Today I skated into a wall going downhill somewhere off Secretan because, distracted, I looked behind me swearing up and down to g that I saw a dog on the sidewalk wearing red rubber rain boots.
It isn't raining.
Neither the dog or the boots were there.
Remember the bonus levels in sonic the hedgehog?
The long half pipe tunnel he runs on and collects hella rings in?
I wish I could skate something endless like that.
Just swirling around
like a surfer might in a wave
with nobody around to yell at me something stupid like
"Ooooh, skate girl!"
"Do a kickflip!"
"Paint a fine painting!"
"Get a real job!"
"Quit drinking!"
The Paris metro smells like a mix between pepto bismol and piss. It is a warm frothy musk that makes you feel like you're swimming through it,
past sophisticated arms,
fashionable everybodys,
lonely anybodys,
and a romanian accordian player,
against the loud veil shrill sound
that sweeps across your long hair
flowing
behind the train.
Gross
but still soothing
in an
any-thing-can-happen-
city
kind of way.
My knees stay purple.
Wednesday, September 3, 2014
Today in France over cofffeee
croissants are no where to be found right now
is paris broken?
i miss the giants.
losing a roll of film is like breaking a bone that will never grow back.
damned pick pocketers.
what do they want with my 35mm anyway?
it was my aunt's camera and it was over twenty years old.
it's hard to find good weed here.
it's easy to find the best croissants on most days.
Sitting at a desk in an office in an art studio writing this i suddenly feel like a professional.
sike.
not a professional.
very informal.
i thought today was monday.
i thought yesterday was silly and many beers.
the other day i fell on my skateboard in the street and my skirt went up
and i got all red in the cheeks
but there was no one around to see.
i felt sexy anyway, though.
so yeah,
life's still coo.
is paris broken?
i miss the giants.
losing a roll of film is like breaking a bone that will never grow back.
damned pick pocketers.
what do they want with my 35mm anyway?
it was my aunt's camera and it was over twenty years old.
it's hard to find good weed here.
it's easy to find the best croissants on most days.
Sitting at a desk in an office in an art studio writing this i suddenly feel like a professional.
sike.
not a professional.
very informal.
i thought today was monday.
i thought yesterday was silly and many beers.
the other day i fell on my skateboard in the street and my skirt went up
and i got all red in the cheeks
but there was no one around to see.
i felt sexy anyway, though.
so yeah,
life's still coo.
Monday, August 11, 2014
Idle minds
After generations have passed what will be looked on in regards to the state of humanity in this early century? Or will they be swept up in the moment of their time in some incalculable world of self-centered bubbles of technology and affirmations, unable to fathom what it was to be human in some part of the universe they don't need anything to do with as the serotonin levels in their brains sky rocket from a programmed chip instilled in wrist or some other scannable limb?
Think about that for a second...
This year was met with the public reality that Facebook was conducting emotional manipulation studies on almost a million of its users. It has all ready been proven that positive reinforcement from things like social media ticks and stuff like looking at a lovers profile drastically changes your levels of serotonin.
Even now in searching for the article- I can't find it. Try typing "how does social media affect your serotonin levels" and you get nothing but facts about depression and anger.
It takes a little while but you can find it.
What does this have to do with anything? Bianca, you're being paranoid.
Correct.
I am very worried.
History has been repeating itself. We had all ready been told growing up that some shit in the world is beyond peoples' control. But reading constantly about the ever increasing state of turmoil and injustice in America and how helpless I feel is enough to get me to write about the things I'm feeling as a way of i don't know... at least trying to deal with it logically in my head in hopes that one person might at the very least think about their actions daily and not readily accept the terms on which society has laid out for us to be "acceptable".
Don't get so distracted, is all I mean, and don't give in so readily to what you're fed, including this post.
Don't get so distracted, is all I mean, and don't give in so readily to what you're fed, including this post.
The inspiration for post come in two forms of time: past and present...
The present article that I read about is the recent shooting of Brown in St. Louis in which an un-armed 18 year old was shot by an SLPD officer eight consecutive times times while raising his hands in the air. The officer is currently on PAID leave and is being investigated to determine whether he is able to RETURN TO DUTY.... The Cheif Officer Belmar has not yet confirmed witnesses' statements that he had his hands in the air. The SLPD has yet to officially reveal the name of the deceased or the officer who shot him.
R.I.P. Michael Brown
The second source for my inspiration comes from a series of interviews from Firing Line with William Buckley. A then very conservative and somewhat judgemental William Buckley goes on to talk about topics I have interests in currently in these three clips with Chuck D. about racial profiling, Allen Ginsberg on Avant Garde in which Ginsberg talks about police brutality, and a panel discussion on "hippies" and the transition from the beat generation to the hippie movement with Jack Kerouac, some idiot sociologist, and Ed Sanders.
These were filmed well over 25 years ago... that's over a whole quarter century in which these issues are very much still alive and still in question. How is it that possible? How are we STILL dealing with this kind of bull shit and in that; accepting it?
