Michel Gondry

I don't like cynical movies. Cynicism is very easy. You don't have to justify it. You don't have to fight for it.

From the A.V. Club.

I dreamt about my sister.

there was this gorgeous house. white. open.
you owned it. well, you lived there.
rumor said it was possessed; you doubted the rumors.

your friends were there.

something odd was in the air.
the presence was eerie. frightening, even.
no one cared.

the neighbor brought over two fifty cent pieces.
these were the telltale signs of a wicked house.

I told you. you still wouldn't leave. I tried pulling you with me.

you stayed behind.

a reminder.

That purse still hangs by a ribbon on my bed post. Its broken zipper rendered it useless.

Its zipper broken that morning. I stuffed my things, left on the floor from the night before, into that purse.

You were lovely. Offering to make me coffee and eggs.

I was rushed, confused, and trying not to be hopeful. I didn't tell you. In my haste, the zipper broke. You walked me out, kissed me farewell, as I clutched the purse close. I wanted to/didn't want to leave.

You were lovely. I didn't tell you.

That purse hangs on my bed post.

city folk.

Bicyclists in the city remind me of lone horseman of days past. Leaning forward and rising from their seats when about to drop down from the curb or ride over a pothole.

Semi-trucks remind me of elephants. Awkward and clumsy.

Black Meets White.

Yesterday was the largest voter turnout, EVER.

Barack Obama, the first African American President will enter the White House on January 20th. The color of history is changing. Life is good.

Hopefully the next four years turn out to be everything we've pined for.

Haiku, haiku.

There was a haiku contest hosted on a website, seeking submissions on the McCain/Palin ticket. A friend of a friend (yes, long distance) submitted this one:

mock them all you want
the country is asleep and
deserves no better

This friend of a friend is named Kaveh Soofi.

Is the election waking people up? When it's done will we return to our restless slumber?

What if...

...the government was operated like a business.

The citizens are the stockholders.

They choose where to invest their tax dollars; allocating where they approve their money to be used. The dollars would show citizen support for various initiatives -- whether off-shore drilling, sustainable energy, war on terror, what have you.

507 miles.

507 miles.
Leave Milwaukee.
Two sisters.
iPod playing Leonard Cohen.

Grandma visits.
Tired. Restless.
Exhilarated to see us.

And it was our goodbye.

And there was singing.

On 9.28.08, Ryan + Amy got themselves hitched, forever after. Megafaun was the side act to the wedding. And we sang, clapped, stomped, danced and some ate flowers in celebration.

another superhero has passed.

Edith Christine Mytty, 92 years old.
My Grams.
Sunday, September 21, 2008



[Previously here.]

What my dreams are made of.

I had a dream that I was in a white pill capsule-shaped elevator.

My room (not sure if it was my apartment or a hotel?) was on the 60th floor of a 90-story building.

This skyscraping building was covered in white -- inside and out.

The elevator had a gray interior with a few floor to ceiling length windows -- maybe a foot-wide each. It moved on the outside of the building, much like the temporary elevators at construction sites. It moved over a white sandy beach with the ocean stretched out just beyond it.

Every time the elevator was requested to a higher floor, it'd start at the highest of the requested floors; I think, in an attempt to maximize energy use. And for some srange reason, my hand was magnetized to the 90th floor and each time, I'd reach out and press the button for floor 90. Then, bump back down to the 60th floor.

I couldn't get off the elevator. I couldn't stop pressing the 90th floor button. The elevator moved so fast I felt I was floating like a poorer version of what astronauts experience on the moon. I hardly kept my feet on the ground.

When the elevator reached the top, it flipped over; a complete 180. And still I couldn't get off.

Kipling's words.

Of all the liars in the world, sometimes the worst are our own fears.

- Rudyard Kipling

A Whistling Chicken.

I'm in the kitchen with my roommate Katie. She's busy cooking up her chicken. I'm listening to my tea kettle whirring in the background.

The kettle whistles. With perfect comedic timing, Katie asks, "Is that my chicken? I thought he was dead already."

There's a comparison to humanity here.

