I took the GRE's this morning and boy am I shook up. I had to ride the bus for a good hour to get there, passing by my ex's neighborhood in Parkrose. It was literally a trip down memory lane, if memory lane is a suburban deadzone without any culture, and I did get a little heartache as I passed the street where he used to live. Major flashbacks, man.
When you register for the GRE's, they give you a non-Mac compatible practice CD. If you are a mac-user, I recommend finding a PC to practice on because I might have bombed my exam this morning.
Monday, January 26, 2009
Monday, January 19, 2009
Moving
In this society we have a trillion ways of communicating with people--text messages, phone calls, emails, facebook, myspace, twitter, skype, IM--but once you pay a live, personal visit to someone's house, the way our ancestors did in generation's past, you get an unexpected quizzical look from the other. Which was my case last night. I payed a visit to a neighbor of mine who I had a thing with a couple of months ago just to say hello. I don't have his number so I decided to ring his doorbell and see what's up. Even though I hadn't seen him since Election Night, I haven't been able to get him out of my head since then. Two months later I decide to give him a postcard with my number on it.
Doug, let's call him to protect the identity of the innocent, answered the door shirtless. I was a bit awestruck as he rubbed his arm.
"Hey, Doug," I said. He was looking a lot more muscular than the last time I saw him, and I must have had a puppy dog look on my stupid face. "I thought I'd just drop by to say hello."
"Do you want to come in?" he asked.
I enter his apartment to find another guy on his couch. I'm not going to lie, I felt a bit jealous at this point, not knowing if I had interrupted an encounter between the two young men. Doug said he was just cleaning up, but does that require you to be half naked. I brushed it off and offered to get high with the two. The second person, Fred, let's call him, was a really cool guy. I'm not going to lie, I did contemplate or hope for a threesome but instead we just watched Planet B-Boy on Netflix. Good movie, very international.
Doug went out to get a cigarette and I followed in order to get a word with him.
I bummed a cigarette from Doug and we made small chit-chat for a bit. I asked him how he was doing.
"Pretty bad," Doug said. "I haven't been getting as many hours at work lately so I quit. I'm moving in with my dad next week actually."
My heart sank. I tried not to show it because I barely know the guy and we only messed around on a drunken night that seemed like centuries ago.
"That sucks," I said.
"Yeah."
"Where are you going?"
"About three-fifths of the way to Astoria off of I-5."
"Whoa."
I didn't want to linger on this fact for too long.
"What were you doing for work?" I asked.
"I'm a mover. I went around with a crew moving pianos around." Doug didn't sound that enthused about his job. "Making dreams come true every day." I love his sense of humor.
"Wow. That's pretty hot."
"Yeah. What do you do."
I told him about my day job in Beaverton for a start-up and about my freelance writing.
"I just had my first story in The Oregonian," I boasted. "They still haven't payed me yet."
"Bastards," we both say at the same time and laugh.
I take out the postcard that was in my coat pocket and hand it over to him. My roommate bought it from a girl who sells them around the bars. I handed it over to him politely. He read the type-written text in the dimly lit parking lot.
Doug laughed and I felt the little bit of tension between us dissipate in his smile.
"Is this why you came over?" he asked.
"Yeah," I say.
Yes, I know I barely know the guy. I'm not even sure where his sexuality preference lies He isn't a full-on gay or if he is, he's definitely not a queen. Doug is my age, has a Bachelor's degree and a wicked sense of humor that has always caught me off guard. In the two months since our brief intimacy, I have had a slew of sexual encounters with boys and men that some would call promiscuous. Doug, however, was a person that I didn't want to fall into that list of males that I've fooled around with and forgot like another flavor of the week. In a small city like Portland, such a list eventually becomes an advertisement for your reputation in the tight-knit gay community. Doug was not part of this scene which I often immerse myself into. And now, I had revealed my emotions in a snarky postcard and can only leave it at that.
"I know we didn't really have sex and I still remember your name...," I began.
"But it's the thought that counts," he finished.
Doug was honest and told me that he had to get packing. He said that I was a distraction, which I can't disagree with. I tend to deconstruct reality by keeping it real. Every time I looked into his eyes I knew that he could read my mind. I could tell that I was infatuated with him. That I thought he was extremely cute. That I wanted to feel his touch one more time before he left.
