The postcard below is from Post Secret and it reminded me of Cornelius. I wish my life were as easy as my kitty's.
And I have no resolutions / For self-assigned penance / For problems with easy solutions
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The closing of the holiday season and all its retail fervor, and a supposed new beginning primarily marked by having to replace the calendar. New years may claim to mark an astronomical phenomenon, but the real power is in the cultural way that they seem to signify a substantial change. In the Land of Opportunity (TM), the opportunity to _change_ manifests itself, as if one needs occasion to better oneself.
The tone of these statements betrays my personal (more accurately, cynical) feelings about new year's resolutions. Nonetheless, I have one for this year: to write and start a podcast recording my writings, all in an attempt to express myself outwardly again. I've prided myself on maintaining some sort of "record" of myself through LiveJournal or other means, but in actuality that hasn't happened. Huge gaps emerge between posts, and even more troubling is the content that emerges in the bookends to those gaps. The internet's amazing at becoming a circular medium, always pointing back inward on itself, creating a funnel of links all leading back down to the same material. Inane links make their way to my posts, eventually gobbling up and digesting any original content. So I need to crawl back out of the internet meme funnel and start writing, start creating in some way, no matter how trivial. This seems overly dramatic, but there's the feeling that I'm slowly sealing myself off, and maybe with this newfound resolve, my most familiar mode of expression can act as a crutch to help me start to search for myself again.
I started writing bad poetry in seventh grade. We had the classic middle-school assignment: write two poems. I plagiarized them both from Aerosmith songs, transcribing the lyrics to each, cutting out lines which didn't make sense and editing it all down into poem format. They weren't read aloud, but somehow a pale girl in my class, with glasses and dark curly hair, read mine. I thought I was busted, as surely anyone was able to see through my blatant lyrical theft, even this girl I didn't particularly like. Then she complimented me on one of them, clearly impressed that I could bare my emotion so lucidly through words. The feeling that came over me must be the same that comes over any cheater who has cleanly gotten away with their crime--a puzzling mix of faux pride and complete fraud. And it's odd that such a moment spurred me to try my hand at writing more poetry, only maybe mine wouldn't be as shitty as sub-par, disemboweled Aerosmith lyrics. I would instead pilfer from the Smashing Pumpkins over the next two years, only it would be petty theft and not grand larceny, as I had done in seventh grade.
The song titles and lyrical vocabulary were certainly lifted from the Pumpkins catalog, even if my selections were more obscure tracks. "Cherub," "Blue," "Eye," "Sweet," "She," "Sun," "Bleed." There was no end to one-word titles that I could squeeze an adolescent emotion out of for two to four stanzas. In eighth grade the same assignment emerged, only now it was one poem, and it would be read out loud, albeit anonymously. I had a few poems written by then, but I chose my first, "Cherub," to hand in. Many a stolen line in the eight stanzas, but enough of it was myself at the time to set aside any sense of fraud, the lines instead warranting pride and fear at having it read out loud.
I cringe a lot at the past. Nothing can make me cringe like terrible adolescent poetry, especially my own. Almost every line I read evokes disgust and shock and incredulity, but the first verse of that poem is so etched into my brain that it doesn't spark that visceral mind-melting humilation: "I looked so hard / I forgot to see / The calming voice / Of simplicity." Typing it again reinforces the unsettling fact that I was once the person who wrote that. A few forced rhymes and a blatant lack of meter later, my eighth grade class was in awe. My best friend was shocked by the fact that the word "suicide" was in it, awkwardly asking later "So, are you okay?," a girl I liked at the time immediately blurted out, "Who wrote that?" and my teacher gave me a comforting pat on the arm. The class's somewhat stunned attention similarly comforted me during one of the few moments in middle school that I was happy I wasn't invisible.
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Spending New Year's in Germany this year was different. The Germans don't do anything half-assed, so come five minutes till midnight, the neighbors across the street let out the loudest pair of fireworks I've ever heard in my life. I was prepared for fireworks come midnight, but this was more than I expected. This was the sound of a shotgun being fired out of a cannon, and the sound came from just over twenty feet away. My Dad walked in with champagne and we stood outside for about half an hour watching the entire town light up their small backyards with firework after firework even though there was a light drizzle just barely dampening the pyrotechnics (or preventing an enormous blaze from occuring). The horizon sporadically lit up with fireworks from the two towns to the south, and the noise went on and on as I sipped champagne barefoot on the front porch. Maybe the new year is arbirtrary, but that doesn't mean there can't be a change. The most insignificant moments can be laden with significance with simple will, the unimportant becoming important with the right mix of emotion and desire. Happy New Year.
Trier, Christmas Market
Originally uploaded by buntz.
took a few pictures with my new camera in Trier, visiting the christmas market there.
