The smell is smoky and sweet, not unpleasant at all, unlike the initial whiff of innards that wafts from a freshly opened fruit. Once emptied and carved, candle in place, the aroma that fills the house conjures memories of cold, dark nights. First prize for the contest is one hundred dollars.

I spent the day in prison clothes, fake tattoos, and a cubicle dressed up like a cell with black ribbons of crepe paper, and INMATE emblazoned in large letters across my back, which could be read by anyone looking in while I surfed through Textism and Metafilter. Abstracted, the truth is often scarier than fiction, although I don't feel imprisoned exactly, just limited to what I have. And, in all honesty, that isn't so bad I suppose.

Truly scary this Halloween: the persecution of athiest boyscouts, the rise in syphilis, Focus on the Family, and learning there are not enough fish in the sea.

When American children think of music, they think of rock. When they think of poetry, they think of hip-hop. When they think of art, they think of graffiti. We are no longer developing audiences for the serious arts.

While I can substantiate his argument on many levels and even agree that these forms of art aren't "serious," dedicated practices that remain true to traditional forms of artistic expression, this argument merely exemplifies the fact that aesthetic correctness has tainted our approach, "demanding that the arts conform to traditional, often conventional rules of creative procedure."

posted Wednesday, October 30, 2002

Enter Winter

Snow! Not the first snow of the year, but it stuck to the ground, the cars, branches, my mind, filtered the light flooding my room white. A cup of tea melting away the cold around my hands, I stand by the windows awaiting caffeination initiation. M is on the other side of those mountains playing detective until this afternoon and images of him drift softly in my head, dust the floors, cling to the branches, bury me in sweet, wistful winter.

posted Monday, October 28, 2002

Spaces

I want to buy a home for the obvious reasons—equity, tax breaks, pride in ownership—but the big one that's standing out in my mind right now is Ty Pennington and affording a future locale for an episode of Trading Spaces. M got me hooked on the show when, upon waking late on Sunday mornings, we'd drift into the living room with coffee and watch Ty buzz-saw away a permanent place in our hearts.

The idea has been on my mind lately and it hasn't been a new one but living in a rental again has brought about the routine, apartment-life complaints, most of which involve neighbors, directly or not: noisy neighbors, messy neighbors, neighbors who are just plain weird. M and I talked about his previous experience with a live-in boyfriend. I'm not sure if I'd want to give up my personal space and time alone, but there are certainly a lot of benefits to living with one another.

It helps to have two people for the show, anyway.

Publicity turns consumption into a substitute for democracy. The choice of what one eats (or wears or drives) takes the place of significant political choice. Publicity helps to mask and compensate for all that is undemocratic within society. And it also masks what is happening in the rest of the world.

—excerpt from essay #7,
Ways of Seeing by John Berger

Your vote's important, but really, it's not enough and I think that's a big reason why a lot of younger voters are being turned off to politics. We have enough to deal with while we struggle to survive in today's economy, and I know I wouldn't be able to devote every weekend to this sort of volunteer work. The more cynical part of me says that younger voters don't do more because we're so used to the immediacy of the point-click-result culture. Ballot voting is seen as slow and archaic, statistically our votes have little clout, and we don't get that instant poll results screen after punching out chads.

Last night I went to a Green Party meeting, and tomorrow I'll meet with the Libertarian candidate running for my district representative. I'm hoping to gain a little more insight into our political system by educating myself on third-party platforms and putting my efforts into these smaller endeavors, maybe prove to myself in the end that our system works, that our votes can have an impact, and that the long-held reign of Republicrats can be challenged. I want to see, firsthand, that we have more than two options and that our choice of those options has real weight.

I've had a lot of time to reflect on the consequences of voting since my first elections in 2000. Those were exciting days, coming of age to participate in this huge machine, reading up on the issues and chosing a presidential candidate I most identified with. But the more I analyzed the political climate, the more I began to second guess myself and, ultimately, I chose a candidate based on practicality rather than who I wanted to represent me.

Neither candidate won. The subsequent frustration was tangible: I had given up my values and ideals to add my voice to a campaign that not only did not represent me, but ultimately failed. Vowing never to vote based on practicality again, I decided to vote for who and what I believe in, regardless political strategizing. And really, wasn't that the intended purpose of allowing people to vote in the first place?

In other news, a good friend from school, Lindsay, is engaged to be married. And no good news would be complete without its bad-news counterpart: I'm getting sick.

Of course the people don't want war. But after all, it's the leaders of the country who determine the policy, and it's always a simple matter to drag the people along whether it's a democracy, a fascist dictatorship, or a parliament, or a communist dictatorship. Voice or no voice, the people can always be brought to the bidding of the leaders. That is easy. All you have to do is tell them they are being attacked, and denounce the pacifists for lack of patriotism, and exposing the country to greater danger.

