Thursday, July 31, 2008
Monday, July 28, 2008
Monograms
- Love is the power to see similarity in the dissimilar. (122)
- Not least among the tasks now confronting thought is that of placing all the reactionary arguments against Western culture in the service of progressive enlightenment. (122)
- Love you will find only where you may show yourself weak with out provoking strength. (122)
- Imagination is inflamed by women who lack, precisely, imagination. They have the brightest aureoles who, turned unwaveringly outward, are wholly matter-of-fact. Their attraction stems from their lack of awareness of themselves, indeed of self at all: Oscar Wilde coined the name unenigmatic Sphinxes for them. (108)
- Women of exceptional beauty are doomed to unhappiness. Even those favoured by every circumstance, who have birth, wealth, talent on their side, seem as if hounded or obsessed by the urge to destroy themselves and all the human relationships they contact. An oracle gives them the choice between calamities. Either they shrewdly exchange beauty for success. Then they pay with happiness for its condition; being no longer able to love, they poison the love felt for them and are left empty-handed. Or the privilege of beauty gives them the courage and confidence to repudiate the exchange agreement. They take seriously the happiness that the person promises, and are unstinting with themselves, assured by the admiration of all that they do not need first to prove their worth. In their youth they are free to choose. (109)
All taken from Theodor Adorno's Minima Moralia: Reflections on a Damaged Life
Revolucion
I will risk disappointing more than one, but I will now have to state that this revolution, our generation's revolution, is not going to be fun. In fact, it's gonna have to be boring and seem uninterested.
Back to sleep.
Back to sleep.
Accident
The whole experience left him out of sync, walking around the house, marking a trail in the carpet across the living room all the way up to the kitchen. When his muscles started aching, he would get up again and open the fridge, staring at the assortment of multicolored Tupperware but not looking inside any of it. He would hold his empty stare into the fridge for a few seconds, before deciding he wasn't hungry enough. He would do this a couple of times each day, eventually succumbing to some reheated chinese food or cold pizza.
The insurance agent called again that morning. Dem Franchise Boyz busted through the silence for almost a minute before the call went to voicemail. He stared at the phone as it rang. I gotta change that stupid ringtone, he thought. Better yet, I gotta get rid of that phone. The call didn't wake up Steven, though he nudged inside the sleeping bag where he was carving a place in the corner of the dining room. There was a message.
Hello, Francisco, it's Sharon from Progressive again, and I left a couple of messages last week and we really need to talk about the accident and I hope you are feeling well and I wish this bitch would stop talking to me like she knows me. He had a pervasive dislike people who were paid to be friendly to him. He took out that angst against as many telemarketers, sales representatives, and customer service agent as he could.
Inside, however, he wished he had friends. He longed for the times when he wouldn't systematically push people away. He wanted a better shrink, a new girlfriend, and some food from that fridge but was too lazy to sort through the Tupperware. He closed the fridge and grabbed a slice of cold pizza from the counter.
His neck didn't hurt much anymore, but the scar on his leg still looked vicious, according to Steven. Now 11-years-old, Steven was trying to be a cool kid and used words like vicious. Francisco had been a role model to him. Old enough to be an uncle, but never grownup enough to make anyone forget he was Steven's cousin. Now, the roles were beginning to change and Steven found himself babysitting what was left of his big cousin.
Pick up your fucking phone, he yelled as Dem Franchise Boyz interrupted the silent morning again. And change that fucking ringtone, for gods sakes.
Francisco got up and grabbed the phone. It was not Progressive, AT&T, or any refinance opportunity. It was Laurie. He put the phone back in the table, letting Dem Franchise Boyz finish the chorus. A thousand memories ran through his head. The sights, sounds, smells, laughs, fights, and, above all, the sex. The museums and concerts, and that time when she surprised him at school with balloons on his birthday.
Maybe I should go back to school, he thought, as if he had ever given it a real chance to begin with. I wonder what the hell she wants and if she misses me. Come on, baby, let's give it another try. There was another message.
Hey Francisco, it's me Laurie and I heard about your accident and I hope things are going well and I am moving out and do you want these clothes back that you left here long time ago and this must really be over if she called me by my first name.
I'm going out for a drive, he told Steven. Nothing big, he just wanted a Slurpee. This time he would stay in the road and avoid any mysterious head-on solo crashes against the freeway wall. He still didn't know what to do with his life. No more accidents, though.
The insurance agent called again that morning. Dem Franchise Boyz busted through the silence for almost a minute before the call went to voicemail. He stared at the phone as it rang. I gotta change that stupid ringtone, he thought. Better yet, I gotta get rid of that phone. The call didn't wake up Steven, though he nudged inside the sleeping bag where he was carving a place in the corner of the dining room. There was a message.
Hello, Francisco, it's Sharon from Progressive again, and I left a couple of messages last week and we really need to talk about the accident and I hope you are feeling well and I wish this bitch would stop talking to me like she knows me. He had a pervasive dislike people who were paid to be friendly to him. He took out that angst against as many telemarketers, sales representatives, and customer service agent as he could.
Inside, however, he wished he had friends. He longed for the times when he wouldn't systematically push people away. He wanted a better shrink, a new girlfriend, and some food from that fridge but was too lazy to sort through the Tupperware. He closed the fridge and grabbed a slice of cold pizza from the counter.
