Why I love it here.

I didn't, but I could order a beer at 10:30AM and no one would judge me.

"Jack, this is my brother-in-law..." "Holy shit! You're a big son-of-a-bitch!"

I could smell the sagebrush even though it was 18 degrees.

The bumpersticker read: "Where you can still smoke in the bar and drink in your car."

"I bought a big old truck yesterday and I just got invited to go ice fishing. How fucking Montana is that?!"

"No, you guys don't pay for anything here."

"Oh, yeah! I know what you all are talking about!"

We didn't have the energy or the heart to explain to Grandpa the difference between iTunes radio and Pandora. Besides, we were just so proud of him for using a computer in the first place.

"I listen to this one channel to drown out the gunshots on Mom's murder shows." Enthusiastically, he schooled us. "First you open the iTunes, then you push 'radio', then you push 'ambient'..."

Around the table we exchanged impressed and amused glances that we thought had gone unnoticed. "Don't worry," he said as soon as he perceived them. "It's not like I'm going to start smoking 'e'."

I couldn't think of two less apt adjectives to describe me...

"Make sure you bend your knees. You know, relaxed and athletic."

"I'm gonna shower," I announced.

"It's 7:45!" So it was..."Don't worry," I assured him. "I'm an expert at running late."

Unexpectedly, but somehow appropriately, I lifted my eyes to find myself in the "locus amoenus" .

A shortcut through this...

...to glimpse and open this...

which turned out to be this.

Satiety delayed, prolonged

I always stop to pick up playing cards that are lying face-down on the ground.

But today ("yesterday") I almost didn't. I was three minutes in to the run when I saw it and hesitated. I don't like to stop at all when running because there's that chance that I'll just decide to not continue. I almost passed the card by, but thought back to the last time I found one. On a Sunday morning in Berkeley earlier this Fall I turned over the 2 of Hearts. I thought, "What if it's another 2 of Hearts? Or just any Heart? That would be cool..." Ridiculously, I stopped the stopwatch for the entire 3 seconds it took me to pick up the 3 of Diamonds.

During the run, I thought a little bit about what that number and suit could symbolize and made a mental note to later google "3 of Diamonds" to see if it "means" anything and then I stopped thinking for the remaining 30somethings minutes of the run. When I slowed to the cooldown walk, I turned the card over and examined it to see how much the rain had gotten to it. It was only then that I noticed that someone had written, in pencil, "ya nunca mas PePe aguilar". Now there was something I could use. The promise in that song title "Ya nunca más" could indicate either contrition or assertive negation on the Mexican singer's part. The song could also be one of Aguilar's beautifully sung ballads or it could just as easily be one of those norteño accordion-and-brass-heavy songs that usually set my teeth on edge. I decided to add listening to the song to my Internet homework. "I'm definitely buying it on iTunes!" I thought. I would buy it for the simple, corny reason that it was "in the cards". But its not entirely insignificant title would probably seal the deal. I could stand to say "never again" to quite a few things.

The first result in response to my Google search term "3 of diamongs [sic]" netted the following (from cafeastrology.com):

You dealt the Three of Diamonds!

The 3 of Diamonds indicates that, in the matters surrounding your question, success will only come if you use tact and caution. It may be too easy to get tangled up in an argument at this time. Avoid impulsive actions!

Always good advice.

A search for Pepe Aguilar's "Ya nunca más" confirmed that the singer is asserting himself, declaring himself free from a toxic love affair and not swearing that he'll "never do it again". I haven't purchased it yet, but I will. As soon as I've pushed away the aversion. Because, yes, a "ya nunca más", no matter how many times, and whether it's triumphant or repentant, is usually in the cards...

I'm not lazy, I'm just recycling...

And from the "As Seen on Facebook" files:
Tuesday, November 25, 2008 at 10:24am

|
Without losing her (illegal) grip on her cell phone, the diminutive driver of the (Alaskan-sized and named) SUV in front of me slammed on her brakes. I did the same to avoid slamming into her and let loose with an offensive combination of linguistic elements, slipping a code-switched infix into a schizophrenic string of alliterative regional differences in dialect.

"¡JO-fucking-DER! ¡Pinche puta pendeja! Si vas a bloquear la vista de todos que vamos detrás de tu camioneta tan culona, por lo menos haznos el favor de mirar más allá de tu rearview mirror, cabrona babosa!"

It's not the language that should surprise anyone, it is fairly representative of my Spanish, learned from a gran variedad of native speakers from all over the Spanish-speaking world, principally México y España. What did surprise me was the uncharacteristic verbal demonstration of road rage in general, not just that it came out mostly in Spanish. I'd been exposed to a lot of useful New York traffic vocabulary as a kid, and have tried to avoid overreacting to traffic in my own driving. But I guess I'm entitled to such expressions every once in a while. After all, that day on I-80, the traffic had gotten me coming and going.

As soon as I'd hit the brakes and stayed inmóvil for a few seconds, the stereo cued up a "blast-from-the-past" gift of a song and I had no choice but to let its opening strains prick up my ears, let the subsequent drum beats force my head back against the seat and the ebullient keyboard and exuberant sax notes bubble through my veins. The road rage lifted al instante.

Perhaps you'd like to give it a listen, putting any contrary politics or personal situations to the side and instead of focusing on lyrics signaling the possible demise of a relationship, just letting the Jersey bounce sounds of Bruce Springsteen's "Going Down" run through you, too. Y no, no deja de ser significante que la canción es del album Born In the U.S.A. Lugar de un delicioso multi-¿?

In case you need it now, a link:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZarmRLa2p9Q



It's lovely, but it's not nearly enough...

Life's little ridiculous mysteries

1. My pants marked with the biggest size number all but sever me in two at the waist and those marked with the smallest size number are hanging off my ass K St. cholo-style by the time I get out of the car at school. Pinche vanity sizing. As for those size numbers, let's just establish a Don'tAskDon'tTell policy, shall we?

2. Three cups of coffee, a Diet Coke and a mocha didn't even make a dent.

3. "If it makes you happy, then why the hell are you so sad?"

So far, I think it's the melody and not the lyrics that evoke them.

