gasped. you can buy a house in kentucky for that much! ah yes, but he reasoned that he really wanted a nice place for his gf and "baby?" to live, and i concurred that, despite the potentially dangerous lagoon in his backyard, living with danger and a body of water nearby could be a pretty satisfying experience, albeit a uniquely LA one (and already attainable, at a much cheaper price – ah, the glories of private property ownership!)

we moved inside to his artfully minimalist living room and sat on his firm couch, and his dog came up to me and wrestled with my leg. i then remarked on how impressively wide and large his dog's head was, and told him what he had here wasn't a dog, but a polar bear. i cautiously played with it, then watched as the dog and another animal my friend seemed to be domesticating (an otter? a fox? a bear cub? i don't know, just that it had a red body and a furry face) started making out.

---

in the dream before that, i believe i was wandering around the city of chicago, looking for a place to stay while i was there for a conference. i had a map, but the lines showing streets were gone or faded and all i could see were the names of streets floating on a page, guessing at their intersections. my parents came and met me at a corner bakery where we talked to some business man in a suit and tie about staying in one of his many properties in the city but he seemed unconvinced i shouldn't just be homeless and continue wandering the city for the entire weekend.

---

earlier this week (or last week, as today is monday) i had another dream where my family was trying to swim across a river. i made it across and was looking down into the water, watching alligators swimming up to the shore, bellies up and skimming the surface, then flipping off the bank and catching things in their arms and legs. my dad was the last to swim across the river and i watched as he got closer to the bank of the river, at the same time an alligator came near enough to flip off the bank and onto my dad, its body sinking him into the water and swimming away with him. i woke up terrified and gasping, as if i too had been drug under water.

---

i looked up the symbolism of alligators in dreams, and Bella, "the voice of women" writes:

alligators and crocodiles in dreams can signify 'hidden danger'--a situation that you are aware of on an intuitive level but are not acknowledging in your conscious mind. This can be a simmering situation at work, a untrustworthy person, or sadly, anything that you can't really see coming but which strikes out of the blue and without mercy.

i don't listen too much to psychoanalysts, even tho i once wanted to be one. i don't read too much into my dreams either (i have a record of outlandish, vivid dreams that are more exhilarating than they are revelatory) – i have at least one intensely vivid dream a night (that i can remember).

that is to say, i don't write about this for any truth-seeking reason, but merely as an exercise in recording. and, writing. and also: because they are fun to remember. (but, since i mentioned it: stressed thinking about school (applying, attending, working at) and possible future lives, the dwindling winter break and how much i miss being home and particularly in this house, with my family, and the fragility of life and how delicate each moment is but how destructive we can be with each other in spite of life's fragile moments...)

much to think about, and it's almost time to sleep.
-stef


*once when i was very young (maybe 10?) my family went to vacation in south carolina. my dad, recently returned from a business trip to florida, brought me and my brother matching mickey mouse hats (my brother's was blue and green, and mine was red) and we wore them out onto this long wooden deck where the locals dangled pieces of chicken meat on metal hooks, in order to catch crabs. crabbing was an intricate process, from skewering the chicken bits just so on the hook so that the skin and fat would dangle off the bone enough to dance enticingly in the water, to sensing the slightest bit of tension on the rope, signifying the crab's eager tugging on the bait (you had to time it just right so that the crabs had enough of a taste to want more, and then slowly hoist them out of the water so you could slip a net under them), and we enjoyed it for hours on that wooden deck. until suddenly, i felt a sharp tug on my line, and looking down, ready to bring my catch up, realized i had baited an alligator. it was thrashing and tossing its head around, the rope coming out from between its teeth and leading up to the deck, where i had tied it just in front of me. terrified, i yelled for my dad, who came rushing to my rescue to wrestle the rope still enough so he could cut it. i remember feeling like the whole deck was going to come crashing down into those alligator-infested waters. in the excitement, my hat got knocked off my head, and i watched in horror as it fell down into the water.
that night, lying in bed, feeling i had just survived an alligator attack/ avoided an alligator eating, i imagined my hat, the hat my dad gave me, lying at the bottom of the swamp, alligators swimming around it, mickey mouse winking up at the surface, forever suspended in time.