I kept giggling and turning away like a stupid high school girl.
"What?" he asked.
"Nothing."
He leaned over and I felt his lips caress my mouth. It was a gentle and soft kiss, almost feminine yet I knew that there was a passion hidden for utility's sake. I returned his kiss, a longer, more sensual one that expressed a desire for more.
He broke away to continue packing.
"Go on now, you." he said.
I went on. I walked home in silence, flustered, trying to reason my emotions into something that made sense, something that wouldn't hurt me in the long run, something that I could keep as a moment of my life that I could learn from, cultivate, cherish.
I can't do anything about it now. This is one of those times where idleness isn't such a bad thing. I've exhausted my energy on this one possibility of love, and there's a high possibility that nothing will come out of it other than a memory for me to return to when times are rough. I'm fine with that. I've appreciated someone and got a kiss in return. If I can't be satisfied with the outcome then I have no right pursuing my heart.
And that was my evening. My bittersweet, slightly taciturn evening.
Doug, let's call him to protect the identity of the innocent, answered the door shirtless. I was a bit awestruck as he rubbed his arm.
"Hey, Doug," I said. He was looking a lot more muscular than the last time I saw him, and I must have had a puppy dog look on my stupid face. "I thought I'd just drop by to say hello."
"Do you want to come in?" he asked.
I enter his apartment to find another guy on his couch. I'm not going to lie, I felt a bit jealous at this point, not knowing if I had interrupted an encounter between the two young men. Doug said he was just cleaning up, but does that require you to be half naked. I brushed it off and offered to get high with the two. The second person, Fred, let's call him, was a really cool guy. I'm not going to lie, I did contemplate or hope for a threesome but instead we just watched Planet B-Boy on Netflix. Good movie, very international.
Doug went out to get a cigarette and I followed in order to get a word with him.
I bummed a cigarette from Doug and we made small chit-chat for a bit. I asked him how he was doing.
"Pretty bad," Doug said. "I haven't been getting as many hours at work lately so I quit. I'm moving in with my dad next week actually."
My heart sank. I tried not to show it because I barely know the guy and we only messed around on a drunken night that seemed like centuries ago.
"That sucks," I said.
"Yeah."
"Where are you going?"
"About three-fifths of the way to Astoria off of I-5."
"Whoa."
I didn't want to linger on this fact for too long.
"What were you doing for work?" I asked.
"I'm a mover. I went around with a crew moving pianos around." Doug didn't sound that enthused about his job. "Making dreams come true every day." I love his sense of humor.
"Wow. That's pretty hot."
"Yeah. What do you do."
I told him about my day job in Beaverton for a start-up and about my freelance writing.
"I just had my first story in The Oregonian," I boasted. "They still haven't payed me yet."
"Bastards," we both say at the same time and laugh.
I take out the postcard that was in my coat pocket and hand it over to him. My roommate bought it from a girl who sells them around the bars. I handed it over to him politely. He read the type-written text in the dimly lit parking lot.
Dear Doug
Just because I can't remember your name
doesn't mean I don't
want to have sex with you again.
From Julius
555.555.5555
Just because I can't remember your name
doesn't mean I don't
want to have sex with you again.
From Julius
555.555.5555
Doug laughed and I felt the little bit of tension between us dissipate in his smile.
"Is this why you came over?" he asked.
"Yeah," I say.
Yes, I know I barely know the guy. I'm not even sure where his sexuality preference lies He isn't a full-on gay or if he is, he's definitely not a queen. Doug is my age, has a Bachelor's degree and a wicked sense of humor that has always caught me off guard. In the two months since our brief intimacy, I have had a slew of sexual encounters with boys and men that some would call promiscuous. Doug, however, was a person that I didn't want to fall into that list of males that I've fooled around with and forgot like another flavor of the week. In a small city like Portland, such a list eventually becomes an advertisement for your reputation in the tight-knit gay community. Doug was not part of this scene which I often immerse myself into. And now, I had revealed my emotions in a snarky postcard and can only leave it at that.
"I know we didn't really have sex and I still remember your name...," I began.
"But it's the thought that counts," he finished.
Doug was honest and told me that he had to get packing. He said that I was a distraction, which I can't disagree with. I tend to deconstruct reality by keeping it real. Every time I looked into his eyes I knew that he could read my mind. I could tell that I was infatuated with him. That I thought he was extremely cute. That I wanted to feel his touch one more time before he left.
