perceived predicaments

The artist’s job is not to succumb to despair, but to find an antidote for the emptiness of existence.
– the character of Gertrude Stein, Midnight in Paris

in the film Midnight in Paris, which, if you have not seen it go watch it NOW, it’s a great movie, visually pleasing to look at, smartly written, and well acted. anyway, during the scene in a Parisian bar in the 1920’s, the main character presents his problem of being in love with a woman from their era and another from his own. their advice he desperately seeks for his situation turns out to be their own artistic visions, and no problem is seen at all (at least to Man Ray).

my point here is i feel like this time traveling man that is torn between time periods and the only place he seeks help is from the very people within the other-worldly scenario of fantasy and time travel that give him no “real” solutions and are part of his “problem” to begin with.

perhaps the very act of venting out his situation helps him to see clearer, feel some kind of relief, but in my own case, anyone i talk to, can only supply me with their point of view, and they are not even interesting surrealists. everyone is stuck in their own perspective. as some generic self-help quote would say: what you project/your own view of others is how you perceive yourself, or some shit like that.

i need a new point of view. i’ve watched too many woody allen films in my youth, have seen too many therapists/counselors and have addressed any and all problems from a psychological perspective. i’m not trying to go from one dogma to the next, but oh how i wish there was a new way to look at things, to release ideas, pain, hurts, fears, and everything and all without the boundaries of what has been placed by a majority of idiots.


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a january evening

grey clouds have settled in
blue tinted fixtures & forms
remnants of season’s lights, brightly
pierce the cool hues
pink and white roses, adorn the fences
aiming skyward

O that I could break from these
restrictive words, that shape and dictate
what is felt, seen, heard!

still, silence, in an
approaching presence:
chill out, said the cool breeze
just feel, just breathe
live now
just be

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Adiós 2017, it’s been real.

sparkly skirts, and sparkling cider
full moon aglow
fuck i suck at this.

Here’s to a new year
May our lists of resolutions be
satiated with success
may we all accept what is
be happy, sad, mad or miserable
and take a deep breath

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2 buck chuck


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December 30, 2017 · 2:35 PM

the cup is half empty


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December 30, 2017 · 10:09 AM

Pink hair models in Pomona

I arrived in the town of Pomona, about a half hour earlier than needed yet delayed by a train that was crossing, blocking the intersection required to reach my destination. I thought, well, this seems like an opportune time to practice meditation while I wait for the drawing session to begin. So I waited, meditated, watched, spaced out, sipped on a green iced tea. Locals walked by with their dogs, on their bikes, their skateboards. Thin framed girls with long hair. There’s something simple about this town, yet a car will pop up in front of you with the license frame that reads UCLA ALUMNI, etc. juxtaposed by cholos and your average joes scoping you out, territorial, in their low-riders or trucks. The nearby colleges trail their academics into this old place. When the time met the hour that the drawing class was to begin, I approached the building while nearby bars and tattoo parlors blared their music into the darkened space that was dusk. I entered the building, with art displayed around me, floating in space with wires or hanging on the walls. Passing the bearded man a twenty, ten in change given back, I signed in, and stepped down the stairs to the artists gathering place. The model wrapped in a red floral robe, without makeup, toes painted red, and pink hair tossed in a messy up-do, readied the light and fixtures for her timed positions. The body, a woman’s body, is a wondrous thing, it’s form and shape, how it tells a story and is in fact its own work of poetry. Three other artists arrived, taking out their tools of choice, while an artsy man in dark framed glasses, turned on the classical station, long gone composers reaching us from an outdated radio. And so our mark making muse began her posturing presence to our indifference:

a five minute pose, rendered in charcoal

a five minute pose, rendered in charcoal



sitting sideways, 5 min



standing still & hidden, 20 min


linger, 20 min



final pose

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collision of contradictions

I hate and I love. Why do I do this, perhaps you ask.
I do not know, but I feel it happening and I am tortured.
– Catullus 85

The Yin and Yang is a symbol of peace, balance, opposing attributes, features, things opposite being complementary, harmoniously existing. In respect to Catullus, the coexistence of love and hate is pain, torture. In terms of human experience, opposites create conflict, pain, torment, etc. at that given moment. Within an idea of philosophy, a poem, that pain is muted by being transfixed, viewed, represented in words, read about from the comfort of our hands. In the occurrence of an experience or emotion, the last thing thought of is a work of art, art is produced as an after effect, art making itself is it’s own experience.