here i dreamt i was an architect

spending the majority of your day among people half your age and size is an unnatural way of being. this is why our modern educational system is plagued with problems. Freire and Dewey and others have all touched on it before, but now, after 2 years of public school teaching, i'm beginning to fully understand what they mean.

seriously, think about how often you naturally or willfully come into contact with more than 3 or 4 children at a time. it typically doesn't happen because, except for at school, human children don't travel in packs. (unless, of course, they are "wilding".)

thus, i propose we do away with the education system as we know it, and revive apprenticeship! every adult in America should volunteer to adopt 2-3 children/young adults to mentor and guide into adulthood. this would more evenly distribute the adult-child interactions among the population, reduce crime, increase self-esteem among the younger species, increase general feelings of good-doingness, boost humanity's morale, in addition to solving the problems with education. that's like, a whole flock of birds with one giant boulder!

... and i once dreamt of being the next big Secretary of Education...

-stephan!e

dancing in the dark

i've said it before, and i'll continue to say it again: i love The Boss.


nothing encapsulates the complexity of being born in america in the 1980s like Springsteen and synthesizer, and i mean this in earnest. while the musical and cultural products of the '80s as a whole would seem to have tainted history's perception of the decade, what with the proliferation of horrible one-hit wonders and abusive overuse of the moog, The Boss remains the 80s' single greatest gift to American music. and what's more, he's the gift that keeps on giving (thank you!)

that's because there is a permanence to Springsteen's music that defied the limits of 1980s materialism and spectacle (the same values American Psycho critiques in this scene). while '80s hair bands and rock groups found short-lived success by cannibalizing tried and true guitar riffs and appealing to a brief moment's gaudy aesthetics and conventions, Springsteen wrote epic stories about human suffering and loneliness, about working night shifts in steel factories, driving thru abandoned city streets, love, desperation, the hunger and hope for a better life. in short, the american dream and the american way of life.

and though Springsteen's staunchly american aesthetic can be a deterrent to some (my boyfriend once described it as "jingoistic"), it is precisely the way in which he represents America that i find seductive. he sings of heroes doomed to Sysiphean fates, working low wage jobs and searching for escape. unlike the ass-kicking beer-swigging mythos of modern country music, Springsteen's music is complex, genuine, underscored with hardship and persistence. while the former are simulacra, Springsteen's America possesses a history of emotion and suffering. yet, there is a gloomy/gritty hopefulness – despite feeling so defeated, there remains release and splendor, in a midnight drive, in a passionate embrace, in that guitar, in that harmonica, in a dance in the dark.

this is an America i can identify with and feel proud of, one that struggles to overcome disillusionment, but struggles unflichingly.

---

to put it in other terms: i rediscovered the album Born in the USA this weekend, 2+ decades after its initial release. i was reluctant to listen to it, not knowing if the music would translate well over the expanse of time. i worried that the synthesizers would make me cringe. but this is perhaps a fitting example of the complexity i'm talking about, that the same music revisited not only revealed layers, but became more beautiful because of its history coupled with my experience. the synthesizers not only go unnoticed, but sound like organs. they're an artifact of the zeitgeist of the 80s, but not a distractor from the permanence of the music.

i used to listen to Bruce Springsteen in the car with my mom on the weekends. his music would come on the radio and i would sing along to words whose sentiments i didn't fully understand. back then, i only understood them as a widely experienced "happy" feeling, the same excitement as a surprise trip to get ice cream, or a snow day.

as a young girl growing up, watching the "Dancing in the Dark" video would make me so terribly happy that the only logical impulse was to dance uncontrollably in the living room of our suburban house, flailing arms and kicking my legs, pretending to snap, shaking my hair. to be honest, i still do that. Courteney Cox was a real-life hero as far as i was concerned, b/c she had the balls to get up on stage and dance with The Boss. i wanted to be her. i mean, who didn't?

Bruce Springsteen - Dancing In The Dark (1984)
by GMRedskins

but i feel even more elated watching this video today, myself now a grown woman, as i listen to the lyrics, which speak to me in ways i couldn't have understood them before:

I get up in the evening
and I ain't got nothing to say
I come home in the morning
I go to bed feeling the same way
I ain't nothing but tired
Man I'm just tired and bored with myself
Hey there baby, I could use just a little help

[...]

