"There's room at the top", they're telling you still
But first, you must learn to smile as you kill
If you want to be like the folks on the hill

-John Lennon

Your back is bent from years of staring
At your beaten feet
Which are sore from hauling a heavy heart
In endless, tired defeat
Your will is blocked, you mind is locked
On thoughts that will not cease
With each of life's events is lost
A bit of inner peace
Dearest one, release yourself
From your rusted cage
If life's a book, than this is just
One faded, folded page
Lift your eyes, lift your heart
Towards the endless sky
Caged birds will sing and still forget
That they know how to fly

I've been reading (for the second time), a book by John Irving, called "The World According to Garp", one of my favorites. It's built on a structure of topics that most people shy away from. I've been asking myself why this book is so intriguing to me. Most people that know me wouldn't immediately associate me with the violent, primal undercurrent that runs through this book. But I see this book as a ferocious attack on all that is "wrong" with the world, and our Western society in particular.

The topics of rape and murder (which I believe both fall under the category of "violence") are imbedded in the plot. But, the reigning topic is lust. Lust and violence aren't evil, in my opinion. These are evolutionary qualities that don't belong in modern-day society. But, they exist in all of us nonetheless. The most dangerous people are the ones that don't see themselves as animals, and therefore, aren't able to separate themselves from their animal instincts. Animals don't examine the idea that they are animals. They kill and procreate for one reason - to continue their lineage.

Fundamentally religious people are a good example of this type of person. They have to believe that their spiritual beliefs are fact. They will kill and destroy to protect their ideology. Why? Maybe it is simply the primal desire to be dominant, combined with the the pack-animal instinct to congregate. Then, there are also the more obvious dangers to society, like rapists and murderers.

In the book, a family is torn apart because the parents were unable to separate themselves from the animal instincts of lust and rage. Irving also points out examples of these things in the society around the main characters. He paints such a dark portrait of these qualitites, that they seem like a cancer in the womb of our society (like the uteran cancer that ultimately kills one of the supporting characters, who happens to be a prostitute).

Anyway, these are thoughts that emerged as I was reading "The World According to Garp". I hope that John Irving never reads this. Because if he did, I'm sure that he'd tell me that I'm full of shit.

"Spiritual empowerment is evident in our lives by our willingness to tell ourselves the truth, to listen to the truth when it's told to us, and to dispense truth as lovingly as possible, when we feel compelled to talk from the heart."

-Christina Baldwin

There was a girl who's youthful smile
Betrayed her ancient soul

Her happiness, all the while
Was just a made-up role

There was a man, so cruel and vile
That he threw her out to sea

The gentle girl and her golden smile
Sank, without a plea

Her bright expression anchored her
To the ocean floor

Finally, the child
Could take the sea no more

She released the heavy smile
From her sullen face

And floated to the surface
Her pseudo smile displaced

TECHNO PINOCCHIO


He spent so much time
With the machine
That his fingers had grown to the keys

His brain had turned into a hard drive
And his heart had surpassed
the extended
warrantee

And she used to visit
On Thursday nights
To see if she could grant

His wish to become something real
To upgrade him from a
mechanical
sycophant

He didn't believe
that a thing was real
unless it had plastic
or saudered steel
And love was a thing of fairty tales
That couldn't be measured with charts or scales

"Creativity is allowing oneself to make mistakes. Art is knowing which ones to keep".

-Scott Adams


"Art provides what life does not".

-Tom Robbins

I've been meaning to write about my first New York siren festival experience, so here it is.

The siren festival is a free music festival in Coney Island. It is 1 part music, 2 parts beach, and 4 parts sweaty hipsters. My day at the festival was a stimulating experience for all of my senses- the warm, salty breeze against my sun-kissed cheeks, cold and foamy ocean water against my ankles, and muddy sand between my toes. The air was ripe with a combination of smells - ocean breeze, hotdogs, and once again, sweaty hipsters.

True, I only saw one band at the festival and spent the rest of the day laying on a beach blanket, but I heard that the music was great, too.

Most of the day consisted of our group of friends, passed out under the poluted sky with their shirts on, smoking cigarettes and drinking beer. It was splendidly boring, until I spotted a man in a big red dog suit, walking around on the beach! His polaroid camera-wielding friend looked as if he might die any moment from exhaustion. I thought to myself: if the heat is killing him, the man in the 100-pound shag dogsuit must be close to unconsciousness. My second thought was: what an incredible photo op! I just happened to be wearing my bright red dickies dress that day. I ran up to the man excitedly, like a kid at disneyland. I asked him if he would take a picture with me, and he nodded his big red head. This moment has now been immortalized. There we are: two bright spots of red in an endless sea of playing children and lounging siren-goers. If this isn't proof of my dorkiness, I don't know what is.

