I’m back! I have to return to the blog world because the 140 word limit on Twitter is cramping my style. Really. It is such a nosey community anyway (er, love you Twitter), and I don’t even know if anyone will ever read this here, so in a way, that is liberating. But of course I must document the incessant drama that seems to creep into every damn day of my life. From every unexpected place in every seemingly peaceful moment drama inevitably is waiting for me.  Yesterday, for instance, I woke up at 4am. I had been battling a cold and chest congestion for two weeks. Granted that sucked, but little did I know I would lie in bed another hour sleepless, and then begin a day of vomiting that would result in me walking slowly, with red dehydrated eyes to the nearest ER, five blocks away, in blinding heat as if in a desert….the yellow bile vomiting had left me weak and chilled. I ended up with two IVs and perscriptions for vicodine and some bronchial antibiotics…

Today I tried to block out the world in order to calm my nerves and boost my immune system…and hopefully clear the red from my eyes (still working on it). I watched episode after episode of How I Met Your Mother, cursed Barney Stinson, cried a little, laughed, and at one point caked henna in my hair to turn my hair a little redder and shinier, and then I heard a bunch of chatter in the hallway and at the same time checked an email from the neighbor… 

“Hello all,
It’s 9:50pm.  I just saw the young boy the resident of apt. D and his parents, saying he has been rubbed on gun point.  He said, when he got home he saw three teenager (one black, one mix and one white boy) were in his place taking his laptop, and other valuable /electronic stuff, while thretened to shoot him.  I asked the parent to call the police.  I hope they do.
Please keep the front door locked all the time.  This is the first time ever, this happens in this building.
Apt. B”

I have to tell you this is the same boy who I hear in the neighboring bathroom coughing up his lungs not from bronchitis but from being the biggest stoner ever, and sounding like the oldest, sickest 19 year old in the history of loser stoner jr college kids. I don’t know him, and i’m being harsh. But now the peace of my house appears to be threatened.  At first I was worried it might be connected to the still unknown guys who stole my purse of my shoulder one night two months ago only a block form my house (also would have been a blog worthy story, where have I been??) but then talking to the older gay painter neighbor guy from the email I realized aha it is probably this boy Matteo’s friends, or rather drug buddies, who are pissed for some reason.

And this would not surprise me because I have been suspicious of him and his conncetions for awhile and here a re a few key things I have seen to make me feel this way: 

1. a gun in his room when it was open a crack

2. a sketchy guy outside our house a couple months ago, trying to get in

3. gay painter’s boyfriend saw a handful of sketchy dudes being rude and hanging outside our pad just a few days ago

4. all the coughing, (really annoying)

And so I eavesdropped on Matteo’s conversation with the cops (it was like CSI in the hallway):

“would you say mixed or light black?” “what about the 3rd guy?” “he was just white…odd shaped nose” “short hair? bald?…what was he wearing from head to toe?” “when the guy pointed the gun at your head what did he say?” “don’t say anything, shut the fuck up…” “but i didn’t do anything, i wasn’t trying to be a hero…” “he said stay on the ground stay on the ground better not call the fucking cops”

Must lock doors at all times. Definitely need to watch my back at all times.  Maybe should move. 

. Maybe I’m just paranoid.

Every new day brings surprises, but I react less. Am I getting old? I’m 28 and sometimes I feel old. My friend said she read an article that are brains stop developing when we’re 28. I think maybe it’s earlier than that for a lot of people.

Old college friends are getting married. I’m back in school and studying art. People think this is selfish. And the biological clock is ticking, at least by society’s standards. I could be fat and stupid, but if I had a child or the prospects of one in the near future, my mom would get off my back, or rather, stop complaining to the family. Actually, I don’t think she’s talking about me at all. It’s my pride that makes me imagine otherwise. I think rather that she has forgotten me. And that for many- old college friends getting married, mom, etc.- I am fully alive as the memory of what I used to be in their eyes.

This world speeds by, it’s true, but it is so very long.

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a few words after a long string of nothings…

I guess it’s been a bazilliontrillioninsanillion amount of time since I sat and wrote something worthwhile, and even longer since I sat to write in my wordpress blog specifically. Not sure what it was about last summer…the confusion of an active moving transition? the hot, humid Jersey air?…but I definitely couldn’t stop puttering about this blog, and at times editing and deleting the foolish ideas I recorded here.

However, between my unnecessary facebook posts and lately twitters, I am more compelled to return to writing, even if just on a stupid blog, in order to decrease my usage of these other, word-limiting, brain-numbing online community sites.

I am pretty depressed. Yes, it’s true it hit me again. And what could be the cause, this time? It is unavoidably in part, the residue of yesteryear’s gloom. But it is also, and more essentially, gaining the increasingly internal conflict between play and work, my childish and innovative self, and my practical adult self…a conflict between the realistic and strong little girl that wanted to be an anthropologist, and the contemporary version of myself, insecure and lonely, wanting to be a lover, the inner spoon in a bed of body-porridge, warm, wet, settled…

I am pretty sure that this latter, sticky self is grinding to a halt, and the inertia of this abrupt stop will lead either to complete, final destruction, or some lasting, glowing, golden something. I would rather not contemplate the former result of the inertia, so contemplating the latter, I see the potential of companionship, or good work, of confidence.

