A stronger girl would shake this off in flight.

Without feeling the need, or having the interest, to go into details, I'd like to make a complaint. This is not tied to anything relevant, just a long standing frustration.


Strength. Emotional strength, rather. I don't discount the value of being able to lift a large rock off of oneself or what have you, but it's not pertinent to the ramblings du jour. Being strong emotionally is seen as a great asset, which surely it is. It is often discounted, however, that this emotional fortitude is earned and not gifted; I've yet to meet someone who has not endured significant struggle and/or suffering to reach this stage. 


Therein, I am often irritated and befuddled when someone offers to another that they are "so strong" in the midst of a hardship. Generally this observation is presented as some attempt at moral support, which to me is saying "hey, you can handle this; I will not really do anything of consequence because you're capable, but my telling you this proves that I care". Does it not occur to them that perhaps said individual may not want to be strong anymore? It's condescending and ignorant. 


People are strong because they have to be. It's an important reality, but what does being reminded of this trait do much more than make the subject feel further isolated? One may be a veteran of enduring great duress, but in no way does that inherently promise that they do so with ease. More often than not, having to be as strong as one does to be commended for it is not at all pleasant. 


Just a thought. If you're going to give half assed encouragement, I'd rather have some tulips. 

A superstitious hyperrealist.

There's a quality about coldness, an inherent silence, which is tremendously comforting. The moon slung low, its halo poking through the spindly fingers of naked trees. The whitewashed morning, which reminds me of long drives through the night, excessive rumination and what seems like endless stretches of nothing. 


Akin to this, almost, is the heaviness of insomnia. Maybe the reliability; it's so consistent. It never really goes away. The stillness of the darkness, stirring alone, eyes too weighty to think clearly or allow for focus. It's the kind of tired that becomes so dense it's self sustaining; too tired to sleep, too tired to do much else. Again, similar, is hunger. Being so hungry that you stop being hungry at all. Physical emptiness, which in itself is somehow filling. 


Likely this makes little to no sense to anyone other than myself, but I'm not out to win an audience. In theory one could argue that I should be, but in keeping with tradition, "should" does not mean enough to engender action. 


Giving it any reflection whatsoever, I posit it's all about constants. I realize I've already touched on this, and maybe under different circumstances I'd be compelled to better organize my thoughts, but I'm enervated. Quite the opposite of how bleak this is likely to be perceived, I find great relief in these predictable discomforts. There's a transcendence; the void becomes the substance. Does that make any sense? Does it matter? 


Tonight is no different from the countless nights before it, be it at fourteen watching Cartoon Planet and The Tick until dawn, or staring upwards for hours at a cracked Brooklyn ceiling at twenty-seven. The night's forthcoming offer equal predictability.You feel the same. It's grounding. 


Whenever that first glint of blue sneaks back into the horizon my gut lurches. Much like I dread going to sleep, if possible, on Sundays. Knowing things are starting again, humming for participation. 


I imagine this is taken as melancholic, but so it goes. I take my peace where I can find it. I will deal with the dark circles later. 

Ce qui embellit le désert, dit le petit prince, c'est qu'il cache un puits quelque part.

What makes the desert beautiful," says the little prince, "is that somewhere it hides a well."

Out & About.

Over the past two days there have been incredible photographic opportunities that I've missed; must remember to bring my camera anywhere it is not certain to be destroyed. A little point and shoot would be handy for that, but then what's the point? 


SO, some photos from last Sunday and today, out and about in Austin.


Oh, and if you're a big pansy, you may want to skip the last few, as there are some very dead, very eviscerated deer in there. You'll miss a really cute goat though. Do you really want to be that kid who missed the cute goat? I think not. 


North Austin, 1/2. Went to pick up a visiting friend of Brian's and saw a chicken shack on the corner. I was really excited about the chicken shack. 

This stud's for sale, if anyone's interested. Eh?