—Herman Goering at the Nuremberg trials

posted Thursday, October 17, 2002

Tan Lines

I went to the tanning salon this afternoon with three free passes that I won at a pool party this summer. It was a clean, cozy little shop, and the owner gave me a tour including a run down on all of the beds, their wattage and UV-B percentages. I didn't really want to know the science behind it all, I said. I just want a porno tan line.

I've always been pretty comfortable with my body, but recently I've noticed myself day-dreaming about bulking up, tanning, and getting a body wax. Not that I'm particularly ectomorphic or hirsute, but I wonder if exposure to hundreds of Falcon videos is finally taking its toll on my psyche, not to mention my boyfriend's well-muscled bod is ideally hairless in all the right places.

Walking down Royal Street into the French Quarter not quite two years ago, I idly mentioned the idea of shaving my chest to Jonno, who quickly persuaded me not to, saying, "Are you kidding? An asian guy with a hairy chest is fucking hot!" Well, half-asian anyway (thus the hair). I've definitely noticed it getting a little heavier over the years, so who knows, babe, maybe I'll be joining you at the Rawhide more often in the future.

On a completely unrelated note, I just discovered that you can skip over words in a line while editing by pressing Ctrl and the Left arrow at the same time. It's a good day.

posted Wednesday, October 16, 2002

Close to Home

Five o’clock, I don’t know what to do
It’s much too late to call,
Just as soon go and see you.

If I arrive with a suitcase at your door,
Would you throw your arms around me,
Would we make love on the floor?

We lead different lives,
Sleep in different beds,
Sleep in different countries,
While your voice plays in my head.

If I tried to be smarter than before,
Would you tell me that you missed me,
Would you love me even more?

It feels right.
Will you remember me?
You’re alright.
Just think of me and you’re always close to home.

—Blue Six, Close to Home

1. An obsession with speed and an accompanying impatience for all that does not move faster and faster.
2. A sense of overload with information and other stimulation.
3. A mounting obsession with consumption and material wealth.
4. Accommodation to the virtual world.
5. Loss of silence.
6. Loss of privacy.

Even though it utilizes the very technological ties that Lightman points to—the Internet, electronic connectedness, as a spoke in the hamster wheel of "production, demand, consumption, and work"—keeping a record on this website has helped me maintain a sense of inner self. It's not nearly as anonymous as it was when I started a few years ago but, when I sit down to type out my thoughts, I'm alone in front of a machine that facilitates my contemplations. If anything, technology has enabled me to develop my writing skills and practice creating and sustaining a private life that is separate from the rest of the world I experience daily.

Granted, the majority of people in our Wired World do not use the Internet to develop personal spaces. It is a justifiable fear of Lightman's that this loss of a private, inner self may lead to a world that we really don't want to live in, and he poses the questions:

Sometimes, I picture America as a person and think that, like a person, our entire nation has an inner self. If so, does our nation recognize that it has an inner self, nourish that inner self, listen to its breathing in order to know who America is and what it believes in and where it is going? If citizens of that nation, like me, have lost something of our inner selves, then what of the nation as a whole? If our nation cannot listen to its inner self, how can it listen to others? If our nation cannot grant itself true inner freedom, then how can it allow freedom for others? How can it bring itself into a respectful understanding and harmonious co-existence with other nations and cultures, so that we might truly contribute to peace in the world?

Broadcast news media seeks to condense issues to their most diminutive form. It has, over the past fifty years of its evolution, gradually reduced the life span of a 'story' to the space allocated between the real estate owned by their corporate sponsors. In fact, the whole concept of a 'news bite' is just that, a short, simplistic hors d'oeuvre of information that can travel through the airwaves and telephone wires just long enough to keep your attention on the next advertisement. And in this new paradigm of story-telling and news-breaking, there isn't enough time for any valid exploration of the true nature of power and its matrix of inter-dependent agencies. We cannot deny the fact that, as the most pervasive medium for information-gathering on the planet, television's limitations have severely impacted and damaged the collective capabilities of its viewership.

• Marinated tri-tip steak sandwiches at the Red Umbrella
• M in flannel pajama bottoms
• One-point losses by both the Broncos and the Chiefs on the same day
• "...a certain stranger in a naughty French maid uniform, a blond wig, and holding a pack of beer when you come home tonight."
• Grilled cheese, Hamburger Helper, and margaritas
• Up, up, down, down, left, right, left, right, B, A, start

• Hawaii Happyface Spiders
• Pitch Drop Experiment
• Ice spikes

The pool boy from the day before surfaced in my mind and I remembered what he had asked me. I opened my eyes and glanced at the Speedos drying on the towel rack in the bathroom. I wondered how long J would be gone. A familiarly sour warmth spread through my stomach—the same anxiousness that I had experienced as a 16-year-old sneaking out through my bedroom window—knowing I was thinking about something that wouldn't be approved of, wondering if I would get caught.