I kept giggling and turning away like a stupid high school girl.
"What?" he asked.
"Nothing."
He leaned over and I felt his lips caress my mouth. It was a gentle and soft kiss, almost feminine yet I knew that there was a passion hidden for utility's sake. I returned his kiss, a longer, more sensual one that expressed a desire for more.
He broke away to continue packing.
"Go on now, you." he said.
I went on. I walked home in silence, flustered, trying to reason my emotions into something that made sense, something that wouldn't hurt me in the long run, something that I could keep as a moment of my life that I could learn from, cultivate, cherish.
I can't do anything about it now. This is one of those times where idleness isn't such a bad thing. I've exhausted my energy on this one possibility of love, and there's a high possibility that nothing will come out of it other than a memory for me to return to when times are rough. I'm fine with that. I've appreciated someone and got a kiss in return. If I can't be satisfied with the outcome then I have no right pursuing my heart.
And that was my evening. My bittersweet, slightly taciturn evening.
Sunday, January 18, 2009
I Speak of Everything and Nothing At All
So I’m walking the dog I don’t have
Through the neighborhood of moss covered cobblestones
Drooping branches that want to tickle the pavement
Soft hills hiding my destination and
My mind’s all worked up
Thinking about how socioeconomic conditions
Are destroying the human experience
Economy and equality festering in America's head
And at every step in the Gucci boots I don’t own
Hitting the damp gray sidewalk
I wonder
What’s a dreamer like me doing in a world like this?
This as in Southeast Portland
Reed County or Hipster Nation 2009
Where Beat Poet Allen Ginsbergs read “Howl” at that hippie
College back in the day when The Beatles
Ruled the world and marijuana was mainstream
Where the greatest minds of my generation drink coffee
And drag themselves through the Caucasian streets
Looking for a trendy fix of fame or notoriety
And I ask myself
What’s a poet like me doing here?
Here in the Versace threads I'm not wearing
Here in a gentrified area that wants to hide in second hand clothes
Get high from tattoo ink or trip on cafe art
Without the shoulder to shoulder hustle of dense population
Without an unchecked urban sprawl expanding city limits
Leaving her to grow like a dream of sustainability
Without a clue to real multicultural zest
A whitewashed counterculture at every corner waiting for diversity
And I enter Safeway to buy a newspaper so I can get
Cash back in an increment within my budget
So I can do my laundry at some point in the near future
So I can experience unrequited love again in clean sheets
When what do I see on the cover of the Oregonian
But an airplane afloat in the Hudson River with passengers
Just chillin’ on the wing
And I exclaim to myself
What an experience!
So I head to downtown for a social visit in the Lamborghini I don’t drive
Hoping that some excitement will happen on the bus
Like in Speed where I'll have to take control of the vehicle filled with
Scarfed commuters with dry lips and fingerless gloves
Puffy jackets and hats of all shapes and sizes
Forgetting about the sociology of my life and submitting
To the naturalism of my surrounding
And I ponder to myself
What else would I be doing?
So I’m hugging Gabe goodbye after two cups of coffee and a joint at the Waterfront
And we had just talked about culture and how McDonald’s is now serving lattes
Marketing stupidity in commercials during Jeopardy
Fattening the world with its golden arches and McHeartattacks
And I want to remain in the embrace of his strong arms until time stops
Settle my nose into the nape of his neck and breath in his masculinity
And exhale my bliss into the atmosphere of longing
And his hand brushes down my shoulder as we part ways
He on the Yellow Line heading north
Me on the a bus to traverse the Willamette River heading east
And I feel at ease with our gentle farewell
Though I want to take him to the penthouse I don’t live in
I want to caress his cheek with the back of my hand
But I stop and I ask myself
What will he do for me
Besides capture my attention?
So I’m reading Toni Morrison on the way home from creating this memory
Reading about the dehumanization of Negroes through poverty
About a little black girl tearing apart a white baby doll
Wanting instead a large bowl of lilacs placed on her lap
While she listens to her father play the violin for Christmas
And I realize that I’m part of Oprah’s Book Club
Because Oprah became a concept all of a sudden
And I get a flashback of my freshman year in college when
An English professor of mine told me how Oprah will put her stamp
On Toni Morrison and then give away cars for her birthday
Next episode turning her more into a device rather than an actual person
When what do I see on the sidewalk approach me but a dog in a Burberry scarf
And I say between my chuckles
What the fuck?