In the time-honored vein of stating the obvious, most often (por no decir siempre) it's well-developed characters with whom we identify and/or for whom we feel affection who pull us into a fictional narrative. One marker of this reader's identification/affection/empathy for characters: the coincidental and perhaps repetitive listening/hearing of a new (or new to me) song will bring them to mind. I don't know why this recent gift from Pandora's box, Jarabe de Palo's "Depende", should remind me of Roberto Bolaño's four professors of German literature. I've not done and don't want to do a close enough reading of its lyrics. But because it does, it means that to me that Bolaño has developed them to perfection. He has created these wonderful characters that could become living breathing people. Might there someday be a film in the works? If so, I posit "Depende" as part of its soundtrack!

I suspected at first that I had been a bit deceptive in the election of my quarterly "fuck-off" novel because 2666 does have something to do with my work and that was one of the pulls I felt to finally unwrap it (I purchased the tome in 2005 and it's been on my shelf ever since). I was also being deceptive in that I don't think I've really wanted to choose a true "fuck-off" novel, not feeling deserving of reading something solely for pleasure. Not for a long time. Yes, I do have an unnecessarily hyper-guilty conscience...

After I'd ceremoniously removed the plastic cover of the 5-in-one novel, I got out a pencil and little colored plastic sticky page markers in case something caught my, ahem, highly analytical eye, ahem. The observaciones acertadas of the literary and cacademic worlds were not unexpected. Nor was the tone with which our author describes these worlds. I have not read much of Bolaño's work, and what I have read, I've read as a student and critic-in-training. I'm only 100 pages in, but his creations, Pelletier, Morini, Espinoza and Norton have already gotten pretty far into my reader's heart and I am thinking of them fondly.

Pencil in hand, I started the novel here in my office in the little club chair that I also reserve, ludicrously, for "reward" reading. Though tropos bolañianos abound, I took no notes, indeed I forgot to inlclude the pencil and the little sticky plastic page markers when packing for Saturday's overnight to the GenenFête. And in the hotel room in the company of these ¿fictional? academics, I didn't even feel the pull of the "Silver Bells" atmosphere below in the streets of San Francisco. Difficult also, the next morning when check-out time rolled around, to leave them and the bed (um...sorry, yes, that goes for my date as well...).

So here I have it, an unexpected and ideal "fuck-off" novel. Ideal because it has activated sentiment. It's been so long that I've read this way that the sheer joy of it took me by surprise. It may happen later, but at this point I think I'll forgo making notes or marking pages. I'll just read. Sentimentally, not analytically. The author's life and writings have inspired so many others to make it their work. Perhaps it is also some small tribute that the characters of this novel, which I'd initially regarded mostly as a work destined to be part of my studies, have inspired me to make it my pleasure. Don't let that get out.

Bolaño may or may not be rolling...

The closest I'll get

Romance de la luna, luna

Taken by Ed Johnson in Los Angeles (from BBC's website)

I include it here because my own attempts to photograph the moon fail (véase abajo) and also because this is sort of how I saw the moon this morning on my way to work/school. It's been a while since I've driven to school/work early enough in the morning to see the moonrise. Last week we'd commented on how it seemed a bit inhumane to schedule an 8:00AM final exam for a class that meet at 3:00 each afternoon. But if it hadn't been scheduled that way, I wouldn't have seen it. I might not have seen a lot of things...

And seeing it now, sharply outlined when not softened by the clouds drifting past it...clear but not harsh...its illumination of a series of soft feminine connections...not early, I think, but precisely when it should have started...hoy, día de luna llena, es el día 12 de diciembre, día de la Virgen de Guadalupe...practically every song Pandora plays on my "Maná" station mentions la luna, lunita.... Y la intervención de una voz poética (masculina) que siempre viene a la mente cuando la veo así, llena, grande, cerca.

Siguen unos versos de Federico...

La luna vino a la fragua
con su polisón de nardos.
El niño la mira, mira.
El niño la está mirando.

En el aire conmovido
mueve la luna sus brazos
y enseña, lúbrica y pura,
sus senos de duro estaño.

Huye luna, luna, luna.
Si vinieran los gitanos,
harían con tu corazón
collares y anillos blancos.

Niño, déjame que baile.
Cuando vengan los gitanos,
te encontrarán sobre el yunque
con los ojillos cerrados.

Huye luna, luna, luna,
que ya siento sus caballos.

Niño, déjame, no pises
mi blancor almidonado.

El jinete se acercaba
tocando el tambor del llano.
Dentro de la fragua el niño,
tiene los ojos cerrados.

Por el olivar venían,
bronce y sueño, los gitanos.
Las cabezas levantadas
y los ojos entornados.

Cómo canta la zumaya,
¡ay, cómo canta en el árbol!
Por el cielo va la luna
con un niño de la mano.

Dentro de la fragua lloran,
dando gritos, los gitanos.
El aire la vela, vela.
El aire la está velando.

What's the opposite of psychosomatic?

So, I'm not being moody after all! I wasn't being wimpy when I stopped my run halfway through, I wasn't terse in e-mail and phone calls because I'm mad at anyone. I'm not incoherent because I'm switching languages. I'm not feeling low because I'm sad. And my head doesn't hurt because I'm hung over!

How could we not?

“I gave birth to one child, a son, but I have thousands of daughters. You are Black and White, Jewish and Muslim, Asian, Spanish speaking, Native Americans and Aleut. You are fat and thin and pretty and plain, gay and straight, educated and unlettered, and I am speaking to you all. Here is my offering to you.”–from Letter to My Daughter

As seen previously...

The following is copied and pasted from my Facebook Note of Saturday, 6 December.

Pre-writing activities: to what degree are they necessary?

Sat 8:27am | Edit Note | Delete

Some specialists would argue that they are necessary for every writer at every stage in his/her writing and I would probably hazard a guess that every writer does employ them in her/his own way before embarking on a project. As for myself, I use a fluid, flexible definition of "pre-writing activities" and employ them before, during and sometimes after the actual appearance of words on the page/screen. I share below some of my own strategies (¿?) and most of them can be applied at any point in the writing process and as many times as necessary, not necessarily in this or any particular order. And in some way, the multi-sensory ritual prepares me for what is and hopefully will be the principal activity of my life.