Also one more thing I just have to get off my chest...
I am indeed for hippies. I am not, however, talking about the pseudo-ketamine driven burning man internet driven colloquial fake of a hippie who thinks that because they attend some corporate sponsored festival every year with a name like "earth beam awakening" or "psychedelo-douche-my-fur-boots gathering" in a garish neon costume getting their event filmed by oh i dont know? some company like TACO BELL and MTV..
Look- the only thing I'm trying to say, and I'm only going to say it once and never talk about it ever again, is that if your idea of a spiritual awakening is going to FUCKING BURNING MAN... then you seriously... SERIOUSLY need to reconsider your reality and maybe go through a few more revolutions.. the only way I could explain it to people is like this.. if you've been to asia.. burning man is like the full moon party of the west filled with stark commercialism, corporate sponsorship and exploitation, and factual entrapment by state and federal police forces (i.e. while in the kitchen at the flowershop in 2013 I overheard someone on the phone with someone driving back from burning man talking about how these naked lady cops were coercing people in admitting to having illegal drugs and then arresting them on the spot... that's FUCKED)
and oh yeah.. try to stay off the k... for reals... mushrooms are so much safer and better for you.
Allen Ginsberg
Chuck D.
The "Hippies"
*i am, as a human subject to my own hypocrisies. I just have a lot of questions to pose, and this is how I deal with it. Writing, reading (maybe too much), playing music, drawing, painting, and sucking at skating around.
PUBLIC ENEMY
Last rhetorical question- Who cares what I think?
Wednesday, August 6, 2014
No Gods, No war, Know Gods, Know War?
Everybody else was in bed sleeping.
"If you want we can turn this off, if this isn't the kind of thing you want to listen to?"
Swimming in wine in a lake house in the south of France, I look at him in front of me in all honesty, glowing from the fire we lit for warmth and ambiance, and say,
"No I want to listen. I think it's important"
"That's good. Sometimes, I don't know, I just have to now whats going on and think about what is going on."
"It's refreshing. I don't mind listening at all. You know, back home if I mentioned something about war or brought up the word "Gaza" to most of my friends it'd be like talking about unicorns or something to them. A lot of them think it's pointless to think about like 'oh, I cant do anything about it so why should I think about it?' It makes me kind of mad sometimes. Like... OK you spent all this time getting yourself famous for your art, or how good you can party or whatever, on your instagram and all these supposedly cool media outlets, all these magazines, but you can't say anything about the real world or things that are going on at home even? and to that, you can't DO anything? Don't you have legs that walk, or a mouth with a voice in it? It's pointless to be mad at them about it, how 'uncool' they think it is to have opinions on things like this, but it is frustrating that in fact they can do things but just choose to not."
We listened to the radio on his podcast about the increasing violence shed on Palestinians in Israel, how it's hard to defend either side as they are both actively engaging in a war, and how it's impossible to believe that anyone in their right mind actually wants death for people or for this case, whole nations. We discuss both possibilities that both nations are wrong and just need to cease immediately both offenses.
But what do we, as people soaked in comfort, really know?
The next day we walked up a hay ridden road from a lily pad covered, wondrous lake we swam in. We had just seen a wild snake for the second time. I think, there in that moment, that I feel eternally lucky to have been brought up in the San Francisco Bay Area.
That I am allowed freely to have thoughts like these ones, and that my mother taught me well.
I propose, "What do you do about these things? Do you go in mass right up to the borders of these countries and demand that they stop this? That you are indeed for life and prosperity for everyone?"
"I dont know. There are some people who have said that- that people should just go to the country and demand peace. It's unrealistic but it's a good idea. Obviously a very dangerous one, but still good. "
to be continued...
"If you want we can turn this off, if this isn't the kind of thing you want to listen to?"
Swimming in wine in a lake house in the south of France, I look at him in front of me in all honesty, glowing from the fire we lit for warmth and ambiance, and say,
"No I want to listen. I think it's important"
"That's good. Sometimes, I don't know, I just have to now whats going on and think about what is going on."
"It's refreshing. I don't mind listening at all. You know, back home if I mentioned something about war or brought up the word "Gaza" to most of my friends it'd be like talking about unicorns or something to them. A lot of them think it's pointless to think about like 'oh, I cant do anything about it so why should I think about it?' It makes me kind of mad sometimes. Like... OK you spent all this time getting yourself famous for your art, or how good you can party or whatever, on your instagram and all these supposedly cool media outlets, all these magazines, but you can't say anything about the real world or things that are going on at home even? and to that, you can't DO anything? Don't you have legs that walk, or a mouth with a voice in it? It's pointless to be mad at them about it, how 'uncool' they think it is to have opinions on things like this, but it is frustrating that in fact they can do things but just choose to not."
We listened to the radio on his podcast about the increasing violence shed on Palestinians in Israel, how it's hard to defend either side as they are both actively engaging in a war, and how it's impossible to believe that anyone in their right mind actually wants death for people or for this case, whole nations. We discuss both possibilities that both nations are wrong and just need to cease immediately both offenses.