I meditate on class differences for a moment only to burst out in laughter
Because I just said hello to a little dog in a Burberry scarf completely ignoring the owner
A man who spoiled an animal that eats its own shit
And I think
What a wonderful moment
Nothing can replace this.
So I’m drinking a real glass of shiraz at night
More real than the technology which has given humans a plethora of
Ways to communicate but has antiquated an actual house visit
More real than any of my aspirations that bubble and boil with every moment I live
More real than my poetry that keeps my sanity
Or other people's poetry that I either abhor or want to claim as my own
And I tell the world
What a way to keep me guessing.
Through the neighborhood of moss covered cobblestones
Drooping branches that want to tickle the pavement
Soft hills hiding my destination and
My mind’s all worked up
Thinking about how socioeconomic conditions
Are destroying the human experience
Economy and equality festering in America's head
And at every step in the Gucci boots I don’t own
Hitting the damp gray sidewalk
I wonder
What’s a dreamer like me doing in a world like this?
This as in Southeast Portland
Reed County or Hipster Nation 2009
Where Beat Poet Allen Ginsbergs read “Howl” at that hippie
College back in the day when The Beatles
Ruled the world and marijuana was mainstream
Where the greatest minds of my generation drink coffee
And drag themselves through the Caucasian streets
Looking for a trendy fix of fame or notoriety
And I ask myself
What’s a poet like me doing here?
Here in the Versace threads I'm not wearing
Here in a gentrified area that wants to hide in second hand clothes
Get high from tattoo ink or trip on cafe art
Without the shoulder to shoulder hustle of dense population
Without an unchecked urban sprawl expanding city limits
Leaving her to grow like a dream of sustainability
Without a clue to real multicultural zest
A whitewashed counterculture at every corner waiting for diversity
And I enter Safeway to buy a newspaper so I can get
Cash back in an increment within my budget
So I can do my laundry at some point in the near future
So I can experience unrequited love again in clean sheets
When what do I see on the cover of the Oregonian
But an airplane afloat in the Hudson River with passengers
Just chillin’ on the wing
And I exclaim to myself
What an experience!
So I head to downtown for a social visit in the Lamborghini I don’t drive
Hoping that some excitement will happen on the bus
Like in Speed where I'll have to take control of the vehicle filled with
Scarfed commuters with dry lips and fingerless gloves
Puffy jackets and hats of all shapes and sizes
Forgetting about the sociology of my life and submitting
To the naturalism of my surrounding
And I ponder to myself
What else would I be doing?
So I’m hugging Gabe goodbye after two cups of coffee and a joint at the Waterfront
And we had just talked about culture and how McDonald’s is now serving lattes
Marketing stupidity in commercials during Jeopardy
Fattening the world with its golden arches and McHeartattacks
And I want to remain in the embrace of his strong arms until time stops
Settle my nose into the nape of his neck and breath in his masculinity
And exhale my bliss into the atmosphere of longing
And his hand brushes down my shoulder as we part ways
He on the Yellow Line heading north
Me on the a bus to traverse the Willamette River heading east
And I feel at ease with our gentle farewell
Though I want to take him to the penthouse I don’t live in
I want to caress his cheek with the back of my hand
But I stop and I ask myself
What will he do for me
Besides capture my attention?
So I’m reading Toni Morrison on the way home from creating this memory
Reading about the dehumanization of Negroes through poverty
About a little black girl tearing apart a white baby doll
Wanting instead a large bowl of lilacs placed on her lap
While she listens to her father play the violin for Christmas
And I realize that I’m part of Oprah’s Book Club
Because Oprah became a concept all of a sudden
And I get a flashback of my freshman year in college when
An English professor of mine told me how Oprah will put her stamp
On Toni Morrison and then give away cars for her birthday
Next episode turning her more into a device rather than an actual person
When what do I see on the sidewalk approach me but a dog in a Burberry scarf
And I say between my chuckles
What the fuck?
I meditate on class differences for a moment only to burst out in laughter
Because I just said hello to a little dog in a Burberry scarf completely ignoring the owner
A man who spoiled an animal that eats its own shit
And I think
What a wonderful moment
Nothing can replace this.
