Overly long post about being awake at 2a.m. has been reduced to this:
Type-A Friends, that's all of you, make sure you take time out to recharge. Meaning:
1. Spend a day/night doing absolutely nothing so you can clear out all the junk in your head (this does not include drinking. Drinking makes you more dumberererer). Get sleep.
2. Go see people. Do not stay locked at home doing mundane, silly, boringness because it feels easy and safe. Do something that will engage you socially and keep you invested in your existence not tied to an inanimate object. There are very worthwhile people to spend your time with, go be with them.
3. I sound like Stephen Covey, I'm going to stop.
Happy May! See above post for fun music. Also, go see Iron Man. If you can, sometime this weekend, when there are lots of people in the theater. Do not go for surprise plot twists (honestly, that's not why anyone watches a SuperHero movie nowadays). However, do expect snappy dialogue with healthy doses of banter, neat gadgets, and plenty of comic book references for adequate nerd-lovin'. Robert Downey Jr. makes the film laugh out loud funny, his timing and irreverence floating lines that would seem pedantic from another actor, and, for a man who's in his 40s, well, not a peep or complaint from my mouth about appearance and/or physical capabilities. Gwyneth Paltrow is luminous. Strawberry blonde hair, fabulous legs plus a killer backless azure dress (hrmm... who made that?) only highlight how well-suited she is to play a flustered, assertive, no wait, meek, no wait, feisty Pepper Potts with her demure half smiles fluttering boy hearts everywhere. Yada, yada, yada, go watch, be merry, enjoy spring.
Showing posts with label silly. Show all posts
Showing posts with label silly. Show all posts
Sunday, May 4, 2008
Friday, April 25, 2008
Suppression
I haven't really smoked in a long time. And by not really smoked, I'm not talking about the social smoking that happens over drinks on patios or huddled together beneath a single coat outside a bar. I'm talking about the way I used to enjoy a clove or two or four over multiple cups of tea with T and K: sitting in K's apartment, or in the Bug or the Jeep, or going back even further, behind Stone-D in those wretched plastic deck chairs as we philosophized and enjoyed the waning warmth of my first East Coast Fall.
Growing up in Northern California gave me a perennial hatred of smoking. What was the point when there was so much clean air, so many healthy alternatives -- like biking! -- to give you a buzz instead of a cigarette? My father smoked for the majority of my (and his) life, and even as a little girl I did my damnedest to get him to quit. I still remember the first time I told Big Bro I was vaguely intrigued by it, as much as it disgusted me. I couldn't help but imagine the indefinable enjoyment that filling your lungs with a foreign substance would bring. By then, my father had quit smoking -- a result of medical problems brought on by his forty plus years inhaling carcinogens -- but, his last half full carton of cigarettes remained in the "Cabinet of Forbidden Things," just below the liquor. Big Bro grabbed an unopened pack, produced a book of matches and led me onto the patio with the single command to "smoke it." I remember blubbering on about tar in my lungs and envisioning black clouds floating morbidly in my chest. Instead of lighting up and inhaling, I stood awkwardly in front of my brother's stone cold stare and ran whatever crappy stoge my father owned beneath my nostrils while I forced myself to intake the raw, upchuck-inducing scent of tobacco. Later, I would cut that same cigarette open with my swiss army knife and sift through the leaves, trying to discern what made this otherwise mundane brown substance so life altering.
So obviously, it was rather a big deal when I picked up smoking in college. Initially it was experimental. Try it on for size and see if the inner bad girl in See would revel in it the way she'd enjoyed all the other debauchery I'd pointedly avoided in high school. Much to my disdain, I did, a lot. For the first month and a half of college I was hooked, and since then it's become both a stress and an escapist tendency which produces occasional unhealthy trysts when I'm feeling anxious, or in the case of senior year, full on semester long lapses. Since graduating though, and likely because I've spent so much more time in California living a much healthier existence, the habit has subsided and for the better part has dropped from my life completely. Unless, of course, a select few people or situations pop up which bring back the familiar yearning.