1. Clean kitchen (Yes, I know I don't write in the kitchen...and your point?)
2. Play with dogs
3. Make coffee, AM; open wine bottle, PM
4. Look around house, desperately, for something that needs to be repaired NOW, by me
5. Let dog(s) out/in
6. Take beverage upstairs
7. Turn on computer
8. Change into "lucky writing outfit"
9. Check e-mail
10. Clean/straighten office
11. Select lighting that takes into account both vision and mood needs:

• overhead incandescent


• desk lamp to illuminate keyboard and primary/secondary print sources


• Chinese lantern string of lights


• little alabaster rose incrusted lamp whose illumination is its utter charm


• candle(s) - for atmosphere and scent, but if circumstances call for it, I'll add a Virgen de Guadalupe or a Sagrado Corazón de Jesús - the ones in the big glass containers


12. Cue up music
13. Get resources out (also includes re-arranging bookshelves and selecting post-writing reward book (I can hear the plastic crinkling as I unwrap 2666)
14. "Check e-mail"
15. Place special notebook and special pencil on desk, just in case
16. Apply hand lotion
17. Refill beverage container
18. Sit before computer
19. Open Word
20. Open a vein

Care to share your rituals?

I got quite a few responses to that, this being Paper Writing Season, which means that many of my associates were doing just that avoiding doing just that. Just like I was. Looking in on Facebook every once in a while is almost like being in a big study group and I've enjoyed the communal aspect of this phenomenon. Reading status updates and spending a few minutes in chat allows us to see that we don't really suffer alone. But since before I'd even heard of Facebook, I've shared an end-of-quarter ritual with a classmate from my cohort. For all seven quarters I've been at UC Davis, sometime during PaperWritingWeek we spend an hour or so on the phone, talking about our papers in general terms, our latest academic dilemmas and their resolutions, TAing and occasionally swapping news or gossip. No matter where I am in the writing process, if she calls, I stop. And each time, after the conversation, we each report experiencing some sort of breakthrough. Mine this afternoon - realizing that my thesis for this synthesis paper was actually none of the possibilities I'd set apart in bold, planning to delete the ones I'd not addressed in the paper's body, but rather the thing I'd most been writing about all along. The thing I've most wanted to write about all along. Serendipitous, but not.

Muchas veces, lo que viene unos Cien años después, presta gran significado a Lo anterior.

Before reminding him that we'd talked about it in an e-mail exchange in the Spring I hesitated.

And in the pause I left he continued, "And one of the ways that I wasn't OK when I got back is that I can't remember some things." That wasn't something he'd mentioned in the e-mail. "I remember people and most things from a long time ago and I wanted to talk to you especially about this. And let you know that I was there because I believe in what we're doing there. I want you to understand and to not be angry. Not despise us." He'd said that several times, "I want you to understand, I want you to know..." I remained silent while the image of the vintage recruitment poster kept popping into my head every time he said it. I think I managed to explain that I wasn't angry the way he thought I was. He is the first person I've known who's gone to war, the first person who's talked to me about it. And talked candidly and at length about it. And apologized. "I'm sorry for talking about it so much." In the pause he left I said, "But you don't have to be. I'm listening and can listen more." "You are listening," he agreed, "But I know that it's hard for people to listen to. Especially if they haven't been there. They get sick of it..." I wished I could eloquently explain some testimonio theory and I wished it weren't interfering in real life. "Yes, it's hard. And I can't know what it was like so I maybe think it's to people like me that you should talk. I do know that after a...traumatic experience...is it OK for me to use that word?" "Yes. That's what it was." "OK," I resumed, "I understand it's normal that after a trauma and after having seen...felt...well there's a need to talk and to tell. To tell as many times as you need. And the listener plays a role in the recovery of someone surviving trauma. And yes, that role is hard but yours was harder. And if you can live through it, I can listen to it." He may have lost some memory capacity, but he remembered how I am and he told me his war story the way he thought I needed to hear it, they way it would make most sense to me. Even when he knows that war won't ever make sense to me.

Is there a sub-altern specialist in the house?

The lawn-care specialist we can't really afford came by to do whatever he does to the back yard. His diagnostic ability is sharp and the combination of aerations and chemicals he applies really seem to be working. He knows he's good and this professional pride arrogance comes through, albeit politely when he calls to "set up an appointment". He always says he'll be in the neighborhood and asks if he can stop by, but then adds that he'll be here tomorrow and we should leave the dogs in and the gate open as usual. All as though his clients have no other plans or life events that might cause him to reschedule. He also knows damn well that I probably won't maintain the yard like he does and I know it, too. So I just clear the deck for the master to work his magic.

On the last visit, he left his usual detailed written instructions for after-care and then left a voice mail in which he verbally repeated them. Again, he knows our limitations. He also left behind the invoice, which he'd marked "Paid in Full!" and under that added, "And that is funny!!" We took umbrage. We always pay in full! Us remembering to write a check, thereby paying on the same day as well...now that might be funny. But even then, he hasn't ever had to wait too long for us to get the $$ to him. He is not out of line to expect payment, but this prompts me to wonder why there doesn't seem to exist a (white) male version of the word uppity.

Actually, and unfortunately, I don't really wonder.

Default setting #10

Escribo desde/I write from: mi oficina/my office, y refiriéndome a viernes a pesar del date stamp; "de"/"from" being key word, "write" not so much
El tiempo/Weather: un frío tanto externo como interno que no desagrada, quite the contrary
Estoy luciendo/What I'm wearing: Not that
Conmigo/With me: Todos están en la planta baja
Estado de animo/State of being: tranquilidad, alivio, energia, una mezcla de movimientos y temperaturas
Estoy leyendo/What I'm reading: textos que tienen que ver con la prostitución en México, pero por placer, Colour: A Natural History of the Palette de Victoria Finlay, still savoring El error del acierto and will open 2666 quite soon in honor of its recent translation to English and in sentimental solidarity with its serendipitous readers of exquisite literary taste
Música: "Tiger Phone Card", the opening notes of "Free to Stay", "Nessun Dorma"
Vi a/I saw: M. y sus tijeras, yo en el espejo con cada vez menos cabello; casi todos del depto.
Hablé con/I spoke with: quiénes más quería escuchar
Antojo/Craving: ninguno

I don't really like aphorisms of reciprocity, but times call for an application of "plan your work and work your plan."