J and I had agreed to break up the week before, but I knew he wanted something else. I didn't want to hurt his feelings. Nevertheless, I couldn't keep my mind from wandering over the pool boy's body as he pulled himself out of the water. Mechanically, I rose from the bed, felt the cool air from the window unit ruffle my hair, and walked over to the towel rack to pull down the slightly-damp swimwear. Besides, I asked myself, when would I get another chance to come down to Key West?

The hot, humid air greeted me with a shove in the face. I glanced down the street, but our purple rental scooter was no where to be seen. Neither was J. Stepping out into the sun, I made my way around the corner, walking quickly, avoiding eye contact with the masses of shoppers even though none of them would know either of us, and as I hiked up the steps to the pool, I saw him.

He was seated at the bar in a pair of green swim trunks, and I immediately looked at the ground as I rounded the corner and slipped into the bathroom. I latched the door. Sounds from the pool calmed my nerves and I looked in the mirror to check my face and hair. What was I doing? What would I tell J if he came back to the room and found me gone? Adrenaline spread through my system. I tiptoed up to peer through an opening over the door and saw the pool boy with his back to the restroom, seated between two older men, obviously on break and entertaining as he threw back a swig from a beer bottle. Well, I’m here, I thought. I might as well do it.

"Can I get a Bud Light?"

I motioned to the bartender and she nodded as I slipped between the pool boy and the man on his right. He looked over, mouth slightly open, and spread a smile.

"Hey there." A clap on my bare shoulder, and I nodded shyly in return. "How’s it going?"

"Not too bad, a little hot. You?" I took a swig from the newly opened beer as he nodded in agreement, and laid a few dollar bills on the bar. The man to my right had left. Glancing nervously towards the entrance of the pool, I took a seat.

"No Speedo today, huh?" he asked. We both glanced down at my surfer shorts, and I pulled back the waistband. He laughed.

"Going undercover."

His name was Scott. Between my anxiety and desire to pull him into the bathroom, I had a hard time concentrating on what we were talking about but the chat continued until the subject finally came up about the guy I had been with at the pool the day before. Explanations sort of spilled out of my mouth rather ridiculously, but he took it all with a patience that drew me in even more.

We talked for another half hour as drinks were served around us at the bar and patrons came and went. When I finally glanced down at my watch it had passed by the half-hour mark and I bid a reluctant farewell. Hands were grasped and hopes exchanged that our paths might cross again, although we both knew this was a last goodbye. I closed the door behind me and fell into an empty bed under the air conditioner, exhaling anxiety, regret, and desire.

I wasn't too keen on flaunting our relationship status with identical swimwear. After all, we had broken up the weekend before and as far as I was concerned, that was the way it was going to stay. Even together, I had a better time flirting and innocently exploring potential options while we were out than I did announcing to everyone that I was taken. I did have to admit though, the speedos looked good and J wasn't exactly chopped liver so we managed to accrue quite a bit of attention regardless.

The parking lot was full at 3pm. J got out of the car, quickly stripped and threw a towel around his shoulders, while I reluctantly peeled off my clothes, throwing glances towards the sounds of bass and conversation drifting off of the pool. It was a boiler of activity. Plodding behind J in identical dark blue lycra, I verdantly glanced between the resort's leathery patrons and the leathery planks of the sunbleached wood veranda as we approached two pool chairs and stowed our belongings.

A splash sounded behind me as J dove into the pool, now freely mingling with other swimmers. Looking up, I greeted the sun, the heat pushing me forcibly back into the chair and I closed my eyes. The pool drifted in and out of my perception, pool sounds mingling with crashing waves below, and I could be anywhere—Southbeach, Los Angeles, the pool on Peterson. I'm 12 and the smells from the grill remind me of lazy summer days, grass between my toes, and strawberry Mentos.

There's a squeal of metal as a pool chair is extended next to me. Blue light filters through my squinted eyelids, and I hold a hand up to shade my eyes as I work to make out who's sitting next to me. A sarong-clad boy of about 25 or so, is watching me as he straightens the back of the chair and smiles. I can't really do anything but smile back, although I wonder if it merely looks like a squint.