Anyway, it seems to me that the way most people go on living (I suppose there are a few exceptions), they think that the world or life (or whatever) is this place where everything is (or is supposed to be) basically logical and consistent. Talking with my neighbors here often makes me think that. Like, when something happens, whether it's a big event that affects the whole society or something small and personal, people talk about it like, "Oh, well, of course that happened because such and such," and most of the time people will agree and say, like, "Oh, sure, I see," but I just don't get it. "A is like this, so that's why B happened." I mean that doesn't explain anything. It's like when you put instant rice pudding mix in a bowl in the microwave and push the button, and you take the cover off when it rings and there you've got rice pudding. I mean, what happens in between the time when you push the switch and when the microwave rings? You can't tell what's going on under the cover. You can't tell what's going on under the cover. Maybe the instant rice pudding first turns into macaroni gratin in the darkness when nobody's looking and only then turns back into rice pudding. We think it's only natural to get rice pudding after we put rice pudding mix in the microwave and the bell rings, but to me that's just a presumption.

* From page 461 of The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle.

Making usefulness whimisical.

* This is in Dresden. Love when people make the necessary everyday items seem a bit less everyday.

I can't remember who said this.

he compared ann to a thornbird. a bird who never sings it's entire life. and goes seeking a thorn tree.

it's not until the bird impales itself on the thorn does it sing it's most beautiful song. more beautiful than any bird out there.

and the world stops to listen to that song.

Gigantic centipede

Ew. He started out in the bathroom and somehow sneaked to my bedroom. Ran laps around the molding. The Taschinator dared to eliminate the centipede with a large, baseball-sized wad of toilet paper. At one point she climbed on the window sill to tease the big guy to come back down. He curled up his back end, taking on the appearance of a cat about to pounce on his victim. I'm certain we heard him hiss at this point. And if he could expel poisonous venom, I'm sure he would have done so.

Alas, we lost sight of him. And he lives on. Somewhere. In our apartment.


Part of the hunt was captured in video. Tasch was the videotaper, laughing at me hysterically. Tasch, where's part II?

First crushes.

At a tea party, I met an opera singer. Six of us were there reminiscing about our childhoods. One is an opera singer. She shared the story of her first crush; he reminded her of Donkey Lips from the Nickelodeon show, Salute Your Shorts.

She liked him because his fingers reminded her of sausages. Even though, she didn't like sausage.

light packing.

My Gramps had a size 15AA foot. His shoes were custom-made.

When he and my Grams went to Europe with for their first time, he took one pair of shoes.

The choice: cowboy boots.

Cottage cheese, cereal, and PB&Js

Freshman year of college I lived in suite; three roommates total, two on each side. Across the hall, lived four girls. Carly, who's family dined with and befriended Jeffrey Dahmer and his family. Nicole, who ran the top N'Sync fan website and thus, monopolized much of the campus' internet bandwidth. Ann, who had a full-ride scholarship to the business school and wore a belt fashioned from a seatbelt. And Katie, who worked harder than most and dated (eventually married) her high school sweetheart.

As for me, I was the adopted roommate, in lieu of Carly.

As is always true with roommates, we all started to know each others' habits. Nicole had a penchant for hitting the snooze button and slipping through parking lot guards. Katie, studied much, partied just as much, and went to every class. Ann, napped at every spare moment for hours at a time and would only eat PB&J, cottage cheese and cereal.

On Monday, from Katie, I learned that Ann passed away. Her latest facebook update tells that she was off to China to volunteer for the Olympics. It seems that in Beijing, she suffered a severe head injury and died as a result.

I didn't believe it at first. As one person said, I thought it was a joke. But no punch line ever came.

Ann was the infallible one. The girl who had three majors in undergrad, already earned her masters and was on her way to law school a month from now. Flip cup was her sport and sarcasm was her language. She was the intelligent one who was going to stop world poverty and hunger with a sweep of her arm. And after a five-hour nap, she'd go on to spread reason to all the dictators of the war-torn countries. Thus spreading peace throughout the world.

In Switzerland, I fractured my leg while we were canyoning and Ann walked away eager to jump right back in. We theorized that had we lived in Switzerland, we would be neighbors and paraglide to work every day. Two steps, parachute would be inflated and off we'd be.

When most of started work, Ann went to intern/volunteer at the UN in Strasbourg, France. Before that, it was at Capitol Hill. Then it was the AmeriCorps and a job at Habitat for Humanity. That's not to say she was superhuman.

It's to say, she lived.