Message keeps getting clearer
radio's on and I'm moving 'round the place
I check my look in the mirror
I wanna change my clothes, my hair, my face
Man I ain't getting nowhere
I'm just living in a dump like this
There's something happening somewhere
baby I just know that there is

[...]

You sit around getting older
there's a joke here somewhere and it's on me
I'll shake this world off my shoulders
come on baby this laugh's on me

Stay on the streets of this town
and they'll be carving you up alright
They say you gotta stay hungry
hey baby I'm just about starving tonight
I'm dying for some action
I'm sick of sitting 'round here trying to write this book
I need a love reaction
come on now baby gimme just one look

You can't start a fire sitting 'round crying over a broken heart
This gun's for hire
Even if we're just dancing in the dark
You can't start a fire worrying about your little world falling apart
This gun's for hire
Even if we're just dancing in the dark

--"Dancing in the Dark"

there's a restlessness i can identify with here, as i sit in my apartment in LA, wondering how i got so caught up with my job, feeling old, wondering where the excitement went in my life. i'm tired of sitting around getting older, trying to write this book, i'm tired of having nothing to say, and worrying about my little world falling apart. i ain't nothing but tired, i'm just tired and bored with myself. i'm dying for some action, i want to dance, i want a little spark.

and this is why i love Bruce Springsteen. there is endurance in his music that never fails to make me happy. i listen to his music now and understand, completely, why every man, woman and child growing up in america for the last few decades has been absolutely seduced by his dream of america.

-stephan!e

to help make my case:
"I'm On Fire" [mp3]
"Thunder Road" [mp3 - how can you not fall in love with that harmonica solo?]
"Thunder Road (Live in 1999)" [mp3]

+ a fellow blogger's analysis of Springsteen's music and a comparison to the Stones.

+ Bruce Springsteen's website, with lyrics and audio clips.

spirit animals

i dreamt last night that my boyfriend came home from Turkey to live with me in New York City (i think Brooklyn, but i really can't be sure) but had a terrible accident or illness and died, and the rest of the dream i was searching for ways to bring him back to life, while working a street-side fruit stand outside a bakery. one day i observed a wild ferret caught outside the bakery and a wise, dreadlocked and snaggle-toothed homeless man with burnt rust skin philosophized that animals, unlike humans, know when death is imminent, and surrender to fate without much thought for other alternatives. they do not worry about the outcomes of their souls because they know they will return again.

i think the ferret was my boyfriend. i like to think we could return from the dead, reincarnated as our spirit animals.

---

the funny thing is that growing up, my mom continually refused to allow me a pet. she claimed to be afraid of dogs and allergic to cats, and anything much smaller didn't interest me. the only animal she ever considered adopting was a ferret. i have memories of going to the pet store every weekend and picking out hypothetical ferrets to take home: "this one's feisty... this one's sleepy... this one stinks..."

sprinkle some salt on that

one lamentable thing about keeping a busy schedule is that when you finally find time for yourself, you don't know how to spend it. suddenly "taking care of yourself" seems like such a chore. i sit in bed trying to read, or in front of my computer, anxiously wondering if i'm "relaxing" enough to prepare for the week ahead. by the time i get the hang of it (relaxing, that is), it's sunday night and full speed ahead to the week again.

typical.

another deeply felt regret: the race to beat morning rush hour traffic often precludes dream journaling. which is a damned shame. so many vivid and bizarre subconscious juxtapositions. like this morning's dream: my boyfriend and i were trying to save German/Russian musical theatre by interrupting a board meeting at a post-modern art museum with a co-written performance piece (he was the German, i was the Russian, there were neon green costumes and feathers and gymnastics of an exotic variety. i was flexible and limber!)

later today: shopping for large electronics with company money, grading papers, finding easy foods to eat (apples, popsicles, carrot sticks, blocks of cheese...?), calisthenics in the great outdoors, musings on the passage of time.