Earlier this week, Big Bro discovered an empty clove box in the glove compartment of his car. Perhaps a year ago that box would have been the inevitable unearthing of distressing anxiety levels, but funny enough this was just a forgotten remnant of this past Fall and T's visit. I have reserve boxes well hidden, but they haven't been touched since she left in October. I quit! I quit months ago and whatever flare ups there have been were negligible. For the better part I decided to leave the dirty addiction behind me and find more constructive ways to relieve tension. But since Big Bro mentioned it to me, I haven't been able to get it off my mind. Is it just because I've been a wee bit stressed and, when stressed, I crave the sweet aftertaste and momentary buzz of a clove (controlled escapism at its finest)? Or, is it because Big Bro brought an otherwise well suppressed tendency to the forefront of my mind? I've never really considered myself a smoker, and if someone asks I'll generally say no (perhaps with some addendums), but is it possible that the reality is I'm actually a smoker pretending to be a non-smoker?
When we've managed to suppress or control a desire, a tendency, or an otherwise unattractive aspect of ourselves that we loathe, that doesn't mean it's disappeared. It still exists, floating patiently in the tiny corner its been relegated to, and I assume, waiting for whatever previously created synapse to fire which will bring it to the surface. Arguably, these could be referred to as "gut reactions" or "instincts" right? If I wasn't talking about smoking, couldn't I just pass this off as genetic inclination? My father was a smoker, my quasi-addiction is just an instinctual development of some kind. Hrm, there's a claim that's going to garner a lot of smacks. From the few psych studies I've read, like this one in the nytimes, supposedly our knee-jerk responses, or "gut reactions," are from years of not only evolution but of our own personal experience. Which means we're simply taking situational and circumstantial evidence and instantaneously comparing it to a backlog of information we've stored in our brains. Your immediate response is based on years of conscious or unconscious observations. But what happens now, after we've learned how to suppress and ignore even the strongest reactions we feel? Doesn't it imply that, at a very basic level, we've taught ourselves as an entire race not to trust ourselves and therefore not to be ourselves?
While this may seem like some well-formed argument to start smoking again, it's not. It's just curious to think about all the daily reactions we -- okay, I -- have and whether or not many of them are unfounded. Of late, a lot of my knee-jerk responses have been unfortunately tuned incorrectly. What I believe is something similar to X situation from my past, is actually something entirely different, often times contrary to what I originally thought. Is this what growing up means? Questioning everything you know and wondering whether it's even remotely correct? Humans are so smart now they can outsmart themselves.
A wise friend told me the other day, it's not necessarily how we recognize something as good or bad, or even how long it takes us to recognize it; it's the actions we take after we've recognized it that define us. Cue Michael Cane and Christian Bale circa 2005. Smoke, yes? Smoke, no. Bitch-smack girl, yes? Bitch-smack girl, no.
Ah well, much though cloves kept me company throughout college, looks like they're going to stay stuck in their nasty little boxes hidden away for the rest of time. Or, you know, until I have a phenomenally large freak-out that reminds me of X so much, I can't control myself.
What? Like you've never given in before. Geeze.
Growing up in Northern California gave me a perennial hatred of smoking. What was the point when there was so much clean air, so many healthy alternatives -- like biking! -- to give you a buzz instead of a cigarette? My father smoked for the majority of my (and his) life, and even as a little girl I did my damnedest to get him to quit. I still remember the first time I told Big Bro I was vaguely intrigued by it, as much as it disgusted me. I couldn't help but imagine the indefinable enjoyment that filling your lungs with a foreign substance would bring. By then, my father had quit smoking -- a result of medical problems brought on by his forty plus years inhaling carcinogens -- but, his last half full carton of cigarettes remained in the "Cabinet of Forbidden Things," just below the liquor. Big Bro grabbed an unopened pack, produced a book of matches and led me onto the patio with the single command to "smoke it." I remember blubbering on about tar in my lungs and envisioning black clouds floating morbidly in my chest. Instead of lighting up and inhaling, I stood awkwardly in front of my brother's stone cold stare and ran whatever crappy stoge my father owned beneath my nostrils while I forced myself to intake the raw, upchuck-inducing scent of tobacco. Later, I would cut that same cigarette open with my swiss army knife and sift through the leaves, trying to discern what made this otherwise mundane brown substance so life altering.