The Brazilian bf headed down to Savannah on Monday to visit some friends and to see if he could find some work for this week. His boss here in Charleston is on vacation this week, so he went down to Savannah so that way he would have enough money for my Christmas present. So last night I gave him a call and he didn't answer. About 5 minutes later, my phone rings and it is his number. The caller turns out to be one of Wellington's friends; he says Wellington is at the supermarket and could he talk to me for a few minutes so he can practice his English? That's fine. Some of Wellington's friends have talked to me just so they can practice their English. He tells me how he has been friends with Wellington for 15 years, they were neighbors back in Brazil, and how Wellington has told him that we are having problems right now. And why am I still with Wellington? If Wellington still liked me, he wouldn't be thinking about moving to Savannah. Because this guy tells me how if he had one girlfirend that was as beautiful as me (Wellington showed him pictures of me) he would never leave.
Well, none of that was really his business. Then the guy goes on to say "No fala Wellington, okay? But maybe one day I come to Charleston to meet you."
Me: "Por que?"
Guy: "Because I want to sex you."
"No, no, no, you are a bad friend."
"Oh, no fala Wellington. Desculpe me, desculpe. You are just so beautiful. I can help you. Wellington speak you are so good for sex. He speak for me he sex you everywhere and your puss is so beautiful."
"No, I am not going to sex you. What is your name?"
"I no speak Wellington nada. This is secret for you and me."
"I don't care. You don't have any respect for me or for Wellington. What is your name?"
"Please, I no sex nobody for 2 years-"
"That's not my problem. You are a very bad man. You need to respect your friend. I'm not a whore. I'm not a prostitute. I'm not some object that you can call up for sex."
"I give you two hundred dollar for sex."
"What? Fuck you, carra de cou, motherfucker."
"My penis is so crazy right now becuase I think about your diamond puss. Please, no fala Wellington."
"Oh no, I fala Wellington. Wellington is crazy. I'm telling my boyfriend what you said to me and you are going to be in big trouble. He will kill you when you're sleeping."
And then I hung up. The conversation went on a lot longer than that. I just wanted to know his name before I talked to Wellington. Wellington later told me that this guy is actually 49 years old, and is a friend of the friend who he is staying with. He is also an alcoholic and nobody likes him. He and Wellington had talked about their lives one time, so now this guy claims he has been friends with Wellington for 15 years when in reality, Wellington has only known him for 2 weeks. I was still really upset that some guy thought it was okay to call me up and offer me $200 to have sex with him. Wellington ended up driving back from Savannah that night (a 2 hour drive) to come back to Charleston to spend the night with me. He then had to wake up at 6:30 to drive back to Savannah in time for the work he had been offered there. We also had awesome sex twice before finally falling asleep in a tangle of arms and legs.
So LiveJournal is being weird today, and I've been meaning to do a general update, so I'll try to throw in some feminist remarks to spice things up and keep this blog my sacred space for my feminist musings.
My 19 year-old sister came down to Charleston last night with her fiance to celebrate one of her last nights of single-dom. Last time I checked, the husband-to-be is not suppossed to partake in this ritual, but my sister is addicted to attention from men, so he had to come. Anyways, I took her and Tim to a dance club, and my Brazilian bf-but-we're-on-a-break-but-not-really friend joined us. Tim complained how a dance club isn't his "scene." I hate it when people say that. A scene is nothing more than a bunch of people who all like the same thing, wearing the same things, hanging out doing the same thing, while talking about the same things. Let's never break away from any social boundaries we've set! That's so stupid; it reminds me of patriarchy.
Oh and by the way - did you notice how my 19 YEAR-OLD SISTER IS GETTING MARRIED? She has the rest of her life to spend with this stagnant fellow, why is she rushing into it? I honestly think she is getting married for the gifts. They put a $200 camcorder on their gift registry. It's probably to film sex tapes. That's so gross. I hope no one bought that for them.
So since Wellington and I are on a break-ish thing, I met a Citadel boy, whom I lip-raped according to Priscilla. Whatever, he bought me drinks and then was going to peace out without kissing me, and my luscious full lips will not go untouched in a night of drinking. So I said, "Wait, aren't you going to kiss me?" I met him later on that week for a date, and he didn't make a move to kiss me, and I kept hearing the words "lip-rape" in my head, so I didn't kiss him. The chanting of the word "rape" in my conscious pretty much turns all desires for intimacy off. For instance, sometimes Wellington would put the moves on me while Law & Order: SVU was on and I'd hear the characters discuss sexual crimes in the background, and I wasn't into it, so he'd put on Brazilian music. Whoooo. But the the new boy is nice, but kind of eh. There's no spark, but he is nice, and well, whatev. Free food and drinks!
Speaking of free drinks, my sister's wedding reception is open bar!
Is it just me or do the strippers-turned-singers of the Pussycat Dolls look like men? Maybe it's the lack of boobage that appears on their chests, or the excess of make-up, or how no one really has any hips, but I think the red-head especially has some need for estrogen.