But what do we, as people soaked in comfort, really know?
The next day we walked up a hay ridden road from a lily pad covered, wondrous lake we swam in. We had just seen a wild snake for the second time. I think, there in that moment, that I feel eternally lucky to have been brought up in the San Francisco Bay Area.
That I am allowed freely to have thoughts like these ones, and that my mother taught me well.
I propose, "What do you do about these things? Do you go in mass right up to the borders of these countries and demand that they stop this? That you are indeed for life and prosperity for everyone?"
"I dont know. There are some people who have said that- that people should just go to the country and demand peace. It's unrealistic but it's a good idea. Obviously a very dangerous one, but still good. "
to be continued...
On Violence 2 - CCSF's Unexpected Encounter with SFPD officers
Violence.
City College of San Francisco students were given permission to meet with one of CCSF's special trustees, Robert Argrella, to discuss his recent proposal for a payment plan that would make it impossible for undocumented students to continue studying and to demand that he resign. The meeting was to be held at Conlon Hall, a facility that is open to the public for admissions and for other student services. With permission, the protesters met and proceeding to the building where they were met, by surprise, by city college police and then shortly after the SFPD arrived to aid in barricading the building
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Shortly after, violence errupted. It seems as though no one has heard and everyone just forgot.
Thursday, July 17, 2014
Shit Over 1664 and Smokes
¨The thing about writing now is there isn't shit worth writing about anymore. Even for a journalist. Sure there are bombs exploding everywhere and cars crashing into things but to write about it is to be in denial that the world is shit and so are people, then you just give it worth. Just be fucking glad you have all of your limbs.¨
This was a conversation I knew I shouldnt be having in case it went somewhere weird as most political conversations do with strangers but I was kind of lonley and glad to have somebody younger to speak English with who also listened to the cure. So, I figured, over tall cans and smokes, I might as well humor the arguement and give it a lazy 85° weather kind of go.
¨Shit well.. I dunno,¨I began to answer, ¨I write because I have to I guess. I like documenting things. I think it's important to write about the world and where it's going. Besides I started writing when I was super Young. I'd write weird short stories about celebrities or cartoons on t.v. and like, bizzare comics when I got an idea of what sex was. ¨
¨Hah! That is bizarre.¨
¨Yeah. Then it became a thing of necessity. I thought about death a lot eventually and I had to write about it to make sense of it in diaries I had.
¨Bon, voila! My point there, you wrote about shit and death. Cowardly death at that, what did you know? You were only a little girl! Hell, not even God's shit is worth writing about.¨
¨Which is technically, what? The world and his people, right?¨
My beer was getting warm and my stomach wasnt satisfied with the part of baguette I had, but again his good looks and well enough company kept me in this weird conversation. He claimed to be from Paris but I was skeptical because it is July and he should be on a beach somewhere in the South, according to what many have told me about Parisians. His misery had me humbled, though, in my pursuit of inspiration. It's not everyday you meet a real nihlist anyway.
¨Ëxactly! ¨
Ï think I write because I'm an artist.¨ I said.
In that moment I realized how buzzed I was in the heat.
¨Ha! Well what you sound like now is a stupid existensialist. Besides, what makes you an artist? Do you make money?¨
¨¨No.¨
Äre you good?¨
¨Not particularly. A little, yeah. Not classically, but as my friend said, I make a 'valiant effort'¨.
¨Shit I say. It's all shit. There are too many of these so called artists around to make any of it important. They're all fucking Coca-Cola ads and shitty pop album covers.¨
¨Yeah that might be a little true.¨
¨I could take the biggest fucking planet sized shit right in the middle of fucking Invalides and still it wouldn't- Actually no I take that back entirely. That would absolutely be worth writing about! Could you imagine? HAH HAH HAH!¨
His laugh sounded like several painful grunts, loud and sharp.
¨There you have it then. You proved yourself wrong.¨ I argued.
¨Non, madamemoiselle, I am never wrong.¨
¨Shit there's my bus. I'll catch you around maybe.¨
¨Oui, peut ètre.¨
I sprung up from the curb, slightly disturbed, and jumped on a random bus that had stopped across the street. I had no idea where it was going.
I didn't care.
This was a conversation I knew I shouldnt be having in case it went somewhere weird as most political conversations do with strangers but I was kind of lonley and glad to have somebody younger to speak English with who also listened to the cure. So, I figured, over tall cans and smokes, I might as well humor the arguement and give it a lazy 85° weather kind of go.
¨Shit well.. I dunno,¨I began to answer, ¨I write because I have to I guess. I like documenting things. I think it's important to write about the world and where it's going. Besides I started writing when I was super Young. I'd write weird short stories about celebrities or cartoons on t.v. and like, bizzare comics when I got an idea of what sex was. ¨
¨Hah! That is bizarre.¨
¨Yeah. Then it became a thing of necessity. I thought about death a lot eventually and I had to write about it to make sense of it in diaries I had.