So obviously, it was rather a big deal when I picked up smoking in college. Initially it was experimental. Try it on for size and see if the inner bad girl in See would revel in it the way she'd enjoyed all the other debauchery I'd pointedly avoided in high school. Much to my disdain, I did, a lot. For the first month and a half of college I was hooked, and since then it's become both a stress and an escapist tendency which produces occasional unhealthy trysts when I'm feeling anxious, or in the case of senior year, full on semester long lapses. Since graduating though, and likely because I've spent so much more time in California living a much healthier existence, the habit has subsided and for the better part has dropped from my life completely. Unless, of course, a select few people or situations pop up which bring back the familiar yearning.
Earlier this week, Big Bro discovered an empty clove box in the glove compartment of his car. Perhaps a year ago that box would have been the inevitable unearthing of distressing anxiety levels, but funny enough this was just a forgotten remnant of this past Fall and T's visit. I have reserve boxes well hidden, but they haven't been touched since she left in October. I quit! I quit months ago and whatever flare ups there have been were negligible. For the better part I decided to leave the dirty addiction behind me and find more constructive ways to relieve tension. But since Big Bro mentioned it to me, I haven't been able to get it off my mind. Is it just because I've been a wee bit stressed and, when stressed, I crave the sweet aftertaste and momentary buzz of a clove (controlled escapism at its finest)? Or, is it because Big Bro brought an otherwise well suppressed tendency to the forefront of my mind? I've never really considered myself a smoker, and if someone asks I'll generally say no (perhaps with some addendums), but is it possible that the reality is I'm actually a smoker pretending to be a non-smoker?
When we've managed to suppress or control a desire, a tendency, or an otherwise unattractive aspect of ourselves that we loathe, that doesn't mean it's disappeared. It still exists, floating patiently in the tiny corner its been relegated to, and I assume, waiting for whatever previously created synapse to fire which will bring it to the surface. Arguably, these could be referred to as "gut reactions" or "instincts" right? If I wasn't talking about smoking, couldn't I just pass this off as genetic inclination? My father was a smoker, my quasi-addiction is just an instinctual development of some kind. Hrm, there's a claim that's going to garner a lot of smacks. From the few psych studies I've read, like this one in the nytimes, supposedly our knee-jerk responses, or "gut reactions," are from years of not only evolution but of our own personal experience. Which means we're simply taking situational and circumstantial evidence and instantaneously comparing it to a backlog of information we've stored in our brains. Your immediate response is based on years of conscious or unconscious observations. But what happens now, after we've learned how to suppress and ignore even the strongest reactions we feel? Doesn't it imply that, at a very basic level, we've taught ourselves as an entire race not to trust ourselves and therefore not to be ourselves?
While this may seem like some well-formed argument to start smoking again, it's not. It's just curious to think about all the daily reactions we -- okay, I -- have and whether or not many of them are unfounded. Of late, a lot of my knee-jerk responses have been unfortunately tuned incorrectly. What I believe is something similar to X situation from my past, is actually something entirely different, often times contrary to what I originally thought. Is this what growing up means? Questioning everything you know and wondering whether it's even remotely correct? Humans are so smart now they can outsmart themselves.
A wise friend told me the other day, it's not necessarily how we recognize something as good or bad, or even how long it takes us to recognize it; it's the actions we take after we've recognized it that define us. Cue Michael Cane and Christian Bale circa 2005. Smoke, yes? Smoke, no. Bitch-smack girl, yes? Bitch-smack girl, no.