These last few days of 2017 I am reflecting on the new year, encountering daily oppositions. Just the other day I felt on top of the world, writing resolutions, feeling unstoppable, hopeful, and have begun to implement life-changing goals into my daily life. This morning, yesterday, was the complete opposite. I felt lethargic, tired, hopeless, angry, bitter, at the continual changes that keep happening, and for some reason, continue to throw me off emotionally.

The primary distinction between Catullus and the Yin and Yang, is that one is an over arching view, a grand scope of the balance between things, while Catullus is a man, experiencing the emotion of pain as a result of those oppositions. He demonstrates the reality of Yin and Yang in a work of poetry, evoking the emotion, turning it into something striking and beautiful.

I’ll draw in on another example of this. The film The Third Man, one of my favorites, masterly shot in the backdrop of Post-World War II in Europe, shot in shades of black and white (yin and yang), characters speaking their own languages (confusion), results in a work of art, and expresses this dynamic of conflict in a self-referential observation made by Harry Lime:

Like the fella says, in Italy for 30 years under the Borgias they had warfare, terror, murder, and bloodshed, but they produced Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci, and the Renaissance. In Switzerland they had brotherly love – they had 500 years of democracy and peace, and what did that produce? The cuckoo clock.

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an ode to NMH

When I was 15-16ish the boy I had the biggest crush on and thought was the most interesting unique soul I had ever encountered introduced to me Neutral Milk Hotel through a pair of headphones in a church parking lot. I instantly loved it the very second Jeff Mangum’s wailing voice and blasting trumpets bursted in my ears. I still do, and occasionally listen to them from time to time. Instead of reading 1984 or studying for physics, I was listening and taking in the lyrics of NMH, Cat Power, of Montreal, and Dirty Three.  The rush these bands gave me of their mystery, darkness that I had not before been exposed to arrested me in their grips, and I had attempted to write lyrics as imaginative and sultry as theirs.

As this crazy person had said “their songs are forever ingrained in my memory” and thus need no reason to play them again. I do, though. Everyone could use an occasional wail, and I like to hear these songs and read the lyrics, with fresh ears that have been through time and experience, years later.


All I perceive is wasted and broken
Silvery streams, sacred when spoken
Slam into me and into the ditch of debris.
And you smoke in the park, you sleep in the greenery,
Everyone barks but all still believing
To tear out your heart would send all your secrets to me,

But I let you down,
And swollen and small is where you’ll find me now
With that silver stripping off
From my tongue you’re tearing out,
And you’ll never hear me talk.

Your teeth believe that teeth are for tearing
Tear into me and the scent of you sweating
Smells good to me, as long as we keep in our clothes
And out in the dark, the world is still rolling,
Kids in their cars, cigarette smoking
And all that they are, just reeks with the sweetest belief.

But I let you down,
And swollen and small is where you’ll find me now,
With that silver stripping off
From my tongue you’re tearing out,
And you’ll never hear me talk.

All I could want is silver and spinning
Out from your arms and into the pretty
Pit of your heart – so simply and softly we’d flow.

But I let you down,
And swollen and small is where you’ll find me now,
With that silver stripping off
From my tongue you’re tearing out,
And you’ll never hear me talk.

Into you I will glow.
Into you.

– Where You’ll Find Me Now, Neutral Milk Hotel

(this was an unpublished draft from august 2014)

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classics student

sipping on packets of honey
hair wavy and long, studying among students
in the library, translating de rerum natura
drowning in a grey sweater, adorned with a university emblem
eyes wide with curiosity

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Do you really care about Philosophy?

My sister asked in a confrontational way, and is an avid reader of philosophy and the bible herself. “It is a man’s study and I am a feminist.” she exclaimed, “Philosophy is overrated.” I told her the department, any philosophy department, usually has only a handful of students, how is that overrated? I would say psychology or business are the most common majors, and thus, overrated. Anyway, she is right. I don’t give a shit about philosophy. Maybe in moments, in outbursts but for the most part, no. I am lazy. Unmotivated. Lacking in any effort to truly understand these ideas or well articulated questions that lead only to more questions.

The preface of Schopenhauer’s The World as Will and Idea told the reader to put the book down, use the book to fill up space on a shelf or a coffee table so some “learned lady” can happen upon it, if one didn’t have a complete mastery and understanding of Kant. What I vaguely remember from my ex-boyfriend’s study of Judaism days, a student was typically taught one on one with their rabbi, teacher, so the information was clearly given, and no possibility of misunderstanding could occur or become lost among a gathering of students. I will, however, read Schopenhauer anyway, and without a teacher, despite his cry from the grave to not vulgarize what he has written through a layman’s lack of learning.

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