So I’m drinking a real glass of shiraz at night
More real than the technology which has given humans a plethora of
Ways to communicate but has antiquated an actual house visit
More real than any of my aspirations that bubble and boil with every moment I live
More real than my poetry that keeps my sanity
Or other people's poetry that I either abhor or want to claim as my own
And I tell the world
What a way to keep me guessing.
Sunday, January 11, 2009
McTeague, Katelynn and Me
I wonder what McTeague will do with the money he stole from Trina. To be honest, I want a better paying job before I finish the book.
Why can't I be rollin' down the street, smokin' indooh, sippin on gin and juice? How about a White Russian instead?
I went to Blow Pony last night and wish I stayed there longer. That's what you get when you go out with a cute, bisexual martial artist who wants to get laid. What is her pronoun? Female all the way. I swear the female sex is a whole 'nother universe.
Which leads me to the Real World: Katelynn. You've traversed the male-female universes like a transsexual astronaut. Good for you.
I wonder if there was ever a religion that worshiped a transsexual God. Hmm... sounds like a short story to me.
Why can't I be rollin' down the street, smokin' indooh, sippin on gin and juice? How about a White Russian instead?
I went to Blow Pony last night and wish I stayed there longer. That's what you get when you go out with a cute, bisexual martial artist who wants to get laid. What is her pronoun? Female all the way. I swear the female sex is a whole 'nother universe.
Which leads me to the Real World: Katelynn. You've traversed the male-female universes like a transsexual astronaut. Good for you.
I wonder if there was ever a religion that worshiped a transsexual God. Hmm... sounds like a short story to me.
Escapering
I am a
chained
laborer
buildering pyramids
for great pharaoh
indentured to his will
I must obey
comply
my day
a blink
to the all-seeing
eye
watchering
my calloused hands
constructering
history
his honor
my duty
good-bye
good-bye
god-king
I'm leapering
out of this shithole.
chained
laborer
buildering pyramids
for great pharaoh
indentured to his will
I must obey
comply
my day
a blink
to the all-seeing
eye
watchering
my calloused hands
constructering
history
his honor
my duty
good-bye
good-bye
god-king
I'm leapering
out of this shithole.
Thursday, January 8, 2009
My Very First Blogspot
Well this is my very first blogspot.com blog and I thought it'd be a bigger moment than what I expected but it turns out that my online writing is just a continuum of free thought that travels through various mediums. From the early xanga blogs to the myspace corporately controlled arena to the facebook network of tagged photos and "notes." Now this. Blogspot.
At least it is a proper blog. Myspace is just a way to connect to your friends who didn't join the mainstream collegestudentfueled Facebook extravaganza that makes stalking look like child's play. Blogspot will hopefully allow me a chance to write short, non-twittering writings, life exposing stories.
And here's a story for you: I'm planning my escape from Portland, OR. That's all I got to say for that.
Currently I am reading McTeague by Frank Norris. It is very entertaining and wholesome without the aridity of British Victorian Literature. Nothing will ever replace a good book in my opinion. No internet wonder or sensation can compare to the ink and paper.
People don't read. That's one of Portland's redeeming quality: it is very literate. It's almost too literate if that's at all possible.
I just sent in my graduate school application for a Master's degree in Library and Information Science. I'm curling my toes in anticipation.
I hope everyone a Happy New Year. Feel free to comment or whatever it is blogspotters like to do.
At least it is a proper blog. Myspace is just a way to connect to your friends who didn't join the mainstream collegestudentfueled Facebook extravaganza that makes stalking look like child's play. Blogspot will hopefully allow me a chance to write short, non-twittering writings, life exposing stories.
And here's a story for you: I'm planning my escape from Portland, OR. That's all I got to say for that.
Currently I am reading McTeague by Frank Norris. It is very entertaining and wholesome without the aridity of British Victorian Literature. Nothing will ever replace a good book in my opinion. No internet wonder or sensation can compare to the ink and paper.
People don't read. That's one of Portland's redeeming quality: it is very literate. It's almost too literate if that's at all possible.
I just sent in my graduate school application for a Master's degree in Library and Information Science. I'm curling my toes in anticipation.
I hope everyone a Happy New Year. Feel free to comment or whatever it is blogspotters like to do.
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