Ah well, much though cloves kept me company throughout college, looks like they're going to stay stuck in their nasty little boxes hidden away for the rest of time. Or, you know, until I have a phenomenally large freak-out that reminds me of X so much, I can't control myself.
What? Like you've never given in before. Geeze.
Monday, March 31, 2008
Dear Jon Arbuckle,
You were vaguely pitiful when I read about you as a child and watched you talk to your snarky cat and your uh, interesting, dog. Now, you are classically schizo. If you haven't heard about this, well, you're just silly and have been living under a rock. Garfield minus Garfield is all the rage amongst net-junkies. But really, everyone who's nerd enough to have read about the site/googled it/heard about it, somehow feels like Jon brings a well-hidden, slightly neurotic facet of themselves to the surface. Sock puppet? Hand cramp? Or, in my case, conquer the world? Pretending you're oblivious to what I'm talking about doesn't help. You know exactly what I mean.
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
Pre-nups, Hookups and Breakups
Twenty-three is the most awkward, exhilarating, terrifying, gratifying, f-ing ridiculous time of my life (so far). I'd like to say that I always felt this way, heady uncertainty and excitement at every age and every maturity bend I rounded -- but that's just not true. Excitement about the unknown, yes, but there's this irksome belief now that I can conquer the world which makes everything seem different. I'm delusional now. I think I can accomplish anything with my meager skill and absurdly gargantuan ambition, so I go about trying to make it happen by tapping into as many opportunities as I can. However, in the process, have over-committed myself to my family, my friends, and my ambitions all while running my body and psyche down so I not only have a freaking half foot scar on my stomach to prove my insane devotion to sado-masochistic behavior, but also the constant ebb and flow of looming, swirling vertigo constantly nipping at my heels. And sometimes I still don't feel like I'm doing enough or making the most of my time. Yo, when did I get so freaking Type A?
I've had a series of interesting conversations recently: about men, about women, about ambition and accomplishment, about Sex and the City, about failure, and, of course, about relationships. I saw a picture recently that said "Someone should sue Disney for all the false hopes and dreams they gave little girls [and boys]." I want to say I disagree, but... I guess the more I'm bouncing along, the sadder and more cynical I'm becoming. Maybe twenty-three is characterized by all time high cynicism or maybe I'm prone to being twisted and unhappy because I want to be a writer? Maybe everyone around me is crazy, or maybe this is just life. (In which case, F#$&.) Yesterday, my very cynical and jaded friend Z spoke the best philosophical bullsh$% I've heard from him in years (paraphrased to the best of my ability):
"Even I know that all the work and ambition and crap that we go through doesn't mean anything if you don't have love. Because love is awesome, and love is worth living for and it's what makes everything worthwhile."
Good old golden glibbed Z. (Take that alliteration.) He stuck it to me good. The little idealistic part of See that stays safe and hidden beneath piles of drive and goals, but wants to believe every last word of it. I, in fact, do believe every last word. Especially due to the greater than handful of married friends and acquaintances. If they're not married, they will be married in the next year. Or, my fair share of single friends wending their way through pseudo-relationship and one night stand bliss. Or, even better, the unlucky few (or many) friends in the throes of mucky breakups. None of these people are under-accomplished or ambition-less. They're actually people I hold in high regard, and whom I admire. By textbook standards, they're the people who make the world go round, and are so busy making it happen they should have no time for matters of the heart. Yet, somehow, across the board I hear the same lament: Whaddafux up with Love? Lament, lament, rant, rant, boo, hiss, anger. All the smart people in the world, put together in a room, couldn't figure out the answer to that question. I know enough disgruntled, jaded, twenty and thirty (eek) somethings to start a small civilization based solely on irritation and unhappiness.