¨Bon, voila! My point there, you wrote about shit and death. Cowardly death at that, what did you know? You were only a little girl! Hell, not even God's shit is worth writing about.¨
¨Which is technically, what? The world and his people, right?¨
My beer was getting warm and my stomach wasnt satisfied with the part of baguette I had, but again his good looks and well enough company kept me in this weird conversation. He claimed to be from Paris but I was skeptical because it is July and he should be on a beach somewhere in the South, according to what many have told me about Parisians. His misery had me humbled, though, in my pursuit of inspiration. It's not everyday you meet a real nihlist anyway.
¨Ëxactly! ¨
Ï think I write because I'm an artist.¨ I said.
In that moment I realized how buzzed I was in the heat.
¨Ha! Well what you sound like now is a stupid existensialist. Besides, what makes you an artist? Do you make money?¨
¨¨No.¨
Äre you good?¨
¨Not particularly. A little, yeah. Not classically, but as my friend said, I make a 'valiant effort'¨.
¨Shit I say. It's all shit. There are too many of these so called artists around to make any of it important. They're all fucking Coca-Cola ads and shitty pop album covers.¨
¨Yeah that might be a little true.¨
¨I could take the biggest fucking planet sized shit right in the middle of fucking Invalides and still it wouldn't- Actually no I take that back entirely. That would absolutely be worth writing about! Could you imagine? HAH HAH HAH!¨
His laugh sounded like several painful grunts, loud and sharp.
¨There you have it then. You proved yourself wrong.¨ I argued.
¨Non, madamemoiselle, I am never wrong.¨
¨Shit there's my bus. I'll catch you around maybe.¨
¨Oui, peut ètre.¨
I sprung up from the curb, slightly disturbed, and jumped on a random bus that had stopped across the street. I had no idea where it was going.
I didn't care.
Tuesday, July 15, 2014
Monday, July 14, 2014
The universe - How?
¨And you may ask yourself, well, how did I get here?¨
Today is Bastille Day. My aunt and I went to the Eiffel Tower Plaza to watch the most impressive fireworks show I've seen next to the time I ate mushrooms on the Fourth of July on the beach at the Santa Cruz boardwalk. La Toure Eiffel suggests the the tower is a woman and tonight, even in her steel stillness, she danced in colors, lights, and fire to the sound of opera, symphony, and at least a million people. And then, if it couldn't be anymore beautiful, a shooting star lit up behind the explosions.
Last night I met a bartender whose family is from the town that my family is from in Guatemala. The village is tiny. I smelled terribly of tobacco and smoke but she liked me well enough to give me free drinks and refuse my tips. Tre belle.
What strange part of human engineering did the universe mistaken to have given us minds that miss other minds? Im surrounded by decrepid monsters of beautiful buildings that don't themselves have minds at all but instill both depth and intimidation on my drunken strolls about Paris. Perhaps that is where ghosts come in. Walls catch light of prefuse moments in time and trap them there to reoccur continually in odd forms. Do those haunted walls miss somebody?
I've been reading Mark Gonzales' book ¨Boken Poems¨. One of the first stories is about how he was grounded by his parents once and his homies called from a party to brag about how some chicks invited them to a party and the World dudes were there. The next day he goes out skating and runs into the same dudes who ask him to do a trick for them. His breaks his foot doing so and is told he wouldn't be able to skate anymore. Crock'a shit that was right?
I've had three people insist that I let them borrow it. I hope they enjoy the chapter called ¨Poetry is for Pussies¨ but for sure not until I am finished with the book. One of my friends didn't even know that he wrote at all.
Anyways, I took the book from Everyday. I was there a few weeks back when I noticed the book in the bathroom. I always knew the book was there by the colors but never by the image on the cover, not particularly striking me at all. I began to read it but stopped to watch Spacely get caught up by the boys who wrote him off a ticket for skating (fucking rat bastards) so I left the book and swore to return simply to keep reading. It only came to one more visit to the shop right before I left and I decided that I couldn't continue without its influence- so I took it with me to Paris. I know, I know, fucked BUT IT GETS OK becaaause...
All right, so I had the book in my bag when I met up with this most certainly pleasant skater and artist Corrine or as everyone calls her Coco. I told her about the book and even showed it to her. She took a picture of it and posted it. Leaving the subject we then continued to drink at this punk bar called UFO bar and counted the shots the bartender was taking. By the end of the night we calculated that she must have had at least 15 by the time we left, leaving our certain number at 10 to use the bathroom and watch the world cup match. We got smashed with her friends while things got very German out as people paraded the streets. We left the bar and walked by the canal where I met this group of babes I'm setting up a shoot with. We stayed at her friends apartment by the canal. In the morning we woke up all in party scum like good fashion- still drunk, fully clothed, me passed out in some weird side room with just my belt off? Fuck, so we stumbled out, went to my aunts where my tia bought us helluv pastries and made us a good coffee set in her studio. We talked about the book again and how I'd be sure to finish it as quickly as possible to let her borrow it. Coco flipped through it a minute, then again switching subjects, and in a couple hours shes was off to the train to go back to her house in the 11th.