I have given a little more thought to my previous entry (about cake, and people, and people's similarities to cake), after broaching the subject last night with my friend Drew, and boyfriend Dave.

Dave, I think that you're most like a lemon meringue pie, and here's why:
There are two sides to you. One side of you has a light and fluffy consistency. Whoever is lucky enough to partake of this wonderful dessert quickly finds the other side beneath the protective layer of spongy whiteness. It is full of zesty, complex flavor - an unexpected treat for anyone that takes the time to get through the first layer. Like you, the lemon meringue pie is a timeless treat. No matter how long it sticks around, no one ever gets tired of it. Also, I've been told (wink, wink) that you have a pretty good reputation with the ladies - despite, or because of, the fact that you go straight to their thighs.

Drew, I think that you are most like a cheesecake. Here's why:
No frosting or toppings are necessary on this favorite standard, because the cake itself requires no additives. With cheesecake, what you see is what you get. You're sweet, but not so sweet that you make people nauseous. And you're really rich (just joking)! Also, cheesecakes are in very high demand because a bakery would be nothing without the presence of a cheesecake.

Here's another useless, random thought.

If a person is a cake, then their personality is a combination of ingredients. The frosting would be the image that they project to the world. The cake wouldn't be the same without the frosting, and the frosting would be nothing without the cake. The best kind of cakes are the ones that don't need frosting, because the cake itself is enough to please the pallate.

Here's a fun little game:

What kind of cake would you be?

Store-bought, prepackaged, and full of preservatives (you could call it the Drew Barrymore cake)?
7 layer (indecisive and complex)?
Red velvet (because it tastes much different than you would expect it to upon first glance)?

I think I would be a fruitcake. Everyone pretends to like it, but no one really does...and it's nutty. No one really knows what goes in a fruitcake. That's me - an unwanted, misunderstood fruitcake. : )

I'm starting to realize that I have a rather unhealthy obsession with food.

Tourist

You are a geisha,
A support system for an image.
Born to satisfy the whims
of an attentive audience.
Paint your face white,
Lips red,
Soul black.
Dance so softly.
Never speak.
Like origami,
with so many folds and dark places
The untrained eye could never see
The depth behind such a simple design.
But I am not fooled by your painted persona.
You see,
I am a tourist.

"Romantic comedy is the next form of organized religion".
-David Grois

Good point, Dave. The first rule of an organized religion is that you accept that your fate is not your own. You must accept your place in the "grand order" of things. Every romantic comedy that I've seen has made the point that true love is determined by fate. You have no control over your emotions, the person that you love is chosen for you.

The second rule of any organized religion is that it gives it's followers hope for something better. Who hasn't had their heart ripped out of their chest and stomped on like a mexican somberro? Who wouldn't love to entertain the idea (for at least 2 hours) that all of that was just a fluke, and their one "true love" is waiting for them?

Here's another point. The makers of romantic comedy want us to believe that the love of our lives will be exactly like us. By some magical, cosmic coincidence we will bump into someone in the supermarket and see that their shopping cart is loaded with chef boyardee ravioli (our favorite! It must be love!).

Dave and I have officially declared a new religion. I'll call it the church of Meg Ryan/Tom Hanks. All who do not believe will be forced to watch PBS documentaries for eternity.

Each our own shade of pigment on an endless canvas, we are bleeding into one another and creating endless indiscernible hues. A meaningless masterpiece. We are the ink, we are the pigment, we are the canvas – depending on your perspective. You are me and I am you, and combined we’re something altogether different from you or I alone.

What color are you? A zealous, forceful, and brilliant green, perhaps? Maybe you started out as this shade, but you were invaded by vermillion red, and you ended up being a dull brown color instead.

Transfer From the "L" to the "3"

A street performer's saxophone wails softly
In unison with a child's cry
Marked by the sixteenth and thirty-secondth notes
Of the clodding footsteps
Of potential passengers
As the train tickety-tacks to a screeching crescendo

I dreamt about my first love last night. It was an old, upright piano. Towards the end of our affair, it was so off-tune that the notes were barely recognizable. The finish was wearing thin in a few spots, and the bench was broken. But all of these things only made me love it more. I labored for countless hours over those old keys. I spent so much time there that the keys almost became an extension of my fingers. "Estey" was written in faded gold leafing on the chamber. Bach's first cello suite was the first song that it taught me, at age 11. I guess we never really get over our first love.

As I peel back the puckered skin of the orange, my mind drifts to you.