-stephan!e

future past

i had a dream that i was back on Miami's campus, and it was the future because everything was so old looking: the brick streets had cracks in them, little wiry grass blades growing up through the fissures. the bell towers looked dilapidated, rusted, verging on collapse. everything was gray and sepia-toned.

the other futuristic thing was that they had erected a huge saloon/ movie theatre on the edge of campus – a center for tawdry activities. men in britches and high hats, with unruly facial hair and mean swaggers. i was walking over treacherously uneven sidewalk to meet a friend at the theatre and buy a ticket for whatever was showing. and it occured to me how funny it was that no matter how "future"-like the future can be, there always remains some connection to the past, some nostalgia or fetishism. and it doesn't seem odd, these lingering glimpses of past, but right, so very right.

saturdays

saturdays in LA have been devoted to sleeping in, waking up on my own at 6:20 despite turning the alarm off, and going back to bed to have feverish and jarring dreams. this week's sampling:

my friend's boyfriend, who i've just met and who my friend is very pleased with, turns out to be stalking me. i find his fan page on the internet, a photoessay in which he posted pictures of me at a party in the park, my mom, aunt, and grandma (all the ladies in my family) lined up in front of a stage where a band is playing, and we are dancing. the boyfriend analyzes my expressions, my hair, my muscle tone and writes this justification for his fascination:

"she has the body of a man but exudes the allure of feminine sexuality, which proves she is the birthmother"

in this context, "birthmother" means that i am the mother of the earth.

in a conjoining dream, i pick the lids off of two garbage cans and strap them to my arms and flap my way to the sky. i am flying between steeples and hovering by the windows of tall buildings, landing on rafters of coffee shops and spying on bad guys plotting to hurt people. i'm still in LA, but it's a New England version of LA, and there are tall old trees which i like to perch in, since i can fly and all.

fever dream: John McCain hunts people

it is time for me to share a fever dream: i was wandering around in some post-apocalyptic cowboy/western town, and trying to find a way home/ a ride/ a sidewalk, when suddenly my friend Mikey emerged from the woods. there were these 3 emo kids sitting on a bench taking pictures and somehow he materialized. he ran over and gave me a hug, told me not to be scared, and then disappeared.

in the rest of the dream, John McCain was a flesh-hungry vampire who could jump buildings and see in the dark and was terrorizing our little post-Depression town. not kidding. the one thing i kept asking over and over (in my dream) was "is John McCain out hunting ppl today??"

weird, i know. i don't know how my mind comes up with this stuff.

smalltown L.A.

i had a wonderful dream last night that the place where i lived was different. instead of L.A. like it is, it was an L.A. that had a smalltown attitude. i lived in a small apartment in a row of tiny light blue houses surrounded by tall yellow grasses. my house had big windows that seemed to always face the sun, and the houses across the street had kids that would play in the street and we'd all play hide and seek. there were ice cream parlours within walking distance and i would go and get gelato and all the ice cream boys behind the counter knew my name and would give me an extra scoop for being such a good customer.

on weekends, all the kids i teach at school would come out and meet me in the cornfield, and we'd watch the big trucks driving by, carrying stacks of legos in their cargo beds, and we'd watch them drive toward the city and stack the bricks up. we watched them build a LegoLand amid towers of steel and glass. i would run back to my little blue apartment to grab my camera, and i never had to lock the door. and because all the apartments looked the same, i could never remember which one was mine, but my neighbors never minded that sometimes i walked into their living room. (tho one of my neighbors was a rich african-american woman, and she was a little cross with me when i made her late for a ritzy dinner part she was going to. my parents were also staying somewhere nearby and my dad told me they had to go b/c my mom was sick, she was really tired all the time).

before i woke up, my apartment grew into a two story house, it acquired a basement where my current roommate had moved out. but even that was ok, because i had someone coming home from overseas who would fill that space with me. i was walking thru tall grass, following my friend Kathee home from school, and we were making plans to drink tea and eat cookies before our midterm exams. the sun was shining and setting all the grass aglow, and Kathee's hair looked so pretty in the sunlight.

Miami was just a few blocks away. i grabbed my bag and a sweater and was walking on uneven sidewalk pavement, tickling my feet on the little grasses growing between the cracks, walking thru this landscape i had reimagined to fit my dreams.

longing for grass,
stephan!e