An Anthem

Each person has their rhythm
I've always understood that
Some will shout, others hum
A personal anthem

Introspection leads to investigation
And I've come to a conclusion
That I have no rhythm
And thus, no anthem

No song that will lull me out of sleep
That will chase away the demons
That will catch me when I fall
When I'm searching for stars

But it's not worth it
Searching for a song that isn't yours
My anthem is out there
To be discovered
To be shouted or hummed
To become familiar
To be made
To be mine

Sometimes

This road is strange so strange it is
You know it really hurts inside sometimes
No matter how good you are to people you know
They'll make you cry sometimes

PCH - you are my winter solace during this winter solstice.

Five-Foot Small

I'm only five-foot tall
Five-foot small
People say I belong in a high school hall
"Boy, where your parents at?"
"Fuck you, I'm just at the Century City Mall!"
I'm only five-foot tall
Five-foot small
A Starbucks tall - no grande, no venti
Guess God didn't invent me that way
But what if God were just a bit more generous?
And actually wanted what was best for us?

So what if I were six-foot tall?
Six-foot tall
Wearing a suit and tie that could fit me
Owning my own million-dollar company
Would five-foot midgets bow to me?
Reach for the Cheerios on the fridge
So my kid could have something good to eat
And those heels you wear won't tower
Cause I'd be six-foot tall with six-foot power

Now let's take it further

So what if I were seven-foot tall?
Seven-foot tall
I'd be playing pro basketball
Endorsing Jordans, endorsing myself
Selling my soul to the highest bidder
Until my tree trunks become withers
Ain't no sunshine when they're gone
Just me and my seven-foot brawn

Now what if I were nine-foot tall?
Nine-foot tall
My picture in Ripley's and Guinness
With Yeti, Sasquatch, and Lochness
Legs too tall to pick up my kid
I'd knock down the Cheerios so he could no longer eat
12 inch-heels, your legs will break
But you still manage to run away
I'm nine-foot tall, nine-foot tall
Nine-foot tall in a world too small

Okay, let's say I was a hundred-foot tall
Hundred-foot tall
Call me a freak, a monster, Godzilla
I show you who's the thrilla in Manilla
Eating snow off the Andes like it's Vanilla
As I stomp cities and you all look up
The fires rage on but you all stop
And you all just laugh
Hundred-foot tall, hundred-foot tall
Killin shit cause he got no balls
Hundred-foot tall, hundred-foot tall
Closer to God than most
Is bout the only thing he can boast

So what's the right height for us?
Can't say cause you'll never know
Walkin in someone's shoes
Don't work cause it won't fit
Five-foot small, hundred-foot tall
Man, just walk around like you got some balls

The Food

I got a monster or two in my room
Coming in and out like a boomerang
Exploding - ACME TNT
Road Runner runnin circles around my Coyote
Got me caught up in my own mind
When all I wanna do is get in line
To get my slice of that pie
Some home cookin', some food for the soul
Instead of all that Christmas coal
Givin it & givin it & givin it good
Til the sun come up and that pool
That pool of light broke my face
A monster wakes to start the day
Another sleeps to keep me at bay
I walk with a monster on my back
Like Quasimodo, I search for that tower
Only there ain't no Esmereldas
There ain't no love for the freak & geek
Who wishes upon a star
Thinkin' he can be just like a star
But monsters don't like that
Too heavy, too much
Get you lost in the woods
When your mind's hungry for the food
Fire, fire - I see you right there
My delusions are illusions of grandeur
So I'll shed this monster off me
The one sleeping, I'll stab just one eye
So he can look at me one more time
Takin off in my rocket-powered shoes
It ain't right, I know it's all rude
But stars don't shine for you
I shine for me so I can shine for good
You my monster, my mistake, my misunderstanding
Stars don't shine for you
I shine for me so I can shine for good

These Worries

It's a full-time job to not lose my faith.

I'd Like to Call It

Inspiration

Walk and choose to
You're playing like a poet
Like you always did
I never faced the turn
On the palm of God
Pushed on by the fingertips of dreams
They're haunting me, consoling me
Raised me toward the garden
Beauty, beauty, beauty
You slept this time like the angel speaks
and we danced until tomorrow
and I never thought that I could live here
But you pushed me on, you pushed me on
and I would like to call it
Call it beauty astray
Beauty, beauty, beauty
You can

Scanned Poem I Wrote...Don't Know How Long Ago

The top "stanza" is just a bunch of words for stimulation...I think.