Normal right?
After a failed attempt of visiting a cemetery outside of paris and an interesting pass through Paris' Chinatown district (so good) I arrive back at the studio to a message from Coco in a screen that was
all ready up...
COCO: Guess who I felt into in the metro (she meant fell.. so cute..)
I imagined perhaps a mutual friend or someone we were with the night before.
I click her page and lo and fucking behold...
SHE POSTED A PICTURE OF MARK MOTHER FUCKING GONZALES AT A PARIS METRO STATION!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
LIKE......... REALLY?????
Fucking A... What seemingly impossible beauties this world is capable of. Endless floral possibilites.
When I went to explain to my aunt the gravity of gravity and that of the moment, I pulled out the book and looked at the cover much more closely.
Pictured is a hot pair of lips and below it a frame of an Airfrance airplane. I flew airfrance straight to Paris from San Francisco.
I had never even noticed it before.
*******
I have always loved that sentence...
Endless floral possibilities.
Endless floral possibilities.
Endless floral possibilities.
Today is Bastille Day. My aunt and I went to the Eiffel Tower Plaza to watch the most impressive fireworks show I've seen next to the time I ate mushrooms on the Fourth of July on the beach at the Santa Cruz boardwalk. La Toure Eiffel suggests the the tower is a woman and tonight, even in her steel stillness, she danced in colors, lights, and fire to the sound of opera, symphony, and at least a million people. And then, if it couldn't be anymore beautiful, a shooting star lit up behind the explosions.
Last night I met a bartender whose family is from the town that my family is from in Guatemala. The village is tiny. I smelled terribly of tobacco and smoke but she liked me well enough to give me free drinks and refuse my tips. Tre belle.
What strange part of human engineering did the universe mistaken to have given us minds that miss other minds? Im surrounded by decrepid monsters of beautiful buildings that don't themselves have minds at all but instill both depth and intimidation on my drunken strolls about Paris. Perhaps that is where ghosts come in. Walls catch light of prefuse moments in time and trap them there to reoccur continually in odd forms. Do those haunted walls miss somebody?
I've been reading Mark Gonzales' book ¨Boken Poems¨. One of the first stories is about how he was grounded by his parents once and his homies called from a party to brag about how some chicks invited them to a party and the World dudes were there. The next day he goes out skating and runs into the same dudes who ask him to do a trick for them. His breaks his foot doing so and is told he wouldn't be able to skate anymore. Crock'a shit that was right?
I've had three people insist that I let them borrow it. I hope they enjoy the chapter called ¨Poetry is for Pussies¨ but for sure not until I am finished with the book. One of my friends didn't even know that he wrote at all.
Anyways, I took the book from Everyday. I was there a few weeks back when I noticed the book in the bathroom. I always knew the book was there by the colors but never by the image on the cover, not particularly striking me at all. I began to read it but stopped to watch Spacely get caught up by the boys who wrote him off a ticket for skating (fucking rat bastards) so I left the book and swore to return simply to keep reading. It only came to one more visit to the shop right before I left and I decided that I couldn't continue without its influence- so I took it with me to Paris. I know, I know, fucked BUT IT GETS OK becaaause...
All right, so I had the book in my bag when I met up with this most certainly pleasant skater and artist Corrine or as everyone calls her Coco. I told her about the book and even showed it to her. She took a picture of it and posted it. Leaving the subject we then continued to drink at this punk bar called UFO bar and counted the shots the bartender was taking. By the end of the night we calculated that she must have had at least 15 by the time we left, leaving our certain number at 10 to use the bathroom and watch the world cup match. We got smashed with her friends while things got very German out as people paraded the streets. We left the bar and walked by the canal where I met this group of babes I'm setting up a shoot with. We stayed at her friends apartment by the canal. In the morning we woke up all in party scum like good fashion- still drunk, fully clothed, me passed out in some weird side room with just my belt off? Fuck, so we stumbled out, went to my aunts where my tia bought us helluv pastries and made us a good coffee set in her studio. We talked about the book again and how I'd be sure to finish it as quickly as possible to let her borrow it. Coco flipped through it a minute, then again switching subjects, and in a couple hours shes was off to the train to go back to her house in the 11th.
Normal right?
After a failed attempt of visiting a cemetery outside of paris and an interesting pass through Paris' Chinatown district (so good) I arrive back at the studio to a message from Coco in a screen that was
all ready up...
COCO: Guess who I felt into in the metro (she meant fell.. so cute..)
I imagined perhaps a mutual friend or someone we were with the night before.
I click her page and lo and fucking behold...
SHE POSTED A PICTURE OF MARK MOTHER FUCKING GONZALES AT A PARIS METRO STATION!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
LIKE......... REALLY?????
Fucking A... What seemingly impossible beauties this world is capable of. Endless floral possibilites.
When I went to explain to my aunt the gravity of gravity and that of the moment, I pulled out the book and looked at the cover much more closely.