Except, that's why it's so strange. I've never felt more alive in my life. I've never felt more stimulated, and excited, and ready to face a new challenge. I'm terrified, but I'm open to anything. Somehow all the craziness of this age -- the mayhem I've attempted to quietly mask as organization, stability and ambition -- is making me believe in and appreciate love more whenever I find it. With my family, with my friends, and with all the little transient moments between people who have found a way to connect and understand each other. So maybe, in all of my attempts to understand "everlasting" and "enduring" love, I'm just realizing that it might not feel as pervasive and overwhelming as it did in uh, High School. But, it's perhaps even preferable in this form. The little nugget of happiness that nudges its way into my heart between breaths, when I take a moment to stop and remember all the fabulous people and relationships in my life. Plus, I figure, one day I'll be lying on a beach somewhere sipping a gin and tonic thinking, "all the turmoil was worth it."
HAHA, what a lie. Anyways, enough melodrama. Something to lighten the mood for a day of silly ruminations and writings:
This picture is amazing! So much for professionialism. This blog has made it into full-blown hilarity and inappropriateness.
I've had a series of interesting conversations recently: about men, about women, about ambition and accomplishment, about Sex and the City, about failure, and, of course, about relationships. I saw a picture recently that said "Someone should sue Disney for all the false hopes and dreams they gave little girls [and boys]." I want to say I disagree, but... I guess the more I'm bouncing along, the sadder and more cynical I'm becoming. Maybe twenty-three is characterized by all time high cynicism or maybe I'm prone to being twisted and unhappy because I want to be a writer? Maybe everyone around me is crazy, or maybe this is just life. (In which case, F#$&.) Yesterday, my very cynical and jaded friend Z spoke the best philosophical bullsh$% I've heard from him in years (paraphrased to the best of my ability):
"Even I know that all the work and ambition and crap that we go through doesn't mean anything if you don't have love. Because love is awesome, and love is worth living for and it's what makes everything worthwhile."
Good old golden glibbed Z. (Take that alliteration.) He stuck it to me good. The little idealistic part of See that stays safe and hidden beneath piles of drive and goals, but wants to believe every last word of it. I, in fact, do believe every last word. Especially due to the greater than handful of married friends and acquaintances. If they're not married, they will be married in the next year. Or, my fair share of single friends wending their way through pseudo-relationship and one night stand bliss. Or, even better, the unlucky few (or many) friends in the throes of mucky breakups. None of these people are under-accomplished or ambition-less. They're actually people I hold in high regard, and whom I admire. By textbook standards, they're the people who make the world go round, and are so busy making it happen they should have no time for matters of the heart. Yet, somehow, across the board I hear the same lament: Whaddafux up with Love? Lament, lament, rant, rant, boo, hiss, anger. All the smart people in the world, put together in a room, couldn't figure out the answer to that question. I know enough disgruntled, jaded, twenty and thirty (eek) somethings to start a small civilization based solely on irritation and unhappiness.
Except, that's why it's so strange. I've never felt more alive in my life. I've never felt more stimulated, and excited, and ready to face a new challenge. I'm terrified, but I'm open to anything. Somehow all the craziness of this age -- the mayhem I've attempted to quietly mask as organization, stability and ambition -- is making me believe in and appreciate love more whenever I find it. With my family, with my friends, and with all the little transient moments between people who have found a way to connect and understand each other. So maybe, in all of my attempts to understand "everlasting" and "enduring" love, I'm just realizing that it might not feel as pervasive and overwhelming as it did in uh, High School. But, it's perhaps even preferable in this form. The little nugget of happiness that nudges its way into my heart between breaths, when I take a moment to stop and remember all the fabulous people and relationships in my life. Plus, I figure, one day I'll be lying on a beach somewhere sipping a gin and tonic thinking, "all the turmoil was worth it."
HAHA, what a lie. Anyways, enough melodrama. Something to lighten the mood for a day of silly ruminations and writings:
This picture is amazing! So much for professionialism. This blog has made it into full-blown hilarity and inappropriateness.
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