Malibu

A few days ago, I took a drive down the Pacific Coast Highway (PCH), passing through Malibu. It was about 2:30 AM and here are my observations, in no discernible order:

1.One thing about L.A. that you learn to live with is the crowdedness. Can't be helped. So it was absolutely bizarre driving down the empty roads of Wilshire, hitting Santa Monica Beach, and heading down the PCH. Almost 10 million people live in the L.A. County and whodathunkit - you can actually feel and be alone for a brief period.

2. The PCH is a winding road after a while - it would be hell in traffic but it's a great drive with no cars. Ditto for Sunset Blvd, which I took on the drive back.

3. Driving to nowhere in particular isn't the best form of catharsis for me, possibly because of my immense fear of getting lost.

4. The sound of waves at night is terrifying when all you can see is the darkness.

5. Corinne Bailey Rae's The Sea is the album of choice.

Therein Lies the Rub

It often takes me a while to organize my thoughts and when I do, it's usually through the form of creative expression. If you read this blog (first of all, I just want to say, "Sorry."), this "creative expression" will probably be through a poem. So if you read my poems and say to yourself that it lacks rhyme, rhythm, or if you wanna be fancy, iambic pentameter, you're probably right. Well, I have two responses to that. First, if you know me at all, you should know I have no internal rhythm...at all. It's really sad. Maintaining a simple beat eludes me like a decent commercial eludes the campaigns of Jerry Brown and Meg Whitman. Second, these poems are meant for me to disclose general feelings I have, which is easier to do through short, staccato phrases rather than long sentences.

And therein lies the rub. It's hard for me to express myself specifically because...well, I don't know. I can tell you how I feel in general, but it's extremely difficult for me to be specific - even in face to face interaction. Disclosure has been an issue I've constantly dealt with ever since I was a kid and I wished that it was a part of me I could change. I don't like being that brooding kid in the corner all the time (sometimes, I must admit, it's fun). I used to think that it's because I just needed to find the right person who could "get" me, who could accept it. But I think these past few months, I've been given ample time to really identify this, I suppose you could call it anxiety that I've been feeling. I think we all look for acceptance but maybe I'm one of the few who looks for it more than others, but rarely will I ask for it. Why should you ask for acceptance, right? Shouldn't people just "get" it?

The practical me says "No." You really shouldn't because people can't read minds - sure, they can get to know you better but even then, you can't depend on people to validate you all the time. They have their own needs and own lives to lead. And yet, even though I know this, there's that brooding kid. Who starves for that attention. Who probably needs to grow up and start validating himself.

Here's hoping he will soon.

At Ease

Putting pen to paper

I want to say

Nothing. Nevermind.

Forget I said anything

Let me put your mind at ease.

I haven’t thought about you

on quiet days and cold mornings.

You never slipped in to say hello

Because deep down, it wasn’t you

Merely an idea.

These shadows of you and me

All part of a ruse

A home that never existed.

Finding Nemo

I repeat to myself,
"Just keep swimmin, just keep swimmin
...But Dory, I'm tired of swimmin
Because I don't know how to."

Untitled

"I was in the midst of a dark enigma, one that I could so easily fall into and get lost in all its mystery, filled with inexplicable love and devotion yet a quiet solitude in the midst of friends."

Hangin' on the Fold

A Tribe Called Quest - The Infamous Date Rape

Walking in the room, hand in hand
With a boy pretending to be a man
Forget it, girl - story's been told
A thousand shirts hangin' on the fold

Telling people she thought she'd trust
Blessed to believe it wasn't her lust
Lost in knowing what's certain
Man couldn't stand what was lurking
Using his strength to get it working
Forget it, girl - story's been told
A thousand shirts hangin' on the fold

All she wishes is to share
For only pain can stain those who care
Story's been told, falls on deaf ears
"Why when I speak, can't they hear?"
A Tribe Called Quest left it on tape
No one's left right in the infamous date rape
Forget it, girl - story's been told
A thousand shirts hangin' on the fold

All know who's right and who's wrong
'Cept for those scarred in something lifelong

Boys & Men

Rest in peace and spread your wings
A boy grows to be a man today
Puts his toys away, stares far off
At the city that'll soon bow before him

