Coming Soon...

Exploring the idea of rebirth:

Mini-Photoblog-The Path to a Cat Lady

or how I spent hours playing with 6 week old kittens...

Example 2:

 







Example 3: blurry sneak attack

It hasn't rained here in several weeks and its been getting in the low-80s again. So in lou of enjoying the sunshine and life, I went exploring with my friend today along the greenbelt. I've since realized that Texas is uniquely beautiful with strange muted aesthetic. It's starting to grow on me. The snakes, however, are not. Anything with no legs shouldn't exist. Period. But the muted colors? Beautiful!

However, the entire time I was exploring, I was terrified of seeing one of these.

Representation of the Self (Myself)

 Or Do you say, I, Me, or My or you or us?

Recently I have been editing biographies of poets for a local poetry festival in town. The poets were given the task of writing about themselves in 75 words or less. To be noted: generally, poets are my favorite type of people.

I find the idea of self representation intriguing, in many facets.  The majority of my reading is centered first person- subjective- sometimes stream of consciousness narrations. 

This is, absolutely Nietzsche-esque,  forever locked inside your own mind with no relevance or relation to others or ability  to see another human as well as you see yourself bleak. Absolutely cultural contextualized and aptly placed in a given timeframe bleak. If you doubt everything everyone else sees, the one thing you can never doubt is what you see. It is after all, the only true fact that you can be sure of. I was once told the easiest thing to write about is yourself. After all, that is all that you know, really. You see yourself more than anyone else. You see the world with your own eyes. You live inside your own head.

And, from a readers point of view, writing from your own view lets others see you clearly. 

That said, you  would think a 75 word biography would be an easy task.

Wrong.

After reading 30 or more pages where poets write about themselves to other poets I have concluded that there are generally four ways people can write about themselves.

1)    The third person narrations, in which you simply say your name and use he or she pronoun in representing yourself. This distance from yourself, by yourself, allows you to write your accomplishments. Common accomplishments include: family (breeding), marriage (devotion to the husband/wife), hobbies (as this is what I do) and a long, long list of where you have been published. The latter proves your credibility in the poetry scene.

2)   The person who simply states their profession.  Ie- I am a nurse for 24 years. Their identity is closely linked with what they do for employment. This idea always baffles me. As in, I am a teacher and nothing else or I am a student studying Math-ah-mat-ics, and I do nothing else. How can a person only  identify with their job?

3)   My favorite:

Those people who recognize that they do not know who they are. They switch from third person to first person, weaving their identity together, leaving you more-so baffled than you were to begin with. Who are you? I don’t know.

4)   People who quote their own words in their own biographies.

"There is no real reality to a really imagined life any more."- Gertrude Stein

"Becky"

Last year, my friend and I were on a bus heading Uptown to Harlem. We were holding all of our suitcases and luggage. They were cumbersome, and on the ride there, my friend had her suitcase topple over onto the old woman next to her. It was awkward. We were lost and the map for tourists stopped at 90th St. As we headed more Uptown,  we realized we were the only white people on the bus. 

 The surroundings became unfamiliar, we soon became jaded and confused so we decided to get off the bus. I successfully picked up my suitcase and stepped outside. Alone on the wide sidewalk, I waited for my friend to step off as well.

I had never been to NYC before and I realized that  we were incredibly far from where we needed to go. In fact, we were in an area close to the projects on E 112th street. 

 I see my friend and the doors to the bus won't open. I hear many people on the bus scream, "Stacy, get yo ass off the bus! Stacy!" She pushes on the doors, but they won't open.  I hear more yelling using the name "Stacy." At this point, I am confused, a little scared and lost.  I don't know where to go, I've never been to NYC before and most importantly, my friend's name isn't Stacy and I only have a 20 stuffed in my bra.

Eventually she gets off the bus, and we walk 2 miles through Morningside Heights to Spanish Harlem. (There is another story intertwined here, but this post is not the time or place.) As we are walking, our suitcases rolling behind us,  we can not figure out why they called her "Stacy." 

Now I know. 

Come full circle to 10 months later. Fast forward to my life in Austin. Here, I learned the term, "Stacy" and/or "Becky" refers to white women- sorority-esque, dyed blonde hair, tanned skin,  usually small vocabulary with an overabundance of the  "like" and "you know." Picture the ideal Dallas Cowboys Cheerleader. Generally, they wear tight clothes, stuffed bras and 4 or more inch heels. They wear uggs with their jeans skirts and an Abercrombie sweatshirt to match with straight, flat ironed hair. I am sure we all know someone who is a Becky. Maybe they dye their hair and majored in Comm, have a job in PR and shop at Nordstroms. Or maybe they were the girl we talked to waiting in line for the bathroom at the bar. There is nothing wrong with being a Becky. My roommate is a Becky and her friends are all Becky's. 

Rewind to Harlem, it makes sense if one contextualizes the situation: White girl on a bus carrying an overstuffed suitcase, dropping her belongings onto old women and getting stuck on the bus and not knowing how to open the doors (that particular friend is far from anything resembling a "Becky").  

The term Becky has now become code for a group of girls my friends and I see who all look, talk, act and dress the same.