I also currently see a lot of unavoidable connections with people. And yet, they are leading to nothing, because I’m tired and I like to stay in when I’m not working. And it all seems like work. Well, I see people, mostly coworkers and people from last term’s school, who are definitely connected to my life, and yet after a short stint of relative socialness at my initial move to the Bay Area, I am once again immersed in solitude, in waiting, sometimes this feels wholly natural and steeped in patience, and many other times I am restless, and again, headed to inertia. And if I am headed to nothing? Than what? the future is too dark to tell. For the first time ever I have no real plans, nothing relevant, nothing pulling, crucial, cogent, vivid, decisive, bright.

I am just living each day. Otherwise, I feel I might go off the rocker, and that, my friends, my empty internet space…that, is unacceptable.

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Two points

I don’t know how to go from point A to point B (point A being these chats and awkwardness and not knowing if you like me in that way or not and point B being cuddling with you in bed).
I wish I knew.

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People are linguistically challenged…

It hurts my feelings when I see misspelled words on websites.
Personal, professional websites. I can understand misplaced commas, apostrophes, and the like (to an extent) but basic word misspellings on a professional site. It just seems, sad.
Because to me it is arrogance. And in reality it’s probably just ignorance.
And if you don’t share my discontent with normal spelling problems than you probably don’t read much, and with all the kindles, nooks, and online blogs (like this one, of course) there are few people reading actual, real books, including classics where there were complete sentences and plots, so I can see there this (twitter) disregard and ignorance comes from, but still it’s…

I am so overwhelmed. Grad school, the commute to the city, and back. Work. My small paycheck.
My massive list of wants, and don’t need but could really really really use (car, canon 5D, lighting equipment, bookshelves, new friends, a boyfriend).
I am so needy. I am feeling so need. Needy. Need me.

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Recording and Desiring to Experience what we Record…a Contemplation.

First of all, I am confused by my new tank: Jacobs for Marc Jacobs by Marc for Marc Jacobs. What?
Second note begins with a preface.
Preface: Not that I have, completely, so this is just a hypothetical question. (Even with Adam, photographing him nude, I was already fully involved with him on every intimate level, and most of the mystery, or at least the rush of excitement involved in new mystery, was gone.) But my question is, to my fellow artists, have you ever painted/photographed/written/sculpted a person that you felt intimately drawn to on a SEXUAL level? I have to add sexual, as in a physical desire for them, because there is a difference between desiring to know someone intimately, which can be divulging a facet of their soul, and usually is a desire that I feel for everyone I photograph…there is a difference between this desire and a desire to not only understand and connect to a part of their soul but to further experience them on a material level, to possess them not just mentally and spiritually, but also physically. Photography, let’s face it, and other art forms that attempt to identify, deconstruct, and record a person or a portion of a person, is at once recognizing the soul and vibrancy of that person, and also negating it by objectifying it into this limited, physical space, whether a molding of clay, a piece of prose, a picture within a frame. It can be a form of destruction as well as beauty, each recording a perspective of the author or artist, imposed upon the subject as if their perspective is the greater truth in the longevity of their proposed perspective. Anyway, to accompany my question, if you HAVE felt that intense desire for a model, what did you do? Did you feel more comfortable, flustered, inhibited? Did you drink some whiskey or wine before the shoot? (Here I have to omit the writer, who is more detached from the subject, because in the case of the visual artist working directly with the subject is looking at them and knows, even if they are not recorded that they are being looked back upon, and judged, understood, and undressed in just the way they are undressing, judging and understanding their model. And the model, without the tool with which to record their hunter, as the prey, has the power of the hunter’s desire behind them, to pressure and excite them. If they remain uninhibited by the gaze of the artist recording them, they are infinitely powerful). Recording, and desiring to experience on multiple levels what we record, this is the recreation of anxieties that have plagued me since mu first crush in elementary school. A fear of rejection and failure. Of brutally remolding a model into something grotesquely distorted from their true selves, and finding that distortion to be a reflection of myself. And a fear of liking that. I have to recognize these anxieties, embrace these desires from which they are spurned, and deconstruct, recreate and consume them. This is the essence of what attracts me to photography. And in its best moments, it is intimate, and in its very best, it’s sexual, or I imagine, in a way, it will be. So there we have it. And again I pose a multi-layered query: what do you desire, how does it move you, what do you do about it?

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A nose by any other name…

This may be rude of me to make via thumb typing a short critical judgement without any moral but regardless I felt it was horrifying enough to mention:
I’m sitting on the Bart 4 o’clock to an elderly lady (this means many years have passed in this state) with a bulbous, round mole hanging from her right nostril. And at first I thought it was a giant booger so I stared akin to the uncontrollable ogling of the fire fighters in the movie Roxanne when Steve Martin’s Cyrano de Bergerac clone walks in the room.
So I stared and she smiled at me! It made me think she kept the monstrosity to disturb people because more horrifiyingly she enjoys inflicting pain through her mysterious unique dangerously painfully wickedly fat freak face. Or maybe she finds it beautiful, and that’s cool.

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Waiting for the shackles to drop off. The flicker of my candle is going to give me a seizure. Must be up pre dawn for photo landscape showdown at the Berkeley marina. I have never been so thrilled for morning to arrive…

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