When he was 10, his mother told him
"Son, grow up, be strong...
Be strong like your father
But never become him
He's a good man and loves us like men should
But you won't be the man
The man you want to be
Until you learn from your father's mistakes
Of a man who could never spread his wings"

J Dilla, You the Man

Inspiration - J Dilla's 'Think Twice'

Baby, we oughta think it twice
'Less you wanna start something tonight
I confess I feel it in me and it's tight
But we just got into something nice
No need for fools to rush in tonight
If it's the start of something right
Something right, something right

But baby, maybe we oughta think it twice
Try a little bit of this
Taste a little bit of that
Don't double dip and take it back
We're too tired of goin' through that trash
Don't wanna find you through the smoke and masks
Only to end up where I'm at

We think too much bout all of them
Saying what and who it came from
Forgetting that when we go home tonight
That only two will know what's right
So baby, that's why we oughta think it twice
Before we start this something nice

A Work in Progress

Am I just an asychronicity
To believe that this city
Would be a beneficiary
If even if you had less
That you can still give more?

When priorities lie in the ephemeral
You lose all that's spiritual
You lose yourself
And not in the '8 Mile' way
Cause there ain't no moment, no music
When there ain't no music to face

Something More

I don't know, man
Sometimes I forget
Forget that this world is more than me
That there's me and there's you and there's friends
That there's family
Cause I always think
Think that you, my friends, and my family
That you're not a part of me
It's so easy to lose it all
And when that happens, all that's left


All that's left..

All that's left...

...is Me.


So you see I get lost in Me.
My head gets ingested, grows infested
Grows grotesque
Grows bigger
But there's less, only more mess
No time for others, no time for love,
No time for me.

Now I know it's contradictory
When I say there's no time
Time for me.
Listen
I'm saying I'm not taking time
For me.
Time to see the good, accept the bad
To love me.

Cause when I do
I'll make the time for friends and family
For you.
When the confusion subsides and rides
Off towards the sunset
And this infestation manifests
Into...something more
Something more...like me.
Something less...like Me.

More like you
More like love

These Words

Original Post: 11/20/08 at 11:40AM (Written on the train ride to the airport before leaving Japan)

Ever since that day
I've thought about you endlessly
Wishing I could press my hand
On the arm of your jacket

I never wanted to love you
But I couldn't stop myself
From wanting you here and now
To walk crowded streets with

These words that I tell you
Are not what I want to mean
I get frustrated and annoyed
When the right ones are ahead of me

What I mean to say...
Is that I wish you were him
That I didn't love and resent you
For reminding me of him

Free Writing - Cookin' Time

I thought for a long time that perhaps, it would finally come to this. And-and I've mulled it over, alright? I cooked it with all the fixins and I was gonna let it blow up in your face. But then I let it cool until all the oil began to congeal. And now - now you've made me heat it up all over again! And you know what, that ain't right! Cause I got rights! I got rights to a life! I got rights to say good night and to hell with you. (beat) Cause even though I mulled this over, I'm not prepared. I'm never prepared. I try, believe me - oh, I try to the best I can. But you just muck it up. Like a kid who just..mucks it up. A kid. You're a kid. (beat) What am I saying? I think I'm saying you're immature, you need a time out, and get the hell out of my kitchen because what I'm making next isn't for you!

Change is Hard

"You shouldn’t change because someone wants you to. You should only change because that person makes you want to."

From the Camera's Angle: A Man's Apple

A man in a bowler hat and no face stands on a cliff with a green apple in his right hand and a pocket knife in his left. It is a Swiss Army Knife. He stands facing away from the precipice with his head tilted slightly up. He'd be looking up if he had eyes.

We begin to focus on the green apple, taking note of its indentations. Dark spots scatter themselves, most of them near the stem. It looks as if the man may have been pressing his fingers there. The dark spots look soft but we can't really tell. We would continue to characterize this apple more but it's moving now, distracting us. The man is rolling the apple in his hands expertly - as if he's done this many times before. He spins it slowly and drops his hand. The apple falls through the air for a split second. The man grabs the top of the stem and the apple continues spinning, its momentum twisting it. The stem is about to break. And it does. The apple flies through the air again.