Pictured is a hot pair of lips and below it a frame of an Airfrance airplane. I flew airfrance straight to Paris from San Francisco.
I had never even noticed it before.
*******
I have always loved that sentence...
Endless floral possibilities.
Endless floral possibilities.
Endless floral possibilities.
Sunday, July 13, 2014
Everything in Paris is goth or too expensive if you want it to be
People said it to me many times back home- ¨Parisians are ass holes and they're very rude. They won't give a shit about you.¨
Thank goodness.
I am so ready and very excited for it. There is a passive aggressiveness that has evolved into something so thick in San Francisco that it was literally driving me insane, amongst various other factors of course . Not that I wasn't overly an ass hole this year, definitely drunk and owing many apologies I felt lazy towards eventually. Still I haven't figured out a way to properly apologize for being psychotic without seeming trite and as if I'm trying to dismiss full responsibility.
At the very least, aside from being an embarrassment to myself, I left the city semi-content and with a printed, published magazine feature for amazing BelleSF, a pending magazine release for Lump Sum, and several hundred dollars.
C'est la vie or whatever the fuck.
Also, I found five euros at SFO during the TSA violations and I drank a lot of wine in first class.
So far in one day the city has been only good to me and I have all ready tried five different kinds of wine. Something to say of people who speak french is they all seem to have the most beautiful lips. The buildings here are old with intricate french framework. You can most certainly tell which buildings were founded recently but they at least take inspiration from a very classic look.
It's raining hard and I have a friendly girls date at some punk bar in the 11th at six'o'clock.
For some reason also, I have been very nervous. Not about the friend date, just about my position in general.
I start a lot of things I can't finish. Comics, paintings, silly business ideas, fights, proposed articles, all of it. Namely because I start new things everyday and I have the attention span of a three-year-old. That I've maintained a room at the 5shop for three years now, only once coming close to burning it down, is an absolute shock to me, as is any complete piece of writing or illustration. This year I had every intention to write out three articles and completing, sharing, and perhaps even publishing one. I started them all, the one about the police brutality case no one wanted to talk about that occured at City College of San Francisco in which several students were injured by SFPD, one about the discrimination case that may or may not have occured at a restaurant on 25th and Bryant that some people talked about, and one about how my mother is the strongest person I know having saved an immigrant from coyote bandits on a last minute emergency trip to LA and a very seedy hotel in Las Palmas- but never finished. The story I would like published is that of my mother's. I noted most of the détails mentally as she told me about what had happened the weekend before in LA while on a trip to northern california; when she rented a car and offered to give me a ride to a valley i won't disclose the name for. That happened in 2011. I'm waiting to interview her again so I can record it. I named the article ¨The Trail of Skulls¨.
My great aunt Maria is wonderful. This is her story of coming to France.
It was 1975 and everyone was making the dash to the states from then and also now politicqlly tulmultous and civally dangerous Guatemala, mostly through illegal coyote routes through the mountains. Coyotes are people who are paid to bring immigrants to the states from central america. The practice is illicit and dangerous. Many people die along the trails or are kidnapped and held for ransom. My grandmother and my aunt's friends had either made it to the states or were well on their way but Maria was very afraid. She had heard of the terrible conditions like going through whole miles of dark tunnels filled with shit and cat sized rats and having to sleep in them. Women were often violated or sold off. Despite the increasing turmoil and political unrest in Guatemala, Maria struggled to come to grips with what the journey to the US would entail. She finalized her decision to seek other means after one of her girlfriends phoned her to let her know that she had made it, but not before being raped by four men, kidnapped, had everything stolen, being brought back to Mexico, and having to find the means to again pay for another coyote to help her in again. After that call my aunt picked up a newspaper and began to look through the classified. That evening she read a wanted ad for a cook for the Guatemalan ambassador in Paris. Although it was five in the evening and the paper was let out at six in the morning, she went to the office to try to see if no one had applied yet. When she arrived the applications list was three pages long. Although discourged for the day, she sat in the office looking through the paper for more ads. While reading a manager walked out and asked her to step Inside and fufill the application anyway. While applying my aunt told me she made a joke and made the manager bust up laughing. The joke isn't coming to me now but the manager was so pleased by it that she ripped up her applications list and told my aunt that she seemed very sweet and likable. She gave her the job on the spot. The only problem was that my aunt could not bring her 13 year old daughter with her. My aunt insisted on the position, put her daughter, my cousin, Ariselli in boarding school for the next four years and was flown to Paris the following month. Her daughter later joined her in Paris. My aunt worked closely with the ambassador for many years but later took a job cooking for a french princess after the ambassador moved to back to Guatemala. She stayed friends with the ambassador until her death and is still in touch with her family. Of the whole experience she says she is most glad that she had hope that day and ever since she has not had to ask help of anyone for anything.
She now happily maintains a studio four blocks from the Eiffel Tower, where I am living currently, and has a two year old terrier named Elliot.
She drinks damned good wine, too.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UWdhSccWd3A
Thank goodness.