: : : :

Somewhere around the 72 hour mark ago, I gave a two-minute toast to celebrate the wedding of two good friends. Marking a momentous beginning.

24 hours ago, I learned that Ann passed away. Marking a momentous finality.

: : : :


To Ann, the baller who's aim was to never grow up. August 4, 2008
Beijing, China

What a jicama looks like.

In case you were wondering, this is a jicama (a Mexican cousin to the sweet potato).

Black Cloud by Carlos Amorales

I wish I had had my camera on me. 25,000 black paper moths descended on the Philadelphia Museum of Art by the artist Carlos Amorales.







* Photos from here.

toyko looks a lot like paris.

*from kirst, a postcard both printed and written in Japan. welcome back to the States!

Airplane education.

For awhile I've had an idea to enable travelers to use their time on the airplane to educate themselves about their next destination. The elevator pitch is this:

A captivated audience sits on each plane behind a television screen. Use it to make them smarter travelers. Tell them about their destination. Give them language lessons and the necessary context to fully appreciate their destination. Show them around their destination airport, where the luggage is, where to convert money, where to catch a cab into the city. Tell them about their transportation options into the city. What's the best way to get there?

If I'm going to Prague, tell me about the secluded restaurant that looks over Old Town Square. Give me the history of the astrological clock and the fate of its maker. What pieces of language should I know to get around? Hello, thanks, goodbye, restroom, please.

Make me a smarter traveler. I'll appreciate it.

My dad dropped me a note about an Omaha-based company. It seems their dipping their toes in the same water.

They beat me to the chase! Somewhat ironic that they're from Omaha.

button fodder.

Inspiration.

There's a knitter named Valerie who makes art installations with her knitting.

Imagine a gallery with buttons in place of the knit.

For the two who are ShinBiase...

To the hol(e)y-panted groom and joyful bride: worth it.

to remember.

Release expectations.

Not every moment needs to be practiced.

lately.

Lately. Moments that have stood out.

[one]
Jenny and Elliott's company on my laid-back 4th of July weekend. Bicycle rides. Farmers' market. 2am dip in the lake in skivvies. Vegan cooking. Conversation. Jenny's comment to Elliott, "You never know what's going to happen in Milwaukee. Be ready for anything. Pack accordingly."
[To JK & E: promise next time I'll properly measure miles.]

[two]
Two people have recently told me to start up a cafe or foodery.

Jenny on my pancake skills:

Kate is really a pancake artist. Quit your job and open up a restaurant. Serve only pancakes and pastries. Heck! If I don't get a job straight out of grad school, let's pack back around the world then open up a vegan restaurant! Seriously!

Our accounting/HR guy at work:

You should start a cafe called "Sandwiches Made With Love." Your presentation is always perfect -- the colors, the shapes.

grams

Whenever this time of year rolls around, I think of my Grams.

Back when my Grams, Mother of my Father, still drove around the brownish-gold Toyota Cressida (the same car my parents bought when I was born), she'd drive out to our cabin and add her own personal touch. We always knew she had been there because some odd knickknack from the dollar store or borrowed from one of her various collections would be making itself at home on a bookshelf or table when we arrived.

One time on the wall, she hung a family photo collage, housed in a wooden frame shaped into the word family. Each empty space around the letters, she filled with photos of my sister and I's dance competitions, our old green boat, or the staged family photos.

Sometimes she'd bring an elephant figurine. My Grandfather was in the army in WWII, stationed in India. He left the States when my Grandmother was pregnant with my Father. They had been married maybe six months. Ernie, my Grandfather, collected elephants during his army duty. This was when when ivory was still legally bought and sold. We'd find these elephants alongside our movie collection of Little Mermaid, Apollo 13 and Mrs. Doubtfire.

When spring rolled around each year at our cabin, flowers would sprout up in unexpected places. Beneath trees. Near the propane tank. Alongside the entryway. And on the side of the cabin. We never knew what to expect come spring; it was Grams' way of surprising us and reminding us she had been there.

Now she's victim to dementia and quickly losing grasp of her history. She's 92. Still four feet and eight inches high with a kind heart. It's long since the gold Toyota was sold to some teenager looking for a first car.

My Pops takes care of her, makes sure she hangs onto her hearing aids and washes her clothes, helps her bathe. The rolls have reversed. Pops plays parent. Grams plays child.