And this is where the knife comes in. It punctures the apple from the top. The blade is dull so the apple barely holds on.Our focus remains on the apple and the knife. And the finger of the no-face man creeping down the exposed blade. He presses down on it. It requires a great deal of pressure but he manages to prick himself. The finger winces and retracts out of instinct, but it manages to correct itself in mid-movement. The finger reaches towards the apple. It presses down on the green skin. Lightly. Just enough to leave a crimson fingerprint.

A quick cut occurs now. Like in a movie or TV show. We've switched from being literally inches from the apple, the blade, and the finger to now looking 20 feet away from the man. We are behind him and slightly to his left. His left arm is diagonal, probably from the cutting motion of the pocket knife. We look down and realize we're not standing on anything. The man is facing away from the cliff and we're behind him. This means we're not standing on anything. It's a cartoon: the moment you notice the danger you're in, the moment that danger occurs. We fall and we grasp at nothing. The man waves with his right hand. He never looks back. Our focus moves quickly as we plummet. The precipice grows smaller, the blue ocean more encompassing. That man. Did he really not have a face?

Halfway

Original Post: 6/20/08 at 11:41 PM

I met a girl in Japan
Who let me hold her hand
We met every other day
Down by the subway train

One day I could not go
As I looked at my globe of snow
I saw her waiting by the track
Wondering if she should go back

After work, I ran to the station
Having no real destination
Wind whipped through the doors
My brown shoes slapping the floor

I stumbled onto the street
Looking at the lights before me
My hand reached up to the neon blue
I wonder if she saw it too

From the crowd, I stood
As a gentle voice cooed:

"Slipping through the doors of the train
On a one-way ticket going anywhere
I leave a note on your windowpane
Asking you to meet me halfway there"

The Party

Original post: 7/24/08 at 2:13 AM

The moment you step into a room, I know what to do. I smile, look up at the ceiling, and sink back into the couch, my eyes following you from one side to the next. And when you finally decide to sit down - after talking for hours with people - I'll sit next to you and smile while looking up. You ask me why I'm not saying anything. I tell you that I've seen you talking all night. But I guess it wouldn't hurt to share a few more words. So we talk. Until everyone leaves, us sitting on the couch, throwing more wood into the fireplace. I was cold too.

A Dull Throb

If I were to see you on the street, would it come back?
Would I remember everything?
Would it just be a dull throbbing against the wall of my head?
I wander around and I listen to the music
Only to see the shadows of time, of you
Slip through the cracks of the wall
Disappearing in the midst of painted concrete

So I keep moving, losing myself...
In you but without you.

And There It Was

Yeah, I know other directors got their cast actual edible gifts and cards (edible cards?). But screw that. This is cheaper and faster. So I started writing this on the Moleskine (so friggin' awesome) that you guys got me:

6/10/10

My first post goes out to the cast of Blueprints for buying me something my frugal self (aka cheap ass) would never buy. I thank you for the hard work you've put into this scene, especially given it was my last quarter. I thank you for doing things that are now probably extremely idiotic in retrospect. Like making Dominic propose to Carrie. Or letting people touch Ronnie. Ew.

I know I'm seen as someone people respect, but truthfully, it's only reciprocal. I respect all ofyou so much because you were so open and trusting - that was what really allowed me to direct freely. I had an amazing time directing you all because I never felt like I was the director; you guys made me part of the scene as well, absorbing me with your words, actions, expressions. It occurred on so many occasions that I often struggled to give you notes. Remember the times when I sat silently after a run-through? Yeah, I had no idea what the hell I was gonna say. You were as much of a director as me - helping me with blocking, giving me insight, and putting up with sitting in a stupid circle at the beginning of each rehearsal to discuss our feelings.

This was an extremely difficult quarter for me in many different ways and it was occasionally difficult to get through a script as complex and close to my heart as this one. I suppose that is a testament to the writer's talent. =). Anyhoo, you guys made it so easy for me and I thank you. Here are my personal shout-outs:

Nam Giao/Alyssa: Thank you never learning what self-induced analgesia was.

Patrick/Pete: Thank you for playing computer games whenever you weren't performing.

Angela/Carrie: Thank you for learning "No Scrubs" by about 9th week.

Apollo/Dominic: Thank you for the great accent in this role.

Tobit/Justin: Thank you for not infecting us with your ADD...wait. What were we talking about again? What the hell was that stain on your shirt, btw?

Alice/Ronnie: Thank you for never growing up. =)

Listen

Listen, I don't feel at home in my own home.