Epoch Coffee

Sorry, random girl. 

Today, 1/9 - Sugar Mama's Bakeshop. 

Incroyable, non? Most definitely need one of these for the dark corner of the living room from which I am writing.

From the parking lot.

S. Congress vicinity:

Can you see the little bird? 

This is the dead deer part. Apparently taking pictures of carcases is strange; the men who were processing these fellers and the hunters who'd brought them gave me very odd looks. I'm used to it. 

Poor thing. No legs to run away with. Alas. Poo-te-weet.

See? I told you he was cute. I love him.

The formatting is a mess, I know. I should also be able to write the code for this much better than I can. Practice, practice, she-bear. 


It's a lovely, cold, grey day. Very excited for this impending "deep freeze" (read: below 40° at night).

On being cool.

At least four days a week I put myself on hideous display in the courtyard outside of my apartment during hoop* practice, as it is the only feasible space where I can work on things without breaking anything. As a result, people frequently pass by, usually with dogs  freaking out over the circumlocution of my hoop. I was engaged in said practice the other night, flailing to the crescendo of my impressive playlist, when two girls, maybe eighteen-ish, approached. I flashed a quick, awkward smile, and turned to go back to what I was doing until I noticed that they were slowing. "Can I see your tattoo?", one asked. "Um, which one?", I replied, extending my arm for selection. A brief conversation on the matter ensued, and as I thought they were about to leave the second girl asked "are you practicing for something?" "Uh..I'm just practicing in general. To be better. Than this." - I am so graceful. - The first girl smiled and said "you're cool, I can tell", and wished me a good night as I smirked over her inapt observation.


I am not cool. I am, in fact, quite uncool. A dork. Someone who plans her schedule around watching Doctor Who and collects narwhal paraphernalia. In high school kids threw rocks at me. Living in New York, I frequently wandered museums alone, usually spending excessieve time in the Egyptian and dinosaur related wings. Looking at that now, it all seems super cool (sans the rock throwing - that part sucked), actually, but that's because I am a dork. My social skills are quickly dwindling and are usually stymied by my monumental snark. 


People don't usually get snark. Sarcasm necessitates overtness to register nine times out of ten, and my brand of dry, cynical smart assery is most often mistaken for my being an ass. It's not that people may not relate to me, or that I particularly care if people understand my personality, but..the awkwardness. That terrible, palpable silence that just thunks down, taking the room with it. Then the staring. Oh, the feeling of being looked at - so wretched. I'd peel my skin down over my eyes and hide in it if I could, but I guess that wouldn't help anything. Note to self: grow out ill advised mohawk more quickly. FASTER. 


So, fine, I'm an "odd duck", as the kids say. It makes my friends hard won, and for that struggle I am fortunate to have incredible people in my life. It is for this reason I so highly value the trait of snarkery (totally a word) in others; really, I see facetiousness as an art. There's a fine line between being callous/rude and hilariously dry. See: Daria. By no means do I rank myself among the gifted, but I do feel qualified to assess this skill objectively. 


I'm sure the sardonic muttering to myself that follows the failure of my attempted social escapades cannot help, either. "Hey, there's that girl who flails about in a whirling ring like a confused goat, muttering to herself after insulting others!" 

Artist's rendering. 

The epitome of cool, clearly.

* Hula hoop practice, or hoop dance as most people refer to it. While white men may or may not be able to jump, this white girl most certainly cannot. Behold the tokens of my efforts at knee hooping over the past few days:

Outer right knee. Please note Sega box in the background.

Just imagine those washed out green spots being more vibrant and having hints of purple. I could only justify so much effort to capture the bruises on my shin. 

As a reward for your endurance, please enjoy the video below being thrust upon you. This is how people who have already gone through the process of extensive bruising and much effort hoop. SaFire is incredible, and actually the first hooper I ever saw. It is because of her I do this. Knee hooping starts about 38 seconds in, if anyone cares.