I am so ready and very excited for it. There is a passive aggressiveness that has evolved into something so thick in San Francisco that it was literally driving me insane, amongst various other factors of course . Not that I wasn't overly an ass hole this year, definitely drunk and owing many apologies I felt lazy towards eventually. Still I haven't figured out a way to properly apologize for being psychotic without seeming trite and as if I'm trying to dismiss full responsibility.
At the very least, aside from being an embarrassment to myself, I left the city semi-content and with a printed, published magazine feature for amazing BelleSF, a pending magazine release for Lump Sum, and several hundred dollars.
C'est la vie or whatever the fuck.
Also, I found five euros at SFO during the TSA violations and I drank a lot of wine in first class.
So far in one day the city has been only good to me and I have all ready tried five different kinds of wine. Something to say of people who speak french is they all seem to have the most beautiful lips. The buildings here are old with intricate french framework. You can most certainly tell which buildings were founded recently but they at least take inspiration from a very classic look.
It's raining hard and I have a friendly girls date at some punk bar in the 11th at six'o'clock.
For some reason also, I have been very nervous. Not about the friend date, just about my position in general.
I start a lot of things I can't finish. Comics, paintings, silly business ideas, fights, proposed articles, all of it. Namely because I start new things everyday and I have the attention span of a three-year-old. That I've maintained a room at the 5shop for three years now, only once coming close to burning it down, is an absolute shock to me, as is any complete piece of writing or illustration. This year I had every intention to write out three articles and completing, sharing, and perhaps even publishing one. I started them all, the one about the police brutality case no one wanted to talk about that occured at City College of San Francisco in which several students were injured by SFPD, one about the discrimination case that may or may not have occured at a restaurant on 25th and Bryant that some people talked about, and one about how my mother is the strongest person I know having saved an immigrant from coyote bandits on a last minute emergency trip to LA and a very seedy hotel in Las Palmas- but never finished. The story I would like published is that of my mother's. I noted most of the détails mentally as she told me about what had happened the weekend before in LA while on a trip to northern california; when she rented a car and offered to give me a ride to a valley i won't disclose the name for. That happened in 2011. I'm waiting to interview her again so I can record it. I named the article ¨The Trail of Skulls¨.
My great aunt Maria is wonderful. This is her story of coming to France.
It was 1975 and everyone was making the dash to the states from then and also now politicqlly tulmultous and civally dangerous Guatemala, mostly through illegal coyote routes through the mountains. Coyotes are people who are paid to bring immigrants to the states from central america. The practice is illicit and dangerous. Many people die along the trails or are kidnapped and held for ransom. My grandmother and my aunt's friends had either made it to the states or were well on their way but Maria was very afraid. She had heard of the terrible conditions like going through whole miles of dark tunnels filled with shit and cat sized rats and having to sleep in them. Women were often violated or sold off. Despite the increasing turmoil and political unrest in Guatemala, Maria struggled to come to grips with what the journey to the US would entail. She finalized her decision to seek other means after one of her girlfriends phoned her to let her know that she had made it, but not before being raped by four men, kidnapped, had everything stolen, being brought back to Mexico, and having to find the means to again pay for another coyote to help her in again. After that call my aunt picked up a newspaper and began to look through the classified. That evening she read a wanted ad for a cook for the Guatemalan ambassador in Paris. Although it was five in the evening and the paper was let out at six in the morning, she went to the office to try to see if no one had applied yet. When she arrived the applications list was three pages long. Although discourged for the day, she sat in the office looking through the paper for more ads. While reading a manager walked out and asked her to step Inside and fufill the application anyway. While applying my aunt told me she made a joke and made the manager bust up laughing. The joke isn't coming to me now but the manager was so pleased by it that she ripped up her applications list and told my aunt that she seemed very sweet and likable. She gave her the job on the spot. The only problem was that my aunt could not bring her 13 year old daughter with her. My aunt insisted on the position, put her daughter, my cousin, Ariselli in boarding school for the next four years and was flown to Paris the following month. Her daughter later joined her in Paris. My aunt worked closely with the ambassador for many years but later took a job cooking for a french princess after the ambassador moved to back to Guatemala. She stayed friends with the ambassador until her death and is still in touch with her family. Of the whole experience she says she is most glad that she had hope that day and ever since she has not had to ask help of anyone for anything.
She now happily maintains a studio four blocks from the Eiffel Tower, where I am living currently, and has a two year old terrier named Elliot.
She drinks damned good wine, too.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UWdhSccWd3A
Monday, July 7, 2014
Sleep by Haruki Murakami
"I am both a body on the verge of sleep and a mind determined to stay awake."
http://www.mylostwords.blogspot.com/2009/01/haruki-murakami-sleep.html?m=1
http://www.mylostwords.blogspot.com/2009/01/haruki-murakami-sleep.html?m=1
Friday, May 23, 2014
Back in the food industry
And i cant smoke enough hash to forget it
And the slob techies i had to pick up after the past two days.
Im mad at their moms.