OK, I sort of do like them, when they suit my purposes. I remember the first day of volleyball practice when I was a junior in high school. We sat Indian-style [oh no, she didn't!] around the image of the Indian [not again!!]* head in the middle of the gym floor. Our beloved Coach Coleman began the meeting. "So, this is an exciting year. For the first time, Montana schools are offering Girls' Volleyball. I want to hear why each of you wants to play volleyball for the Poplar Indians. Let's go around the circle..." After we'd finished she summed up the responses. One comment has always sort of stuck with me. "Some of you said you're here to get some exercise. We don't need people with that kind of selfish attitude on this team. Ladies, we don't compete in sports to get in shape, we get in shape to compete in sports."

Despite the indisputable fact that playing volleyball gave me some physical confidence, I still lack even a modicum of athleticism. But I do have quite a lot of respect for players who manage to conserve their individualism while contributing to the success of the team and am not anti-sports. I've even put my spin on Coach Coleman's adage. It's as jockular as I get.

Friend: Hey, we should go to Title 9, they have some really cute workout clothes in stock now.
Me: ¡¿Cute workout clothes?! WTF's that all about? I don't care what I run in. Listen, chica, I work out to try to look cute, I don't try to look cute to work out.




*OK, but here's why. Everyone on the rez said "Indian" (at least when I lived there they/we did). You could say "Native American" but you'd get made fun of behind your back at the least, teased to your face in public at the medium and jumped at the worst.

The occasion called for something slightly celebratory, yet banausic.

On my way to class I pondered what that might be.

"I know! A new special notebook with a ribbon to mark the page...And it will be dedicated exclusively to notes for my dissertation, like that one she had at the meeting yesterday!"

I don't worry that she'll think I'm stealing her idea. We're alike in many ways, one of which would be a shared originality fetish. I can see my "dedicated" notebook going the way of hers, though...

Not quite late, she plopped down in the seat next to me and placed her materials on the table in front of her. "Oooh," I said, poking the chic little notebook. "Yeah, I couldn't find the notebook I do lesson plans in so I grabbed this one. I'm keeping all my notes for my thesis in it." I approved, "Good idea! It's all cool and special so it keeps the research interesting and glamorous. And way organized. A place for everything and everything in its place..." She nodded exaggeratedly and opened the notebook to its 3rd or 4th page. My eyes dropped down to a few crude drawings of Sponge Bob. When I looked back up, I tried to do the María Félix raised eyebrow that would convey something mocking yet affectionate. "Tu tesis." "Oh, yeah, well. I let my kid draw in it to keep him busy and quiet the other day."

I'm already wondering what extraneous information and images will find their way in to my as yet nonexistent special thesis notebook. In my manic pursuit of the original, I still haven't found just the right one...

Her eyes dropped to the pile of books on my desk.

"I should have known you'd be the one who's been hording Easy Women all quarter!"

"I know...I'm sorry!" I apologized. "I check it out every quarter and should probably just buy it. It might not be my whole bible, but it's gotta be one of the gospels."

Yeah, yeah, I'm so going to hell...

But my earthly concern of the moment is making sure that my work won't be too terribly derivative of Castillo's important and seminal contribution.

"Shawty got low,low,low,low,low,low,low..." self-esteem.

"What do you mean you caught a Peeping Tom at my window? What kind of sick pervert would want to peep at me!?"

"I'm so fat and slovenly that I don't deserve to exercise."

"No, no, I insist. You use the bathroom first. I'll just crap my pants."

"My skill set? Well, for one, I'm really good at taking people to the airport."

I'd write more examples, but this list already sucks...

They can't be forced

I picked up my new glasses today! They fit right out of the box and are close to my eyes, just like I like them. Though my eyesight does seem better with them, they didn't have all the effects I'd hoped for. For example:
They're not rose-colored! I don't see things in a different light. It doesn't all look better in the light of day. I see it more your way than mine. It's not a new point of view. I can't see clearly now because we haven't had enough rain for it to be gone. I still can't see past my nose when it comes to certain things, yet I see all too clearly the errors of my ways. The larger picture is obscured by the trees.

Thankful

I called from upstairs, "Quick - let her out! I know it's my turn, but you're closer to the door!"

"You heard that all the way up there?"

"Yes. Now move it, that wasn't just any old lab fart, that was foreshadowing."

"Code-switching among 3-4 languages and privileging one or two of 'em really globalizes the ol' discourse!"

Why, yes, I am mocking myself and you.

"You live in a world of symbols...

...every little thing you see or hear or otherwise experience is like a metaphor for your or someone else's internal state."

"Nuh-uh," I denied. "My world is an understudied text of varied literary styles, yet it belongs to no movement in particular. It is richly emblematic and contains many subtle references to other texts and their authors. And that last thing you said wasn't a metaphor, you know... I mean, I'm sure sure you do know, but it was actually a simile...'like or as'... What? I'm just saying."

"Hey, can you make recipes like fancy mashed potatoes?"

I had about 49 things going through my mind all at once, so with my monitor and affective filter both down and my internal editor on coffee break, I answered quickly and with incongruous JohnHenryesque braggadocio, "I can make any fucking recipe you put in front of me."

A lesser athlete would have...oh yeah, I already said that one.

Ran, 42, neighborhood.

I heartily mocked the first Californian I saw jogging while talking on his cell phone. In fact, before I became the cell phone's #1 fan, I thought everyone who had one was pathetically self-important. Now, with the zeal of a late-adopter, I certainly feel incomplete without mine. And I took it along on today's jog so I wouldn't miss an important phone call verifying whether today or tomorrow was Sushi Lunch.