Serenity

Grant me the serenity to accept the things that I cannot change
The courage to change the things that I can
The wisdom to know the difference
Give me the courage to love with an open heart,
An open heart, an open heart, I wanna love with an open heart
With an open heart

Test the Faith

I'm not very religious. I was born and raised Buddhist, but I never adhered myself to a religion. Lately, it feels like the issue of Gods and deities has thrust itself to my attention, calling for me, asking for a response. Often, when something confronts me in such a sudden and unexpected manner, I don't know how to respond. I fold up, consider it in the depths of my mind, and formulate a response...which often comes too late. 


In my theater group, whenever someone needs a cold read of a priest, I am often called to read the lines. Why? Is it because of my conviction? My commanding voice? My 'Holier than Thou' demeanor? I really don't know. I guess I've just fallen into the role and went on with it without much thought.


But now I find myself wondering, "What do I believe in?" I've always been afraid of religion because I never truly understood it; I didn't understand why people would put all their faith into a higher being. Truthfully, I saw it as a sign of weakness, an easy way to answer difficult questions.


Then I realized something that was true to me. I, of all people, have so much faith. I have absolute faith in people and I put my trust in them. That people are inherently good and will eventually do the right thing. I think it was Evan Shulman, many years ago, who once told me, "I'm a humanist...I believe in humanity." And I began to take that to heart. 


Whatever you believe in, believe in it. Wholeheartedly. Believe in God and let yourself be that vessel where you sacrifice yourself for the greater good. Blessed with the ability to help others, whatever allows you to do so, believe in it. Because faith is always there. What form it takes doesn't matter because it's faith, in its purest and most genuine form, that keeps you strong.

Do It

Do it. Do what's right for you.

Ready, Steady, Stop!

"Ready, Steady, Stop!" To quote Jules Winnfield in Pulp Fiction, " I just thought it was some cold-blooded [stuff] to say".

"Ready, Steady, Stop!" I actually started this blog way back in September of 2009 and didn't touch it until maybe mid-February. So when I came back to it, realizing I had already set myself up with an account, I thought the name was awesome. *Taps self on back* That it was just some cool...stuff to say. It actually reminded me of a John Mayer song; whether that is good or bad leaves me nervous.

This post probably should've been my first post, but I'm going to break down the name of this blog. Sometimes, the explanation comes long after the inspiration. It's going to be a little free and probably won't be very coherent, but let's start! Ready Steady!

READY: To be ready is to be aware. Of what came before you, what lies in front of you, and what is lurking for you in the far-distant future. Then, you move accordingly. You learn through instinct what to say, what to do. It's like you're the ultimate predator. You are capable of the raw, immense power necessary to take down anything in your way. And yet, your paw can still softly pit-pat the ground as you lay in waiting for the unsuspecting prey. To be ready is to be aware.

Ready.    

Steady: Patience. It's all about patience. The patience to learn through your mistakes. The patience to allow others to learn through theirs. It is the unenviable task of waiting until the eleventh hour for an answer and by then, it might not even come. Or it is the patience of understanding that even though the answer didn't align with you today, tomorrow is an opportunity to do it all over again. These are moments of high anxiety where you feel like you have a million things to do but not enough time in the world to do it. The solution lies in patience. There is always a will, there is always a way. Stay steady, stay consistent, and appreciate the gift you've been blessed with - yourself and those around you. People who are monumentally different than you, but still stay and listen when you've lost your "Steady".

 

...Steady...

STOP: We all make blueprints for the future. It becomes our ideal, our ground plan. But the actual process itself is left up to chance and a host of other variables that we cannot or can no longer dictate. This is why we need to stop. Because we get ahead of ourselves. We think we're Ready. We think we're Steady. But we need to Stop. Because things cannot continue on in their present state. We need fluctuation. We need stakes. We need to Stop to realize that yes, we may be moving, but we're not going anywhere. And only when we Stop is when notice everything this still. And everything is decaying. So for the love of God, just Stop for a moment. And notice how beautiful you are. How quiet but melodic the music is. How much you need a shoulder to cry on or someone to hug. How amazing your friends and family are when they may not act like it. Because they forgot how amazing they are. Because other people may say they're not. But they are. Just like you. Just like me. And let that wash over you. Anew. So Stop. And just love. Love what you have. And let that be your blueprint.

...Stop. Just Stop.