I miss the random knicknacks and flowers.

the bicycle thief discount.

Walking to the bicycle shop today, awkwardly holding a mess of a mountain bike without front wheel or bicycle seat, and run into Corey, the Bike Fixer and owner of the bicycle shop on my way down. We make brief conversation. Corey inquires as to where the front wheel is. I give him the 10 second story and continue inside to where Andy, another bike fixer, Corey's employee, greets me.

I repeat the story of the stolen front wheel. And, point out that the bicycle didn't even have the quick release so this particular thief had to work for his takeaway. Andy points out that I have bad luck with back tires -- my bicycle had been in a week earlier injured by a piece of glass.

Corey walks in a few minutes later, "Hey, Andy. Give her 10% off of all the parts."

Me, "Ah, the back wheel stolen discount. Thanks."

Misunderstood.

Cho and Shee are the two Burmese refugees I've been teaching English for the past two weeks. None of us know enough of the same language to fully explain what we mean; our stories and explanations are communicated mostly in broken English and through gesticulations.

We meet on Mondays and Thursdays. Today, I was running late to our meeting and ended up locking my bicycle (well, Katie's* actually) up at the Community Center just south of National Avenue and west of 6th Street. I race the final two blocks to our meeting place.

Cho and Shee usher me into the house, asking, "Bicycle?"

"Yes, yes. It's two blocks away. Not a big deal. I can walk and retrieve it later." Last session, I left my bicycle a 15 minute walk away from the house; so I appreciated their concern for my well-being.

Shee persisted, "Bicycle, here, walk; bicycle, here, walk."

"No, it's okay. I'll be fine. Thanks, though."

Shee laughs. "Bicycle, here, walk; bicycle...walk...here."

I laugh at what seems to be a misunderstanding. "Really, it's fine. I'll be okay."

. . . .

Two hours later the session ends. By this point, it's pouring rain (what are the chances?); huge, ominous, cumulus clouds are hanging out low to the ground; lightning is doing its job and the sky is aglow with thunder rolling ever so closer. Me, without rain jacket, as usual. But I'm optimistic. I've ridden through worse.

We bid farewell. I take off sprinting in the direction of the locked bicycle only to find the bicycle without a back wheel.

Somehow in the previous two hours, a bicycle tire thief came out with his/her toolkit (these wheels not being in the quick release wheel family), loosened the nut and bolt combination that secured the wheel, and off the wheel went with no trace. And, at a community center, nonetheless. The irony.

Next English lesson:
"Bring bicycle here or there will be no wheels."



* I've been sorely amiss without my bicycle this week. It's being repaired at the bicycle shop down the road. New chain, sprockets and a broken spoke are its ailments. In the meantime, my roommate Katie lent me her bicycle which is now without a wheel.

When my bicycle and a car door had an unfriendly meeting in 2006

From an email by one of my hospital attendees and emergency contacts, Heather:

All,

While reading what I am about to tell you, please keep in mind that it was 45 degrees outside, the day this occurred. That’s right…45 degrees, on December 31st. What’s wrong with this picture???? Also, please keep in mind that Milwaukee isn’t a very bike friendly community, unlike Portland, Oregon, where bicycles are the main mode of transportation.

Kate received a new bicycle on her birthday. She had plans to ride it on the bustling thoroughfares throughout Milwaukee. It was a brisk afternoon before New Year’s and Kate had a few errands to go on. While riding through the 3rd Ward, a soccer mom in her unnecessarily gigantic Suburban decided to open her door. Within seconds Kate’s bike became quite familiar with that door. Kate flipped over her handlebars and went head first into the concrete in front of Coquette Café (The scene of my 21st birthday). The suburbanite, apologized profusely, while Kate’s co-worker, who happened to be across the street, looked on. Kate proceeds to tell the woman that she’s fine and doesn’t need to go to the hospital. Instead, she calls her friend Jeff:

Kate: “Hi Jeff. What are you doing?”

Jeff: “Just looking for some songs in iTunes. What are you doing?”

Kate: “I was just in a bike accident. Do you think you could come pick me up and take me to the hospital??”