To save some time, I decided to jog right around here, and it was pretty good. But - I almost turned back several times, though. OK, I almost didn't even start after I ran over my left pinky toe with the recycling bin. I hit its most sensitive spot and for a few minutes the pain was whimper-inducing. But I kept going. The sideache that ensued shortly thereafter made me forget all about the toe, though. I heard Coach Bagley's helpful suggestion, "Just run it out, Hecht, it won't kill you!" so I kept going. Then I got behind a garbage truck, whose noise drowned out my music for quite a while. I hate running without music, so I changed my route and kept going. Something still felt wrong with the music. Investigation indicated that the earbuds were in the wrong ear. I corrected the aberration and kept going. When I was almost done, I felt a few drops, but stopping didn't even cross my mind. Unless it's a torrent I run, rain or shine. After a couple of minutes I noticed the glint of red in my right hand. I ran a little more, then started to feel guilty. While I do consider myself the Chuck Norris of the 20-minute mile, my cell phone probably isn't as quite as tough. I wanted to finish, and since I'd already sacrificed a phone to Tlaloc last year, I tucked it into my sock. A little uncomfortable, but not enough to stop me. I do realize that the real Chuck Norris would have stuffed his phone down his underpants or right up his butt to keep it dry, but I'm not really as hardcore as I like to think I am. That more experienced California cell phone jogger probably would have bought a special water-proof case for his phone, but the best I could do would be to put it in ziploc. But I think I'll just leave mine home next time and make sure I confirm Sushi Lunch in a more timely manner.

I continue to hope that researchers will annouce breakthrough findings that increase the number. (19 Nov.)

But the micro-articles persist in reporting that "one glass a day" is beneficial to our health.

Bulb out...(18 nov.)

...looking up words like coranvobis, mirífica, somorgujar,escolapio, tafilete, insuflar,ergástula y deuterógama (woman who gets married a second time)

He looked half latino, medium build with glasses and dark, messy hair and my heart skipped a beat when he...

...got into his car and vacated that prime parking space near the crosswalk.

Her look cancels out any initial off-puttingness of her name.

And Autumn Sky's sound and charming way of engaging with her audience made me forgive the excessive use of whistling and "ba-da-dum". I'll buy/download anything she makes available.

"Gee, Val, it's kind of...depressed, isn't it?"

As we cruised the streets of Vallejo over 11 years ago my mom really tried to keep her comments and questions about my new town neutral and diplomatic. I could tell she was thinking, "We got off the rez so you could eventually move here?"

Depressed, yes, but at least now we're not that different from the rest of the towns of this country. I know it's not the best place in the state Bay Area County immediate 20 mile radius, but I've come to love it for its unique ghetteaux style.

"We should think about expanding our operations," I said.

"Subsistence laundry isn't really working for me."

Yesterday I decided to lie down for a 20-minute nap at 6:30...

...and I did indeed wake up at 6:52. Just 6:52 this morning.

Google it! Some of the more interesting Google key terms that have led hapless researchers to String of Lights (9/08-11/08)

"best prostitute ever" sent 1 total visits
""well + read + book + club" -brothas" sent 1 total visits
"strings of parking lot lights" sent 1 total visits
""if you've got the dinero" lyrics" sent 1 total visits
"i am written all over you" sent 1 total visits
"valery loves me blogspot" sent 1 total visits
"www putos y putas. com" sent 1 total visits
"nude dickens fair" sent 1 total visits
"airline sized bottles of gin" sent 1 total visits
"gran puta" sent 1 total visits
"heart shaped string lights" sent 1 total visits
"wat was sor juana ines de la cruz?" sent 1 total visits
"mla chupacabra" sent 1 total visits
"put your hand where i can feel the" sent 1 total visits
"where to buy le bad mother fucker wallet" sent 1 total visits

Collateral Learning:Useful Skills and/or Facts I Picked Up in Grad School

• Deftly tracking prey in a full parking lot and, in a splendid display of "survival of the fittest" at work, skillfully swooping into the space they've vacated before the other vultures do


• Doing so while eating sushi


• No matter what, there's always enough time and money to go for coffee/a beer/sushi lunch


• Like tortillas and beans, the proper combination of Cheez-Its and fruits can keep you going for hours


• If you put it on your credit card, it's free!


• Knowing that the declaration, "My writing's going really well." is usually absolute bullshit


• No matter what, there's always enough money for books


• Catching a quick nap in a sitting position with eyes wide open


• No matter what, there's always enough time to check my Facebook


• You actually can make Top Ramen in a coffee pot!

Top Ten Reasons I Like Having a Facebook

10. I participate in at least one aspect of American [pop?] culture.

9. I'm in good company.

8. Updating my status lets people know what I'm up to when I've been out-of-touch.

7. Updating my status lets me practice crafting aphorisms.

6. Updating my status is sometimes as close as I'll get to writing micro-cuentos/micro-stories.

5. It has all kinds of "What kind of - are you?"/"Which character from - are you?"/"If you were a color, which one would you be?" kinds of quizzes.

4. It has e-mail.

3. It has chat.

2. I get to read the clever, charming statements of my friends and....

1. ¡I get to see their tiny pictures!



P.S. While I wish to protect the identities of my Facebook friends, I seem to have no compunction about exposing the faces, etc. of someone else's friends in order to illustrate the tiny pictures function. He'd posted the image on his Facebook tutorial site, so maybe it's fair-ish game...

Needless to Say

• "Vallejo is so ghetto!"


• ATM machine


• incredible insight

How many more of these can we come up with?

Blog Re-frito #4

From the blog I had prior to these...

MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 11, 2006
Volver, resolver

BlogTemplate
Escribo desde: la casa
El tiempo: hace un calor sorprendiente
Estoy luciendo: algo que no me hace "lucir" para nada. En los últimos días he mirado como doce capítulos de What Not to Wear y estoy convencida de que nada me queda bien. Pero no estoy convencida de que mirar WNTW y otros programas al estilo sea necesariamente malo. He sacado varias ideas, y realmente la imagen es lo que hace que la gente que encontramos en el mundo nos tome en serio.
Conmigo: Karl, Stella, Paloma (en su camita al lado de la cama)
Estado de animo: un poco cansada, pero noto que desde el día que empecé a tomar vitaminas no me canso tan facilmente.
Libro(s): Montones de libros f-off de autoras al estilo Olivia Goldsmith y Helen Fielding, pero he empezado a leer para las clases. El libro de buen amor, de que recuerdo casi nada. Y los primeros dos artículos del reader (comprado por $104.50 por internet). Pero tendré que re-leer por lo menos dos veces el segundo porque la autora se llama Anna Brickhouse ("She's mighty mighty, just lettin' it all hang out...") y la letra de la canción impidió que me concentrara bien en el texto. ("Yeah, she's a brick...house. She's the one, the only one, who's built like an Amazon.")
Música: En este momento de la vida, los boleros y otra música tipo nostalgia (JAJ, Vicente Fernandez, Chavela Vargas, María Dolores Pradera, Agustín Lara, George Jones)
Vi a: Aparte de los de siempre...a nadie
Hablé con: " "
Antojo: piña
¿Qué pasó hoy (y qué pasó varios días antes si no he escrito
en mucho tiempo): ejercicio, mimar mucho a Paloma y Stella
Imágenes: estacionamiento en Kaiser. ¿Por qué se pone tan cabrona la gente cuando conduce por una de estas estructuras?
Personas que se destacaron: Una pareja gay, muy elegante en el Starbuck's de Albertson's

posted by vhecht @ 10:03 PM
0 comments

Yes, I do have thoughts about the election results.

Bulb out...awaiting 8.

However, I will say that among family and friends, I think I was voted Most Likely to Forget to Vote.

She taught me to read early and often.

Ni en sueños me atrevería a reseñarlos. But if I were to give my reviews, they would be an animated photo of my clapping hands.

This extremely well thought-out, informed, informative, insightful and carefully written book is also absolutely delightful! For example, reading that a whole lexicon-mexicon- homosexicon of gay-referent phrases has been built around the number 41 after the 1901 raid was fascinating. I seriously considered cutting my run short today in its honor. When it came down to it, though, I couldn't stop. But I did make the 41st minute really count. I cued up the gayest song on my Shuffle and ran it really hard. And I'm going to vote really hard tomorrow against the number that has become linked to sexuality and social control in California, 2008...

And for pleasure, for grounding, for reassurance, for direction, for connection, for solidarity, for support, for agreement, for inspiration, for focus, for remembering where I came from...

"Wear your inside out."

This morning I chose to hear the lyric from "Mercy Street" spelled like that because lately as usual I've been thinking about my inside a lot. As someone who values authenticity in whatever emotional shape it takes, the above appeals to me as a command or a motto. But conversely, as someone who often wishes to avoid inflicting my internal state onto the world, it also serves as a warning. My outward appearance can't always be a manifestation of any inherent qualities and more often than not, it shouldn't! In spite of myself, however, I quite often look exactly how I feel. Or how/who I am.

"OK, now be completely, brutally honest," I demanded. "Uh-oh..." she replied, suddenly feigning an intense interest in the childrens' clothing we passed on our way to Shoes. "I'm serious, it's reallyreally serious!" I continued, "Do you think I should go back to shorter hair?" She was quiet for a moment. "I think," she proceeded with caution, taking refuge behind a rack of adorable little sweaters, "you either need to get it cut shorter or if you're going to keep it that length, take the time to do something with it..." "Yeah, that taking time thing probably realistically isn't going to happen." "Mi'ja. Right now you look like an absent-minded academic." Inside out, indeed.



¡¿Absent-minded academic?! ¡But I'm supposed to be a pirate!

I thought some transparency was in order and explained, "My strategic approach has been unique in its lack of, um, strategy."

Guess which symbol(s) represent "my normal approach".

No, you won't get a prize if you're the first to submit a correct answer.That was an ironic/hypothetical question/command.

It's possible that I've subverted the message of this T-shirt which you can buy on its insightful, um, site.

Basically, I'm having trouble controlling my own academic destiny. I think I prefer being told what to read by when by somebody else. I can't and don't expect them to do that for me when it comes time, but I do know that their five different perspectives will guide me as I stumble toward strategy...

Recipe

Serendipity Sandwich

If you have all the ingredients (in bold) you could make this roast chicken sandwich.

Spread some cream cheese on one slice of whole grain bread. Press dried cranberries (AKA sparkling jewels) into the cream cheese. If you don't have them, you could use raisins (golden or dark brown). Put some roast chicken on that slice. Put some kind of greens on top of the chicken. On the other slice, spread some vidalia onion mustard, or if you don't have that, mix some mayonnaise with curry powder and chutney if you have those. Put that slice on top of the other one and cut it the way you like it.

Don't eat this kind of sandwich with Cheez-Its. Accompany it with fancy potato chips with flavors like sea salt and black pepper or sun-dried tomato or Asian chiles. Fresh fruits would be better than potato chips, though.

Drink something like mango/banana/orange juice with it, and if you have any, add champagne to that juice.

Re: Casualidad tras casualidad

Tuesday morning I'd finally opened El error del acierto and read a few pages. On my way to work I thought, "I must write and communicate my elogios". Of course I can't deny that I like it so much because it validates the kind of work I want to do, but even if I weren't in complete agreement with its premise, I would recognize the value of this work. And later on that day... its author, as he has done so often with me, yet again acertó.

I hit the 6 button in the elevator so I could stop to check my mailbox on my way to the office.
The customary aphorism this time read, "Soy bien fácil, me voy con cualquiera."


I recognized the handwriting immediately, but even if there'd been no note, I'd have known who sent it. We share an affinity for the plastic bags from our favorite bookstores (and really, are there any that aren't?). They never get "reduced or recycled" and only rarely are they "re-used". If you ever get something packaged in one by either of us, you will know that you are held in highest esteem, greatest affection and are worthy of the precious bag we've been hording for what it represents...I still haven't unwrapped the book. As I walked back to my office, I turned the package over in my hands and smoothed the plastic until it was transparent and I could read the book's title and author, La novela según los novelistas, Cristina Rivera Garza (coordinadora). When I got to the office, I crinkled the plastic. One of many things I love about Librerías Ghandi is that they use bags made of strong enough plastic to provide secure transport for the books I buy there, even when I'm shlepping them 5 miles through the Mexico City airport...the sound of that unique plastic, the store's logo, the word "for" preceding my name swirled through my head and heart and there were tears dropping onto the yellow plastic when I entered the office. "¡Pero, mujer!" she exclaimed, "¿Qué te pasa? Qué tienes?" Cuando se lo expliqué, creo que me entendió perfectamente.