"Nice speedos," he says, and motions to an older man in glasses, holding a large, paper-parasoled drink. The man starts with a jump and heads over. I thank him with a squinty smile and he asks if I want anything to drink. Sure, Bud Light. His bronzed muscles ripple in his lower back as he walks briskly towards the bar, and I admire how his short-cropped blond hair is lighter than his skin. He's also obviously not wearing anything under his sarong. I glance over at J who's propped against the pool edge, talking to a threesome of muscleboys.

Later, J has dripped back from the pool and stretched himself out next to me. We talk about leaving, but I respond quietly, my eyes assidiously following the pool boy as he pulls his sarong off, tosses it nonchalantly across a stack of pool chairs, and dives into the now-vacant water. It's clear he's practiced this routine for quite some time now, flexing his body like a dolphin, moving through the water effortlessly, silently. He turns his body upward and surfaces, all eyes light soundlessly on the pool.

J is gathering our things and the pool boy pulls himself out of the water and begins toweling off. Let's go, J says. I follow him to the front, and right as we reach the entrance, a hand catches the crook of my elbow. I turn and feel a smile spread across my face.

"Will you wear those for me tomorrow?" he asks, nodding at my speedos. I wink and turn to catch up with J.

To be continued...

The problems I've had trusting M seem mostly to stem from my own dishonesty in past relationships—not saying what I meant, deceiving to keep the peace, and simply not being trustworthy with my feelings—and it has been coloring the way I've received M's words, precluding sensible courses of action when encountered with superficially troubling news.

I didn't trust him to come right out and say how he was feeling or what he really meant, or even act in a way that appropriately reflected his motives. I expected him to be somewhat dishonest in order to be polite, and took it upon myself to read into his words and actions so that I could discover the "real truth". I pictured myself in his shoes, asking, "What would I really mean if I had said this to him?" and "If I acted the way he's acting now, what would I really be trying to tell him?"

It's taken me a while to understand that he might have simply been honest with me because I was always raised to subtly hint at things if I found them unpleasant or unacceptable so as not to seem impolite. If someone wanted to accompany me somewhere and I preferred to go alone, I'd say something like, "It would be boring." If I was doing something I didn't like, I'd grin and bear it. I've even said, "I love you," to get someone off my back.

It's hard not to transfer your motives onto someone else's actions. It's hard not to judge. And it's hard to break habits that you've lived with for so long that they've become a part of who you are. It's worth working on to make something good succeed, though. And I'm definitely working on it.

On my way over, I drove by Salazar's house and gave him a call. It's been a few months so we planned dinner at my place tomorrow night, 6:30. The book search was futile, but I floated along the current that lead me downtown to a few stores, in the path of tempting smells from hole-in-the-wall Chinese restaraunts wafting across the sidewalks, running into Tateum and then Dustin near my old high school coffee shop hangout.

Afterwards, I followed my instincts up the interstate to a few larger bookstores where I finally found what I had been looking for along with a few bound, blank, 400-page journals on sale for $7.99. I made it home minutes before M's evening call.

I wandered out because I was feeling a little lonely and wanted some company, and no sooner had I asked with my actions than I was answered with a few coincidental meetings. Returning home, however, the evening's events served only to remind me that it's just me. I make plans, but they aren't plans with the person I want to be with. The comforting presence of friends only goes so far, their stories only distract you for so long, and anyone can say the words, "I love you."

I'm happy being alone, and I love being with other people, but I feel as though I'm in limbo, drifting through a fog of potential friendships and loves and not really realizing, materializing any of it. Give it time, I suppose. Time fixes everything.

Driving along the interstate over my lunch break to grab the next two discs in my latest addiction — QAF, Season 1 — I lowered the driver-side window to soak up the intoxicating fall air, Rauhofer's Live at Roxy pushing bass into the rushing landscape. Good weather, like good health, is always bittersweet, the knowledge that it will end ever at the forefront of thought, but the almost-circadian pattern of moods, weather, and health reassure me that this enjoyment is as perennial as the grass.

M came over last night after some deliberation. Our relationship has been rocky, to say the least, but seems to have made a full circle as well. Dinner, some playful banter, a silent ride home, and we smoothed things over by quietly discussing everything that had happened over the past two weeks. There's not much to say about it, other than I feel great that things have been patched up, that we've somehow conquered this together.

And then that bittersweet feeling resurfaces, but it's easier to bat it down, knowing that it's simply part of a larger picture with in's and out's, up's and down's.

I relinquished the opportunity to travel south in December for a business trip, knowing that I'll want to be here for my birthday and that the fam is planning a trip for Christmas anyway, and it all seems to be part of a larger trend at work lately where I've started pitching into the department PowerBall pool, getting approval to telecommute, and generally looking for ways out of and away from work.

The weather certainly isn't helping any.

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