6th Street- Becky City

What makes this slang term even better, is the definition provided by Urbandictionary.com (specifically, #5)Becky-Urban Dictionary

And this song:

Becky- Plies

I see a lot of Becky's around Texas. Even in Austin in the warehouse district. There are old Becky's and young Becky's. There are short Becky's and tall Becky's. But, they all leave me with the same feeling, after I talk to them. In some ways, my now, dirty blonde hair and curvy body type looks like a Becky.   I get a lot of Becky's coming up to talk to me about makeup, hair product and "indie/underground" bands like Spoon, Band of Horses and Nirvana [yes, Nirvana...]. I also get men who also think I might be a Becky, they  have huge arms and go to the gym and have short, trimmed careful hair and play a sport. Usually I ward both of them off with the some sort of verbose rhetoric. One time, I even used the word, 'subjectivity' and his face literally crinkled around the eyes and he walked away as if to say, "She's not a Becky."

The feeling after encountering a Becky resembles a slight sharp pain in your brain. You realize you spent 10 minutes making small talk about the color eyeshadow to wear with their outfit, where they purchased the outfit, the amount of time they spend on their hair, what they put in their hair,  or how they made their cute top fit on them so their boobs look bigger. Always the small boobs with the pushup bras.

*

So next time you find yourself in a conversation with a women, and she looks like every other women out there, and your brain begins to hurt, because she lacks personality,  realize, she's just another Becky trying to make a name for herself. 

Cat Daddy

Call me SpongeBob

Stackin Krabby Patties

Bitch I go to work

Do my Cat Daddy

The one amazing thing about working in a high school is seeing popular culture take its form.  Group think is incredibly prevalent with 15-18 year olds. The cat daddy dance is one such example. I cannot even understand why this has caught on.

Downsides to being  in a high school:
-teenage boys.
and
-hormonal girls
-But, mostly, teenage boys.

A Texan Style Existential Renaissance

 I never imaged that life would begin to make sense when I was dressed in a sequined skirt with leg warmers dancing to an 80’s cover band.  But, it did, in a sea of drunk thirty-somethings, to a poorly done cover of  “Working for the Weekend.”

I’ve been accepted to two really academically esteemed education programs. But, I don’t think I’m done with Texas.  Saying no to NYU and UW is going to be really, really difficult (these schools are both ranked alongside Harvard/ other Ivy Leagues for education) but it’s not what I want right now.  It makes sense logistically, but my life doesn't work in logic.  I already picked up and moved once, and I am not ready to do it again in 5 months.

I don’t know why it took a horrible cover of Loverboy and a sassy sequin skirt, surrounded by men in suits to realize this, but I am glad I did.

Moving 2,300 miles to a city I had never visited, to a roommate I had never met, where I had no friends or family, to a job I interviewed over the phone, with only $1,000 in savings and all my possessions packed in my car was a huge risk. There was a lot that could of gone awry, but nothing has gone wrong. It has worked out almost flawlessly, minus a few bumps along the way.

Now, it’s hard for me to imagine my life before I honed my independence 6 months ago. Everything  I had seems so far away and so distant, it feels like it was lived by another person. It’s oddly comforting. This creates a deep nostalgia for people I once loved, my friends I saw on a regular basis and places that carried comfort. I miss all of these things, but I don't want these things I had any longer.

 Life is wonderful, and especially, when I contrast it with what it was a year ago.  So here's an internet gem that conveys my mood- (and also confirms that Lykke Li is a bit nuts!)

On a random sidenote, I have an amazing internship which allows me to spend time editing poetry and talking to poets, which has always kind of (really, truly) been a dream of mine. Working, interning and living is keeping me pretty busy. But-

Living the dream? Pretty.Damn.Good.

Snow Day.

This morning, I woke up at 6am to a text message from my boss. Work was cancelled. Austin Independent School District has declared it a 'snow day.'

There is something really beautiful about snow. Right now everything is dead and brown in Texas so the dusting of color was welcomed. While Texans are still a bunch of pansies, I had a wonderful adventure this morning. I love life.

My favorite image, even though it's not a great photo.

My apartment complex pool, a palm tree and sprinkle of snow.

A little kid playing in the snow took this photo of me (so serious! so cold!)

I can't recall the last time I had a snow day. 

So beautiful! 

Freeze!

Over town, there are cute little freeze warning signs:

and then this...

18?

Or Fuck You Cold Front.

Something is not right when Texas reaches 18 degrees.


 My apartment does not have insulation that is made for this type of cold weather. I can feel the draft come in from my windows. It reminds me of college when I was so poor we could not afford heat.  I woke up  in a 45 degree room and put on wet jeans. I dreaded getting out of the shower. I dreaded getting in the shower. I dreaded going outside.  It makes me want to spoon for the first time in months. I have thus decided I am not ready to move where there is no sun and where it is cold.  I forgot how unhappy I am.

Other notable hilarities: The gas stations are all closed and won't pump gas. There is no one outside and school has been cancelled. (There is no snow, here, only cold!) I have received emails about how to dress in cold weather. I've deduced that Texans are really bunch of pansies.

That aside, these are two wonderful things that made my week thus far:

My student drew this for me! Methodist cat! 

Grocery shopping today around 11pm (I like the store when its not crowded)

 I saw Texas Style Colby-Jack cheese on sale!

What a find!

It always feels really good flying into Washington. 

Photo & Poem of the day!

 

Photo byJack Simon, courtesy of Fecalface.com

And because this poem is so beautiful. 

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way

than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep. 

Pablo Neruda 

Sonnet XVII