I immediately turned on the computer to fire off a thank you in response to the message that was waiting.

"Anyway, it is a brief book, so enjoy. It is a gift from C. who never
says "you betcha."
Best,

I am sending the book with"

"¡¡Thank you!! "C.'s" gift, sin exageración, salvífico, as are interactions with you in general. This book in its more than apt wrapper is... perfecto. You always know...very few people have as high a rate of acierto with me as you do." Anyway, I'm a little fahrklempt. So much so that I can't turn off the italics...
Thank you so much.
Do let's talk soon.
Love,
Val

"Esta semana sí vas a trabajar," me dijo.

Y tan grande fue mi sentido de culpa que automáticamente empecé a balbucear algo sobre mis estudios. Afortunadamente me cortó, sonriendo, recordándome que tendré muchos papers que leer.

J.G. Posadas' account of the shooting of Esperanza G. ("La Malagüeña") by María Villa ("La Chiquita")

Someday I'm going to laugh at these words, but..."I can't wait to read their papers!"

Bulb out yesterday...migraine.

I miss being in seminar.

Had I been in that one I would have explained why I think the director shot the protagonista walking around her apartment, then sitting to count her money in just a shirt with her nether parts exposed. It was to direct the gaze of the viewer lower, but not to objectify the character. So what was the point of this? Titillation? No. To make the viewer uncomfortable? Perhaps, but it's more than that. Think a bit. Which part of their bodies do prostitutes associate with their earnings? Caye went into prostitution for 2 very specific reasons. She is saving her earnings to get a boob job because she thinks guys are attracted to women with bigger breasts than hers. And she's not talking about the guys who are her clients. She wants romantic, happy ever after love with a man who will "come pick her up after work". It is for him that she plans to buy the breasts. Since they will not be shared freely with clients, they remain private and as such, they are kept covered up in all the shots we see of Caye. Meanwhile, her "privates" are anything but and the director's choice to make them so very public indicates that he does indeed understand at least a little something about the nature of prostitution and the prostitute herself. This also evokes the stereotypical refusal of the prostitute to kiss on the lips, something echoed in literature and film, such as (and I hate to admit that I've re-thought this movie) Pretty Woman. The kiss was also reserved for a lover, someone who elicited feelings. Prostitutes, in their work duties and while submitting to health inspections (say, of the Porfiriato or in Nevada) were able to turn off all feelings that might otherwise flow to and from the area below the waist. Their genitals function as tools of the trade. Perhaps because of their proximity to the heart, Caye's dream breasts belong more to the realm of love.



Sorry, but no, I can't go back and edit. My battery level is 8% and my computer's is only slightly higher.

"So, how do you style your hair?"

And other questions I can't just answer like a normal person...

• "What do you think of the election?"


• "How many miles do you run?"


• "What are you wearing, baby?"


• "Who's your favorite author?"


• "Where do you see yourself in 5 years?"


• "What's your dream?"


• "If you could invite anyone, living or dead, to your dinner party, which 5 people would you, and why?"


• "How was your day?"


• "So, when do you finish with school?"

Obra Germinal seminal incia Semana Cine Prostitucional

The cinematic version of Gamboa's Santa was the first "talkie" produced in México, 1931.
I get to see it tomorrow!

In my world, it does qualify as an ¡X-Treme! sport.

Ran, 20-somethings on the sidewalks in the decimononic light of my neighborhood. Who do we have to **** to get some working streetlights around here?

What happens in Vegas...

...sometimes doesn't really happen in Vegas.

It had quite the opposite effect.

These days words like "literature", "writer", "publish", "editor", "culture", "journal", "author" provoke mixed feelings. While I was excited about attending LitQuake's Literary Pub Crawl 2008, I went prepared to feel a bit of stress at the least and sinking feelings of inadequacy and irresponsibility at the worst.

Inadequacy not because I want to write fiction or poetry or travelogues - I don't. At all. My concern was more about how I was going to take anything from the event that I could use in my studies. She said that maybe not everything had to relate to my work, maybe I could just go and listen and enjoy and even though I said, "Yeah, maybe." I was trying to figure out how to hear the Latino lit. selections and the erotica selections and testimonio that all appeared to be happening at once as well as hear James read. OK, so I was also worrying about whether there'd be time for a burrito and horchata before any of it.

Our lack of ablility to get our act together (aka: the "Karl and Val Factor") solved all of those problems. We arrived at Valencia St. when the first section was already underway by about 30 minutes, so we decided to get a slice of pizza, then head straight to the Elbo Room and get a seat and drinks and settle in for the Opium and Canteen writers' readings.

Arinell is as close to "New York Style" as it gets around here. Burning the roof of my mouth on the thin foldy-over pizza was so totally worth it! So was having to eat standing up on the sidewalk outside of the joint, setting the bright red, cloying fruit punch we shared on a newspaper dispenser.

Once inside the Elbo Room, we elbowed up the bar and ordered drinks. While waiting for the readings to start, we observed the local indie literati in all its glory, the males with dark straight hair and wearing zip-up jackets with collars and rectangle glasses with dark substantial frames, females with all colors of straight hair wearing skirts that were in defiant mismatch of every other article of clothing on their thin frames. Very very cool. And then, for about an hour I sipped wine and listened to six very talented writers read their wonderful stories. And I took nothing from them for anything I will write. Except maybe for a little courage.

The readings and the wine combined to relax and open my mind. But they were nothing compared to meeting Zach Houston.