Also im not doing the blood numbing technique to my body anymore so i cant pretend i dont hate things
And float around the venue spaces
In these weird cotton candy-
Bubble bath-
In god's-
Or the warm winds-
Arms wrapped a round-
The little hands that wear sunglasses-
And snap to old sound-
Trying to claw out of my throat-
All the god damned time-
-Visions.
Everything right now is
Except for me.
The ones of my ketchup grenade
Exploding all over these
Nano fanged
Whatever you call'em
Shitty faces.
Everything right now is
Except for me.
This hippie guy with mismatched dirty patched
parachute pants that helps take care of diamond dave
Listens to him
Exalts him
Humors his still babbling mouth spirit
gave me a handmade pipe to smoke out of
It looks neat.
He made it.
its awful really.
but his intentions
are other wise
much like his soul
and that of those in
the same shock as me
everyday
that this city is seeping
something unlike ketchup
Everything right now is
Except for me.
It looks like it was made from a chair leg.
He gave me two really
But they are one clever idea he had
That has now given me a sore throat.
Eerything right now is
Except for me.
I threw books across the hallway last night screaming at my roommate about how i know he took the basketball hoop off our front door and that the kids from the projects down fruity parking lot need a place to play. I had just been laughing very loudly not one minute before i saw an opportunity for rage. He accepted my apology and they all blamed it on the moon. I haven't been like this in years.
I tell
My self.
I'm sorry.
Everything right now is
Except for me.
And i cant smoke enough hash to forget it
And the slob techies i had to pick up after the past two days.
Im mad at their moms.
Also im not doing the blood numbing technique to my body anymore so i cant pretend i dont hate things
And float around the venue spaces
In these weird cotton candy-
Bubble bath-
In god's-
Or the warm winds-
Arms wrapped a round-
The little hands that wear sunglasses-
And snap to old sound-
Trying to claw out of my throat-
All the god damned time-
-Visions.
Everything right now is
Except for me.
The ones of my ketchup grenade
Exploding all over these
Nano fanged
Whatever you call'em
Shitty faces.
Everything right now is
Except for me.
This hippie guy with mismatched dirty patched
parachute pants that helps take care of diamond dave
Listens to him
Exalts him
Humors his still babbling mouth spirit
gave me a handmade pipe to smoke out of
It looks neat.
He made it.
its awful really.
but his intentions
are other wise
much like his soul
and that of those in
the same shock as me
everyday
that this city is seeping
something unlike ketchup
Everything right now is
Except for me.
It looks like it was made from a chair leg.
He gave me two really
But they are one clever idea he had
That has now given me a sore throat.
Eerything right now is
Except for me.
I threw books across the hallway last night screaming at my roommate about how i know he took the basketball hoop off our front door and that the kids from the projects down fruity parking lot need a place to play. I had just been laughing very loudly not one minute before i saw an opportunity for rage. He accepted my apology and they all blamed it on the moon. I haven't been like this in years.
I tell
My self.
I'm sorry.
Everything right now is
Except for me.
Tuesday, March 4, 2014
last fall and running into iphones with legs
Looking around
They all seem
disconnected from them selves
They bump into me
and an old man walking
on the sidewalk
no apologies
needed
never
when you've got
things to like
no apologies
needed
never
when you've got
things to like
on 24th
never looking up
talking
looking down
at rectangle versions
of themselves
of themselves
of their friends
and family
and there is a wife lying
and like
and like
many girls standing still
looking as though
they're not alone
behind that box
and many boys
and their new sneakers
i try to pretend
that they're all reading
about the ocean
while they throw away
their body parts
and maybe
their shame
and butts
on the ground
grey by grey
sidewalk squares
they have no time to look at
but who thinks about the ocean
on the ground
grey by grey
sidewalk squares
they have no time to look at
but who thinks about the ocean
unless you're an ecologist
that's on
some lame shit
nobody can get with
nobody can get with
or maybe
i'm not the only one
who thought
they'd rather be walking
into crashing waves
this grey morning
to be rid of all
the beeping sounds.
instead
find gold
find brown
find
in thoughts
that are incomplete
and muted.
i want to mute the beeping.
find gold
find brown
find
in thoughts
that are incomplete and muted.
that are incomplete and muted.
i want to mute the beeping.
find gold
find brown
find
in thoughts
that are incomplete and muted.
that are incomplete and muted.
how can you
blame me?
diagnosis
This man had his dick out in his hand yelling towards the west side of market street, pissing freely, maybe not so freely and in dismay, but either way free enough, when I saw my now ex-lawyer passing by me look just as Mr. Magoo-ish as ever. I shook his hand and he told me he dropped my case because it's dragging on to long and, simply, a waste of his time, which I agreed to immediately. He said, "What's going on with you?" and I said, "Sometimes my shoes come untied too quickly, and it makes me taste the way milk does after a bowl of lucky charms." And he said, "Well I'm sorry, too, and you have got a warrant for your arrest." and I replied, "I'm sorry, what was that? I have a hornet for an artist?"
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