His neck didn't hurt much anymore, but the scar on his leg still looked vicious, according to Steven. Now 11-years-old, Steven was trying to be a cool kid and used words like vicious. Francisco had been a role model to him. Old enough to be an uncle, but never grownup enough to make anyone forget he was Steven's cousin. Now, the roles were beginning to change and Steven found himself babysitting what was left of his big cousin.
Pick up your fucking phone, he yelled as Dem Franchise Boyz interrupted the silent morning again. And change that fucking ringtone, for gods sakes.
Francisco got up and grabbed the phone. It was not Progressive, AT&T, or any refinance opportunity. It was Laurie. He put the phone back in the table, letting Dem Franchise Boyz finish the chorus. A thousand memories ran through his head. The sights, sounds, smells, laughs, fights, and, above all, the sex. The museums and concerts, and that time when she surprised him at school with balloons on his birthday.
Maybe I should go back to school, he thought, as if he had ever given it a real chance to begin with. I wonder what the hell she wants and if she misses me. Come on, baby, let's give it another try. There was another message.
Hey Francisco, it's me Laurie and I heard about your accident and I hope things are going well and I am moving out and do you want these clothes back that you left here long time ago and this must really be over if she called me by my first name.
I'm going out for a drive, he told Steven. Nothing big, he just wanted a Slurpee. This time he would stay in the road and avoid any mysterious head-on solo crashes against the freeway wall. He still didn't know what to do with his life. No more accidents, though.
Sunday, July 27, 2008
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Aparición
Their dreams had never matched, but a young, instinctual attraction had always accompanied their moments together. Neither had their opinions or priorities, even less their backgrounds.
In fact, each of them privately thought, their chances of ever meeting had been slim in the first place. More so, they often fought, disagreed, made each other nervous.
I met them later on my college years, they were in their teens. They broke up last week.
In fact, each of them privately thought, their chances of ever meeting had been slim in the first place. More so, they often fought, disagreed, made each other nervous.
I met them later on my college years, they were in their teens. They broke up last week.
Thursday, July 17, 2008
Questions
I slept atop a pile of pillows in Patty's apartment, in the exact spot where Ibeth's bed would have been a few weeks ago. This was the last night of my road trip, which had seen me sleep in a UCSD van, the Doubletree hotel in Berkeley, the Goldman School of Public Policy, the UC Berkeley Foothill student housing, Ben's apartment in the Castro, Jesse's apartment in Westwood, and now, finally, these pillows.
I walked to class armored with a heavy backpack, a gym bag full of clothes, and Ron Currie Jr's God is Dead, a funny dystopian novel I picked up at the UCLA store.
As I was crossing the street that separates the dorms from the rest of campus, I came across the AFSCME 3299 service workers, which were holding up their picket signs and trying to hide from the scorching morning sun. Like all my other recent decisions, I didn't think about it much, letting out a scream:
"Que vivan los trabajadores!!!"
A few of them cheered and smiled. At this point, I noticed that Currie's prose had taken me away from my fellow pedestrians, a group of young gymnasts. One of them sought to break that disconnect.
"What does that mean?", she asked.
I missed her at first glance. She was miniscule, must not have reached 10-years-old yet. I smiled at her with a sense of journalistic pride.
"They are the ones that clean up the school, and they don't pay them enough." Again, I had let the words come out without thinking much, or scoping the surroundings for parents who don't appreciate strangers politicizing with their children. In this case, it was a protective gymnastics camp counselor.
"Don't bother the nice man, (inaudible name)." I threw her a dirty look as she hugged the inquiring young girl away. Currie got my attention back rather quickly as I I kept walking down the hill that leads to the middle of campus.
I hope that young girl always asks questions.
I walked to class armored with a heavy backpack, a gym bag full of clothes, and Ron Currie Jr's God is Dead, a funny dystopian novel I picked up at the UCLA store.
As I was crossing the street that separates the dorms from the rest of campus, I came across the AFSCME 3299 service workers, which were holding up their picket signs and trying to hide from the scorching morning sun. Like all my other recent decisions, I didn't think about it much, letting out a scream:
"Que vivan los trabajadores!!!"
A few of them cheered and smiled. At this point, I noticed that Currie's prose had taken me away from my fellow pedestrians, a group of young gymnasts. One of them sought to break that disconnect.
"What does that mean?", she asked.
I missed her at first glance. She was miniscule, must not have reached 10-years-old yet. I smiled at her with a sense of journalistic pride.
"They are the ones that clean up the school, and they don't pay them enough." Again, I had let the words come out without thinking much, or scoping the surroundings for parents who don't appreciate strangers politicizing with their children. In this case, it was a protective gymnastics camp counselor.
"Don't bother the nice man, (inaudible name)." I threw her a dirty look as she hugged the inquiring young girl away. Currie got my attention back rather quickly as I I kept walking down the hill that leads to the middle of campus.
I hope that young girl always asks questions.
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Why I am not going to graduate from college
Because when I have an easy 6-page take-home midterm to write, I spend two hours reading about personality disorders and trying to match people to them. Now, I am going to get to work, maybe.
Monday, July 14, 2008
Sunday, July 13, 2008
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