Smooth and unassuming was my little piece of fruit, among the others in the market. So thoughtfully placed and then forgotten.

Tearing through pungent vessels full of acidic fluid that stains my fingertips with it's ripe odor. Revealing the tender, stringy, white flesh beneath.

And then, beneath the bitter skin - the treasured, shiny, sweet cells.

Shall I consume it?

I think so.

New York buzzes. Caught in the wave of activity, I feel like a small conduit for something greater. I could do anything here, and feel like it means something. The toothless, homeless woman that I met today warned me against the dangers of not wearing a winter jacket. "You could catch neumonia", she said. I could be that woman, and still feel like I was part of something more significant.

The idea of watching one of those hollywood "chick flicks" complete with the square-jawed hero, and the hopelessly brain-dead (yet beautiful) recipient of said hero's far-fetched plan to win her heart makes me want to give myself a labotomy.

I guess that I feel this way about sappy love stories because when compared to the real thing, their bland, formulaic, soullessness is saddenning...more than inspiring. It says to me that people don't believe that the staggering, breathless, feeling of oneness that a person experiences when they are truly in love, exists.

Despite what is depicted on the dish soap and diaper commercials, I don't find it necessary to find the "man of my dreams", get married, have babies, and lead a spectacularly boring life. I would rather have a series of long affairs with a variety of men. I would find splendor in every one of them- lavishing affection on them, and savoring their perspective slowly, like a glass of fine wine.

It has been said that chocolate is love. I think that it's the rows of round, square, dark and light chocolates (the variety) that we find so appealing. However, coconut cream and caramel may not be quite so splendid when consumed at the same time. A girl needs to cleanse her pallette in order to enjoy each chocolate with the intensity that it deserves. In other words, one man at a time, please.

Beethoven proves that Classical music can rock just as hard as any modern musical equivalent. The 3rd movement of his piano sonata, "Appassionata" inspires the listener with rythm and fury. When I hear it, the music seems to play through me.

Indian Sitar music can be just as captivating. Anoushka Shankar (daughter of renowned sari player and spiritual leader) plays with disciplined, yet emotive, intensity. The traditional Indian songs that she plays begin slowly, each note hanging in the air and resonating on top of one another eerily. The songs slowly build up to a complex string of notes that seem humanly impossible to play. I have to add that Anoushka is also stunning, and was the first female to have received the British Commons shield award in recognition of her talent (at the tender age of 18). PROPS to you, Anoushka!

Beethoven and Anoushka receive my "hardest rocking artist" award for the day.

Honorable mentions: Sly and the Family Stone (for racial and gender diversity, and the ability to drop extremely phat beats), Jeff Buckley (for being a fucking god), The The (for attempting to expand the listener's consciousness), and all bands of the Chilean punk rock genre (for shits and giggles).

The only notable thing today was the sight of 3 overweight white men sitting in a car with a "celebrate diversity" bumper sticker.

I received a call tonight. A friend said, with an urgent tone in his voice, "go outside, you may be able to catch the sunset...bye", and hung up.

There's a spot at the top of the hill, a few blocks from where I am staying. From this spot, practically the entire city of seattle can be seen, a sparkling art deco foreground to the jagged sillhouette of the mountains. I bolted out the door, headed towards this favorite viewing spot.

I caught the last moment of the sun setting behind the mountains. Grey blue clouds, outlined by fiery yellow orange, capped the shadowy city. As I approached, panting and running, the bright neon that had outlined the clouds began to fade. I stopped to take it in. The muted pastel sky softly opened me to it. A breeze came, whispering through my fingertips and gently sweeping my hair behind me.

Sometimes we find love in the strangest places.

My older sister possesses the kind of magic that allows her to turn any situation into an opportunity for expression. She is a vessel for creativity, fearlessness, and intuition.

For example, when we were children, she turned three cardboard boxes and a green afghan into a christmas tree. She draped the afghan over the stacked boxes and told me it was a christmas tree. And when I looked at it, it sparkled and glowed with tinsel and multicolored lights.

At 10 years old, she had already discovered the gift of creating and projecting a life that didn't exist.

At 5, I had discovered the ability to believe it, and her, wholeheartedly.

In 1 month, I'll be joining her in New York city. For the first time in 15 years, we will be under the same roof again. Once again, struggling to exist amidst whatever chaos we may encounter. I can't wait to see what kind of magic we will create.

Last night, I dreamt that we were assassins in training. You were forced to wrap my naked body in bedsheets as an excersize in detaining your subject. I was startled that you were one of the few that was chosen for this special project. Your fingers lingered around my waist a little longer than they should have...naughty you. Although I was your "victim" in this role play, I didn't struggle much.