In no time, Jeff was at the scene. Since Kate and I live conveniently in the same building, I joined them on their trip to the hospital. Just when you thought this story couldn’t get any more bizarre, after Kate was patched up, we went to Bella’s Fat Cat for din din and guess who we saw there??? Matt M. with Ian H., the MU class of 2005 senior speaker. (By the way, Tom’s other girlfriend, Emily W., was on the treadmill next to me earlier that day.) That night Kate and I watched an appropriately titled movie, for the occurrences that day, Crash.

Why the long email you ask? If there is a moral to this story, it’s this. While Polar Bears are drowning, due to the melting of the polar ice caps and the general deterioration of our planet Earth, please remember to wear your helmet while riding your bike in late December. As we can all recall, our friend Tom was in a bike accident that was witnessed by his roommate Jae and a Jesuit and my dad did a header down a hill, into the gravel not too long after.

Wear your helmet and don’t be a stupid suburban mom either!!!!!

(If something unfortunate does happen though, please treat yourself to a delicious chocolate shake and butter burger. It hits the spot.)

---

* This unfortunate meeting happened on the eve of New Years' Eve in 2006. Email reprinted here as a reminder to me. Thanks to Jeffrey for saving me from the Third Ward and forever teasing me about my phone call to him. And, thanks to Heathre and Jeffrey for making my hospital visit ever more entertaining than it would have been had I gone with the Suburban-driving woman who's car door met my bicycle in such an untimely and unfriendly manner.

Day 1: Palmistry

Wandering back from dinner, my dad and I stumble upon Mrs. Sylvia's tarot card reading, fortune telling and palm reading spot. Her daughter, perhaps mid-thirties, beckons us and our curiosity from the front door; Mrs. Sylvia, perhaps 70 some odd years, is inside, "What do you want?"

And for a mere $20 each, my dad and I asked to have our palms read. I was matched with Mrs. Sylvia's daughter; "Two hands read, or one? Two hands will give you a more accurate and well-rounded reading."

"Well, what's the price difference?"

"Two hands, forty dollars."

There's no way I am spending $40 for my first palm reading. "One hand read is fine."

"Give me your right hand."

I place my hand, palm up, on the table; what will she see?

"You are a kind-hearted person. You're honest. You have many good friends. You don't like when people tell you what to do. In your life, you will never be poor nor rich. But you will be able to get along with what you have. Your happiness lies outside of money. You've always known that. You will live a long, healthy life to 88 or 89 years of age. This year will be a good year for you. There are a few love interests but one who you will always, truly love. This one likes you, but needs some time to figure things out. Be patient. Soon he will ask for your commitment. Commit and it will turn out well. I see you having one marriage, no divorces. You will mother more than one child. You are strong and your life will reflect that."

- - -

How often does fortune become the truth when we seek the future laid out by others?


* This is the first of my days on the great Philadelphian/Gettysburg/Valley Forge adventure.

Playing: Bonnie Prince Billy

I like the places where the night
does not mean an end
where smiles break free
and surprise is your friend
and dancing goes on in the kitchen
until dawn
to my favorite song
that has no end...

- BPB, You Remind Me of Something

Playing: Mississippi John Hurt

Now, I'm raring to go, got red shoes on my feet
My mind is sittin' right for a Tin Lizzie2 seat
Hurry down, sweet daddy, come blowin' you horn
If you come too late, sweet mama will be gone

- MJH, Richland's Woman Blues

A video.

gramps.

hugging me at the end.

when I knew it was goodbye.
big screen tv.
bright orange tools.

learning how to walk again.
amputation at 9.11

delirium towards the end. heard traffic as farm sounds.

nintendo.
ahead of his in technology. surround sound. country music I despised at that point.

whiskey the dog. the irony of a name was lost on me as a kid.

tears from his eyes.

Walden.

Background.

Old folks, youngins and animals.

Venturing off from the story idea, is that of a blog for my ideas. To come: creepy fortune cookies, airplane lessons, immigration help, pancake windows and gyms that pay people to work out.

A piece of the first idea posted here:
This article semi supports my nursing home/foster care home/animal shelter smörgåsbord building. All in one.

Would not each resident be happier? And more loved?

A Mini-Treatise on Why Courier New Should be Used to Indicate Sarcasm

courier new. has feet. sarcasm.

me, who would operate well in a world of gestures and facial expressions. thus for those of us in the world who lack proper detective skills for seeing sarcasm, please for the sake of us all, use courier new!


- - - - -
to ryan schleicher who knew when to use courier new.