The Real You

The real you will be written in a corner of a room, hidden underneath a pile of clothes. It would be an adventure to find this place, to look for something that people don't really tend to think about or considering trying to find. But it's there. In all of us. We tend to confuse it as a movement. But it really doesn't move. We, through our actions (unknowingly or even knowingly), actually move away from it as it stays still. And when we look back, the corner's gone. We wonder where it went and we hope to find it again.

Like that hotel we visited years ago, but has somehow shrouded itself through the mist of time. Gone. Replaced by illusions that are beautiful but ultimately impermanent. Non-sustaining. A costly but ignoble monument, made of fortified brick and mortar - and yet, oddly exhausted of its spirit. It leaves your mind once it's beyond your sight.

A Dream

I had a dream that my father died. On a ship. My mother was with him but she survived. Barely a scratch on her. But he was dead. I remember receiving a photo on my cellphone from my sister of a series of photos - only two that I remember. The first one was of my father. He was in a suit. Well-dressed. But he was dead. It was from what looked like a ventilation system. He was inside, his body crouched. The viewpoint was from inside the vent system with the crown of his head facing the camera. The other picture was of my mother and her friend. The aftermath. She was looking at the camera with her friend. Both of their eyes were red, saying everything they could not. About how much they missed him. Even if he alienated everyone and complained about everything. We missed him. And I woke up, trying to put the puzzle pieces together. It was a dream, but it was everything I could not say.

When I danced in my room, I thought about this. What it felt like. The two photos that I remember. The one of my father. The one of my mother and her friend. And I tell myself that "Everything is Not Lost". I keep dancing, moving ever so slightly. But my moves lack what I want to communicate. Which is something that I cannot explain, cannot formulate. I am limited by the skill of language, by my body, by my movements. "Everything is Not Lost". So the song goes. So I move. So I begin to sing, looking at myself contorting. The next song comes on. "Life is for Living". And it was like a conversation I was having. Was it with my father? Was it with myself? I don't know. Does it matter? I try to leave but the song keeps on playing in its one-minute entirety. "My heart just aches when I think of...the things I shouldn't have said." What about all these things I couldn't say?

Why Do You Dance?

The prompt for my Butoh-based dance class: This is a very simple question. So simple, that it may be difficult to answer. As highly-complex, socially-trained animals, we tend to try and assign or create meaning out of everything. This often results in very overburdened experiences in terms of the way we see and think about them. What happens when you dance? Answer this question as you like. You can give a straightforward, literally descriptive answer. Or you can give a poetic or creative answer that tries to get to the visceral, intuitive core of your experience

My answer: I dance because I don't know how to. I dance because if I don't, something bad will happen. The world will stop turning. The world could end, turn upside down, and disappear. But if I were to keep dancing, I would stay alive. Even if everything around me turned into darkness and disappeared into nothingness, I would still be there. Dancing. Being off rhythm. But the dance continues. Sweat drips, my legs grow weary and tired, ready to give out from under me like bent straws.

But truly, what can stop me if I continue dancing? I remain alive- this breathing vessel of raw flesh, of complex transportation of blood. The blood that keeps my limbs moving in indiscernible directions, stretching to ephemeral heavens or writhing on the concrete ground beneath it.

I dance because I can. Because each movement is unique in its exact moment. Never will I make the same movement in the same moment. Even if I tried to emulate it, it'd never be the same. That movement and that moment has passed on, dissipated by the oncoming movement and moment.

I am not a dancer. Nor will I ever be. That is not my purpose. When I dance, I do not think of what it means to be a dancer. My mind, my body, my talent does not operate in that fashion. I only dance because I can. Dance, dance, dance.

Rant: Do I Impress You?

I was reading a friend's Facebook today in which he mentioned -under the "info" section" - that he is actually impressed by very few people. He also conditioned that statement by the preceding, "As harsh as it may sound...", showing his understanding of yes, it is a very harsh statement.

This is someone who I have the utmost respect for - someone who, on multiple occasions, I ( as well as many others) have stated as being one of the most sincere and nicest guys you could ever know. In other words, this is someone who impresses me immensely. I hope he takes my interpretation of his statement in the same manner I do. If he does, he truly "impresses" me.

Yes, I do think there are a lot...for lack of a better term, unimpressive people out there. There are a lot of rude, inconsiderate, and even selfish people. But really? Have you been so jaded to define the population by an arbitrary rubric of "impressive"?