Zach types poems onto sticky labels using a tiny blue typewriter. His hand-lettered sign that advertises his Poem Store stopped us in our tracks. Of course I had to have one. He charges whatever his clients wish to pay for a unique poem, written before their eyes. He asks that the recipient provide him with a theme and then his poetic process takes over. As I waited my turn, I figured out my theme and made a mental note to ask him to make my poem diagonal. As he finished up the poem for the girl in front of me, he mentioned to her that he was psychic. When she and her companion left, he asked for my theme. "Emotion," I answered. It wasn't until he was almost finished that I remembered. "Oh no!" He looked up, "What?" Dismayed, I replied, "I meant to ask you to make it diagonal..." Still looking at me, he said, "I know. It will be." When he'd finished, I saw, early in the poem, in its sixth line, typed long before I'd interrupted him, the word - "diagonal".

Mañana...

...and I do mean it.

Just got back from this!

Birthday cake!

You have to be careful about calling yourself an artist. That’s for posterity to decide. It’s better to say you’re in pursuit of a proud tradition…. Your challenge is not to embarrass that tradition.’ -Wayne Thiebaud, UC Davis art professor emeritus

UC Davis turns 100 this year, and who better to take, I mean, make the cake than (not just) pastry artist Wayne Thiebauld? And yes, I would say that posterity has indeed decided.

Of course I see symbolism and meaning everywhere. Why wouldn't I?

But tonight, in an attempt to avoid it, I tried watching Dancing with the Stars. I really did. But after about 45 seconds, the image froze up and was replaced by yellow and blue lines flickering across the screen, evoking yesterday's migraine. Celebrity Exposé did the same thing. I changed channels using the tiny screen option for a few seconds when I came to Univisión. A mere hour earlier I'd declared, "I think I need to be watching a telenovela."

Fuego en la sangre may or may not fill the bill. But I took as a sign the fact that it was the first channel that was coming in clearly. It's pretty bad, but it does contain several elements that have always appealed to me: its title is not the name of the protagonist; ¡Vicente Fernández sings its theme song!; it features lush colores and comida típica mexicana (in this case, pan dulce); several of the personajes masculinos display skilled horsemanship; a long sequence of prayer and candle lighting to La Virgen de Guadalupe; the phrase "¡No puede ser!" ripped forth from the mouths of several characters; the hottest escenas de cama take place between the villains, who clearly do not love each other; Jorge Salinas y Adela Noriega; an element of social conscience...

But the best thing? A culture-packed Verizon Wireless commercial featuring ¡the legend of La Llorona!

"Mom, where's my...???"

I'm guardedly impressed that my friends who are parents can more often than not answer that question when their children bellow it at them. I'm also a little envious. When I reached whatever age it was that I was supposed to be responsible for my own things, it became something of a banned question in my house. Mom only had to explain a couple of times that she wasn't the last one who was using the mood ring/yellow high-heeled right Barbie shoe/etc., was she? In addition to responsibility, she was teaching me logic when she softened her response by adding that whatever I was looking for was probably in the exact same place that I'd left it. Of course, if I remembered that, I wouldn't have to ask. But I knew from her tone that I shouldn't push it by saying so.

If I had a child, I probably would also get annoyed if I had to assume the mommy role of Keeper of Everything. Honestly, I probably wouldn't remember that my kid even had a heart-shaped pencil box/Aston-Martin DB9 Hot Wheel/etc. I have enough trouble managing my own objects. If asked about the current location of a toy, it would be hard for me not to answer, "How the hell should I know? Tell you what, you help me find that red USB drive without a top that contains every paper I ever wrote, I'll help you find the arm that came off your GI Joe."

I do realize, of course, that having a kid would probably be the ultimate lesson in responsibility and would decrease my flakiness. I'd want to be more pendiente de the location of everyone's stuff, if only to ensure that, when it came to organization, the child wouldn't end up like her/his mom, but more like mine.

Guest Blogger #5 (sort of)

Today's Guest Blogger got to skip the preliminary interview because he's already filled it out. He also leaves a comment here every once in a while. His post is previously published elsewhere, but I immediately wanted it for SoL (eww, don't like that acronym. Wait! I do like it, because I can chose to read it as sol!).

Our author is perfect for posting on any and all things auto. He's the guy you'd want to come help if your car breaks down. Like mine did this afternoon. I know that many people would come pick you up, but he's one of the few that will insist on driving the bad car to the shop, even knowing that it could crap out at any moment, just because he wants to see or hear or feel "what it's doing". He's the one who got me watching Top Gear and he's written a bit of an ode on it in the form of a Top Ten List, which follows.

Top 10 Reasons Why Top Gear Is Better Than Other Car Shows

10. Testosterone... lots of it.

9. "Star in a reasonably priced car" section of the show where they put a celebrity in a cheap Suzuki and see how fast they can go around the lap. Where else can you see Hugh Grant, Christian Slater, or David Soul (Hutch from the original Starsky and Hutch) drive a junky little car as fast as possible.


8. The heavy use of filters while filming. Lots of polarizers and other filters to saturate the colors and bump contrast. There camera work is lush beautiful and artistic. They know how to show the beauty of a car both through the visual and the great recording of its engine sounds. Watch this clip of their review of the Aston Martin DBS. TopGear.

7. They are not afraid to speak their minds and dislike something because they do not have sponsors to worry about. They are unapologetic for their loves of performance.

6. Great new vocabulary for the American audience. You get to learn new terms like palaver ".. they had a bit of a palaver." and bollocks.

5. They are willing to make a fool of themselves, but not to the point of being clownish.

4. The Stig- Some say he is a tamed racing driver, other say he is a driving god. and even yet others try to guess his true identity since he is the official time tester of all cars on Top Gear, all we know is, he is called THE STIG.


3. The crazy competitions. Buy 1500£ ordinary cars in Africa and race 1000 miles across the Botswana wilds. Race a dogsled team against a heavily modified Toyota four wheel drive pickup to the magnetic North Pole. Race plane and ferry boat against a Mercedes McClaren from London to Oslo. The Bugatti Veyron vs a Typhoon jet fighter. Playing football (soccer) with small Toyota Yarises. Last, but not least, playing clockers with RV trailers.


2. My wife likes watching it.

1. Jeremy, Richard, and James... the hosts. Three very different guys that make the best team on TV. Humor, intelligence, crudeness, pretentiousness and many other fine stereotypical British traits.