Saving skirts.

This might very well save me from my next bicycle tumble.

Soggy Shoes

As the rain poured on, I was left with soggy shoes and sandy pants.

And on I biked.

bike glory.

Bicycling on my way home from a barbecue on a main thoroughfare. 40 yards in front of me, I spot a policeman on a bicycle. I keep pedaling. Now he's 30 yards away.

25 yards.

I keep waiting for him to turn off. And debate whether passing on bicycles is the same as passing on cars? I mean, it's practically taboo to pass a police car while you're driving. Is it the same on bicycles? If I pass him, perhaps embarrassing him in the process, will he pull me over?

15 yards, now. I'm covering ground quickly. Still waiting.

10 yards.

5 yards.

1 yard. Come on buddy, keep going; a little faster! Now the decision, to pass or not to pass? I slow down as a car passes by.

And here I go! Pedaling fast. Looking straightforward so as not to catch his eye. He watches as I pass. Alas, bicycle cop, left in the dust! No one can stop me now!

As I'm still reveling in my feat 1/2 mile later, a policeman on a motorcycle passes me up.

What we hear.

Why is that our heartbeats often drown out our thoughts?

Unfamiliar.

[from awhile back; semi-edited 5.2008.]

There's something incredibly scary about meeting and getting to know new people (yes, this coming from the girl who randomly talks with people walking down the street on a more regular basis than not). About the unfamiliar becoming the familiar.

When we get to know someone, we understand their quirks and motives. No longer can they be written off as odd nor can we act without regard to their emotions. We begin to apply reason to why someone behaves a certain way or pursues something differently. We're strangers no longer.

It's simple for me to be me without knowing you. I can continue walking down the street, believing what I will. Meeting you, changes me; challenges me. I can't walk down the street without recalling our conversation, asking how you are. Looking at something from your perspective.

Will we, the human race, ever learn to view the world from another perspective?

The optimist says yes. I refuse to believe people cannot change, cannot learn, cannot meet and cannot connect. The collective we cannot run away from meeting new people.

You see, racism happens because people didn't venture out, didn't say hello, didn't hear a stranger's story. Racism happens because the unfamiliar remained unfamiliar.

And with that, I say, "hello and how do you do?"

A toolbox awaits its owner.

A man or maybe a woman. There was a toolbox. A yellow toolbox with a black top. Your standard large toolbox.

I was looking for my bag in the Chicago Midway baggage claim area. This toolbox was probably on the same flight as my black Samsonite suitcase. Perhaps they laid next to each other.

Somewhere en route, the toolbox broke open. When it reached the carousel, pliers, screws, nuts, black handled hammer, spilled onto the conveyor belt. Nails. Drill bits, everywhere.

Next to me stood a rainbow scarved fella -- about my age. We glance at each other, and nod in sympathetic agreement, thankful it's not our skivvies and sneakers lying naked on the conveyor belt, waiting to be reclaimed; thankful we are not the tools waiting to find the man or maybe the woman.

bubble people.

If we could be bubble people, you and me, I think we might make it. We could give this, give us, a real shot. We'd be safe in our bubble world.

We'd bring in the props and people. The people, yes they'd be grand. They'd wander around in striped stockings, boys in suspenders and girls in sun dresses, each person meant to be there. We'd grow a garden out back, the striped stockings drying on the porch as we plant and sow with bare feet. I'd take up button-making and you'd compose your novel.

Weekends would come and we'd drag our plaid couches and creaky, wooden rocking chairs outside. Basking in the sunlight while reading Miranda July, Michael Chabon and Charles Dickens and sharing stories of superheroes and heartbreaks. In the afternoons, someone would bring a fiddle and a harmonica. And so we'd play and twirl.

Yes, there'd be good days and bad days ones. But I think we could make it, me and you.

From time to time, we'll open the bubble door to glance at what life could be and was before. We'd slam it shut and stumble safely , happily back inside. Just you and me.

And I think I could be happy.

But maybe I'm wrong and maybe you're right. Like Lenin and Marx, you say. Good in theory, bad in reality.

Eventually, you'll forget about me and my crazy habits; my tongue clicking and whistling to fill a nervous silence, my shivering in bed, and funny sense of humor. And your oddities, too, will become whispers of my past.

And I am happy without our bubble world.