I get it. The talented ones, right? The ones that hold an aura of mystique, of sheer brilliance. The ones who could hold the world in their hands, blow it away, and have it float back to them when beckoned. These are the Impressives. The Elites. The ones who are accountable for holding a standard by which everyone else is judged. And the cherry on top: they know it too.

I'm not impressed by those people. Their brilliance feigns ignorance. It breeds prejudice and releases the toxicity of rash judgment. A type of judgment that we all fall into on occasion, but no, this is different. This is a constant and consistent judgment of the character and actions of others without understanding circumstance.

You know who I'm impressed by? The ones who can smile after a really shitty day. The ones who ask "How was your day?" and genuinely, genuinely mean it. Cause dammit, those people are hard to find. The ones who will apologize for what they did wrong because they accept it. Because hell, they might not even be wrong. But they'll apologize for hurting someone's feelings. It's this lack of sensitivity that kills me, this lack of care and consideration for others.

What I mean to say is that "No, there is no one perfect". Truly no one. Just as there is no perfect movie, no perfect piece of art, no perfect novel. We all have our faults and perhaps, some more than others. But there are so many people out there who I appreciate and am impressed by.

My Shadow is Looking Big

There was a man
Oh yes there was
Who looked at the ceiling
To see his shadow loom
"My shadow is looking big"
"Oh lord, my shadow is looking big"
"Mr. Shadow, Mr. Big Man"
"I don't want to fight you no more"
"Oh lord, don't kill me tonight"
"You see that girl sleeping over there?"
"Yeah, that's my girl."
"She's beautiful, ain't she?"
"She's packing something precious"
"Something I wanna hold"
"Something I never knew before"
"Oh yes, it's true. I ain't gonna lie"
"Son of a preacher, lover of many"
"There are many things I've been"
"Liar, cheater, dirty son of a bitch"
"But I'm her son of a bitch"
"That's all we got here"
"Mr. Shadow, Mr. Big Man"
"Don't fight me today"
"Cause I no longer got the strength"

Ready Steady

It's very difficult for me to write blog posts. To even say something that goes over 300 words and is about my reflections; I would say it's more than the mere bane of my existence if only I could describe it better.

But in the end, I'm not much of a writer. Can't connect the dots that are my floating thoughts...can't do it. Not clearly and certainly without much insight. I'm not a journalist nor even a blogger. I'm no media maid nor can I really go on an angry rant when I overhear two people wonder what the hell World War II was about.

My battery is running low so I'll keep this blog relatively short.

I don't know how I feel about not being accepted to Teach for America. In a sense, it's a big shot to my ego which fluctuates wildly from, "You're not so bad." to "Dude, you suck. Also, you're pretty short." Truthfully, it was something I was still questioning and maybe it's a blessing in this disguise but heck, it would've been nice to have been invited to the party anyway.

So where I am now is back to square one. I'm waiting for a CAA internship (which I've been told I should hear from during the first week of April), but those are my very limited prospects at this moment. Rejection is something I've come across more often this year or at the least, there are things not panning out the way I had envisioned. At moments like these, I wish I was more of a religious boy. But in moments like these, there are so many things to be thankful for. Forgetting all the good things in your life when the shit hits the fan is the easy way out. Seeing the good amidst the bad. Now there's your insight. Ready and steady, fella. Ready to rocksteady.

Quote of the Day

When: 3/06/10
Where: Flagpole between Humanities and Haines
Who: Tobit & I

QUOTE:
Tobit: "I've been thinking of starting a lingerie company for babies."
Me: "Oh, I had the idea of having a Baby Ultimate Fighting Championship."
(Pause)
Me: "We should work together."

Quote of the Day

When: 3/02/10
Where: Outside of Public Affairs
Who: Two girls talking to one another on a bench

QUOTE: "Who says UC is a public university? To me, it's private. Obviously."

The Troubles that Brew

When I was a boy
And this life seemed a little more
It was something I could hold
In these hands of mine

Funny thing is now I know
The limits to life, the smallness of the world
But my hands can no longer keep
The troubles that brew in my sleep

Our paths cross when it got dark
From a man's endless march
To the bed of two twisting bodies
In the sanctuary of mind and soul

My soul was sold to the highest bidder
Given in moments of dying solace
You see, my head just aches when I think of
The things I shouldn't have done

But I don't let get it in our way.