go! don't stop!

Ours is the old, old story of every uprising race or class or order. The work of elevation must be wrought by ourselves or not at all.

frances power cobbe 1822-1904

gray tower tale

i must have fallen asleep while reading kafka on the shore. i had a weird dream about cats and libraries and a strange assortment of characters who all wore lab coats. when i came to, my dad was gone (presumably to undergo another test), and my dad's roommate started talking to me about...a lot of shit. how my dad was really nice and stayed up to chat with him throughout the wee hours of the morning because the guy (the roommate) was in pain. he told me how much he appreciated good conversation and had not had many good conversations over the past couple of years.

his earnestness (and new yawker/european/all around strange accent) made me smile, and i nodded in agreement to most of which he said. as he would try to sit up straight in his loud, noisy bed, we made small talk about his family ("too many daughters"), books ("too many words for his bad eyes"), and the beautiful places he had visited (most of which are in south america) and where he would travel if he had the money (manila and argentina). and he remarked on how friendly i was...much like my father. "it must run in the family," he mentioned and soon after that our dialogue quietened, he began to snore, and i attempted to delve into my book once again.

it didn't pan out though. that man snored way too loudly. like...worse than if your lover is drunk and has a cold and has his mouth pressed to your ear.

so, i took a stroll around the icu. it was early so it was quiet. i met a couple of nice nurses and techs and residents, who all mentioned how i walk like my dad (i think this may mean that i walk very slowly and deliberately...and looked at weird details in the hallway.) and how friendly he was. apparently, he had been walking the halls and making smilies at the nurses. i found myself doing the same thing. just saying hi to people i passed on my laps. striking up conversations with some of the techs about saving some of my paychecks in jars rather than banks and visiting the philippines. talking with other wandering family members about the lack of quality magazine material in the stinky patient care room, which happens to be soundproof.

my dad came back shortly after and was bombarded with calls from his workplace. calls from people i had never met. some calls from people my dad had *just* met. from what i could ascertain, even the director was concerned about how he was and had been getting calls from worried staff. apparently, my dad is pretty friendly. it wasn't until the fifth or sixth call that i became overwhelmed.

i had almost lost my dad, but other people had almost lost a friend. he made, seemingly, an indelible impression. and at that point, i realized how much i really liked my dad...as a person.

i told my dad i was going for a walk and found myself sitting on a busted camel-hair chair on the other side of the ward...with my head buried in my hands. i don't think i have cried that hard in a very long time. i don't much anymore, but when i do, i don't want anyone to find me. and i certainly don't sob in front of my family.

and of course, right when i was in the middle of a snot in my throat, puffy eyed cry, my dad turned the corner and saw me. he pulled his squeaky IV drip across the linoleum, sat next to me, and let me cry. we just sat there and didn't say anything. there really wasn't anything to say. i mean, what exactly are you supposed to say? anything vocalized would have been redundant at that point.

we walked back to his room shortly afterwards and that was that. it probably one of the best, most needed conversations i've ever had.

that's pretty much how my day went.

he's doing much better, for those of you who are wondering.

thanks to you folks who sent messages and called.

je ne veux pas travailler.

i was telling a new friend of mine the "it smells like brown people" story while i was simultaneously trying to flirt with him and the guy behind the coffee bar (better believe it), and it made me start wondering about all of the hideousness that i had forgotten over the short period from me dropping my cafe apron to wearing "business casual"*.

i began my stint at the bookstore because i had hated my job. fresh out of college, i had "scored" a job working working at a public relations firm doing some rather unethical public relationsing. but i was starting to feel uncomfortable, and frankly, unsafe at my workplace. my normal day involved dodging the proselytizing of my co-workers, avoiding the overtly sexual stare of the managers, and working twelve hours/driving for three more. the entire day consisted of pretending. after all, how will anyone buy into your clientele if you look like you're about to kill yourself. anyways, i didn't last very long but i lasted long enough for my team of co-workers to take me to the cheesecake factory and plan out my romantic future. they were both very pretty, very skinny, and very...surreal. like they had just come out of cosmopolitan with the specific purpose to remake me. they eventually came to the conclusion that i liked 'the intellectual type', and that they would drag me to georgetown to look for a fella.

i think i quit the next day.

afterwards, i took the first exit of the toll road, walked into a bookstore, and applied for a job. i was wearing a suit at the time, and one of the managers told me later, that they were kinda freaked out cos i had this crazed look on my face. but i knew my books so they hired me. and thus began my short, yet cherished career in the book slinger world.

it is a lot harder than people think. i mean, there is ringing side. you take a book, charge the customer, and then thrust the book into its new owner's hands. but every once in awhile, you get 'what book do you recommend if _____________?' challenge. the '_____________' could be anything. what do you recommend a fourteen year old girl who is only interested in things grounded in reality (read: no harry potter, twilight, etc.) and who is mature for her age? speak by laurie halse anderson. what about for the artsy kid who you don't know much about (read: i don't keep up with that woman's kids)? postsecret. what about for the toddler whose mother is an over analytical mess of nerves? any boynton book (they're cute, they're friendly, and bite-resistant). and if you're me (or valencia), you have to deal with some disgusting ignorance.

for those of you who haven't heard the story**, valencia and i were pulling a new book tuesday shift when a customer walked in and said, "it smells like brown people in here." first off, WHAT THE FUCK? second off, WHAT THE FUCK? valencia and i spent most of that day in the back room trying to figure out what brown people smelled like. then ended up getting into what makes an 'asian' salad an 'asian salad'. the following are usually included: mandarin oranges, soy sauce, ginger, pineapple, snow peas...and i'm sure a rack of arbitrarily asian ingredients.

who knows what these people were thinking. it's so disgusting that it's actually quite surprising. we still talk and laugh about it to this day because we still are unsure as to what we smell like, but since valencia is an awesome chef and since everyone thinks i smell like candy, i think we're okay.





* everyone else wears business casual. or business 'caaajj' if you want to be an asshole about it. my business casual involves a darker pair of jeans and a cardigan and a non-irreverent color of chucks.

**everyone knows this story, but i'm typing it out for posterity's sake

equations on restaurant napkins

Speed welcomes us in explosions of night : here
is wrath and fortitude and motion's burning :
the world buries the directionless, until
the heads are sprung in awareness or drowned in peace.
Sleep will happen. We must give them morning.

from study in a late subway by m. rukeyser







today marks four years since brandin passed away.

uneasy dreams

"So we follow our wandering paths, and the very darkness acts as our guide, and our doubts serve to reassure us."
: Jean-Pierre de Caussade

this is how the birthday went...

ready, set, go...

butt. can you pretend that you love me? scoot your butt over. oh that really is a banana! we forgot the snacks on the table! pull over, i need pretzels stat! bartender, today is her birthday and she will have whatever is left over in that tray over there. asian blush, it's go time! neutral milk hotel is coming out with a new album! butt. oooh! you're so svelte! wait...yes! svelte! can we double team you? driving through pa gives me the creeps; i think the yeti lives here. how do you spell philadelphia? i haven't vomited yet! more pretzels! more whiskey! butt. get in the pool. speedos with holes. shiny asses. ear nibbling is what people do for fun.

good times three nights in a row. thanks, yalls.
the most pbr i've had in years. :P

c'est vrai

Now we the American working population
Hate the fact that eight hours a day
Is wasted on chasing the dream of someone that isn't us
And we may not hate our jobs
But we hate jobs in general
That don't have to do with fighting our own causes

aesop rock : 9-5ers anthem