Not only does the fact that this is what men find attractive bother me, but how strippers can actually make it in the music business solely based on the fact that they were strippers. They took their clothes off for money. Men gave them money because they looked good. It's not about empowerment, which some women claim it to be, but having a man give you money because you took your clothes off means that was all he wanted - your body. He didn't give you money because you were smart, or funny, or did you job well, but he controls what you need (money) and therefore you succumb to his wants ( a naked you) to get what you need (not want, but actually need). Come on girls.
And have you even heard that song, "Buttons?" Here is the formula for the piece of trash that pollutues my dance floors: Chorus 1 + Chorus 1 + Unrepeated verse + Unrepeated verse + Chorus 1 + Chorus 1 + Unrepeated verse + Unrepeated verse + Chorus 1 + Chorus 1 + Chorus 2 + Chorus 2 + Chorus 1 + Chorus 1 + Chorus 1 + Chorus 1
Oh my god - should there even be that many choruses in there? The phrase "loosen up my buttons" appears 18 times! The first chorus appears 10 times. Why do people like this? Is it catchy or just easy to sing along with?
What's one thing that you'd like to get done this weekend? Is there anything holding you back?
I would love to go to Greece this weekend. However, the one thing holding me back is that I have to work. For 6.50 an hour. Boo. But yay for getting a new job! Soon I will have enough money to blow off work and then go to Greece.
One exceptionally rainy day, my roommate and I decided that we needed a kitty. We plowed through the torrential downpour to the Mt. Pleasant SPCA where about 5 kittens were residing. After deliberation, I decided on a gray kitten with a lighter shade of gray on his nose. Oh was he cute! Then we got him home and I will tell the rest of the story in photographs.
This is one of first pictures that I took of Cornelius the Champion. The Champion part was added because my Brazilian bf often called himself the "champion" (for example: "Priscilla, how many times you sex last night" "2 times" "Well, I sex Anna 5 times last night - I Champion!"). And Cornelius is craaazay just like my bf, so we decided Cornelius is Brazilian and thus a champion. However, since Italy won the World Cup, technically Brazilians aren't champion anymore, but the name stuck. We often just refer to him as Kitty though because that what he knows.
Cornelius was destined to become an outdoor kitty. Especially since he sleeps all day while us girls are out working or at school and then terrorize us while we sleep. He used to jump on my face at night and claw me, which finally stopped one week before I decided if he did that again I would have to give him away. But anyways, we would leave the door open that way he could go outside and run in if he got scared. Behind our house people would often walk their dogs or ride past in four wheelers, so for a 2 month old kitten it could be tramatizing.
But Cornelius did not like going outside. He would be outside for a few minutes and when we would close the glass door to keep the air conditioning in, he would cry and cry and then start to run around in circles crying to be let in. However, the madnesss does not end there. Whenever you would come home and open up the door, he would dash outside and run to the bushes. It was like he had been waiting all day to go outside and play. I do not understand Kitty sometimes.
When he would run outside, he would suddenly stop mid-dash and have this pose - all four-feet spread out in whoa, what was I thinking? stance and then he looks around only moving his head. Kitty also like to get a run and go, jump with both front feet in the air like an ahhhh! kind of move. The whole situation is greatly amusing.
Cornelius also is very dependent. He has to be in the same room with you at all times. If you go to the bathroom and close the door, which is the polite thing to do, two seconds will go by and suddenly there is a little gray arm sticking out underneath the door. It moves back and forth while Kitty will meow and does not end until you open up the door.
Also, while you are in the shower, Cornelius likes to sit on the edge of the tub inbetween the clear vinyl and the shower curtain and watch you. Sometimes he will paw at the vinyl like he wants to touch you, but he can't. Surprisingly, Cornelius is afraid of water. He might stretch his little gray arm down to touch the water, but if he slips off the edge and into the tub, a panicked scramble ensues as he tries to climb out.
Cornelius also likes to sleep on your pillow with you. When he finally calms down enough to sleep, you'll often wake up with Kitty framing your head like a halo. This is one of the only times I have ever seen Kitty so peaceful and so happy. Morning time is his favorite time.
My roommate and I also joke about how sometimes when she locks him out of her room during the night, due to him always messing with something, and then when he starts meowing around 8am she lets him back in. He does not dash back inside, he rubs against the doorframe just purr-purr-purring. His head kind of does the Indian head wobble and then he climbs up on your bed to snuggle with you. Yes, Kitty is very lovable in the morning.
One time though, Cornelius did not want a peaceful morning. So he climbed up my suitcase and decided that resting on top of my clothes hanging in the closet would be the perfect spot. Time after time he climbed onto the clothes and time after time he would fall down before he learned to balance. Now if I can't find him, I know that he is hiding in the top of my closet.
Apparently plastic hangers taste good. Kitty eats everything - bugs, plastic bags, salsa, people, paint, and toilet water. Napkins are shredded in the living room floor, trash bins are overturned, and meals must be consumed quickly before Cornelius can eat it himself.
The last picture is of Cornelius trying to eat my arm. I was trying to snuggle close to get a good picture of us together, but alas he did not want it to be.
"On a scale of 1 to 7, where 1 means "not at all satisfied with my life" and 7 means "completely satisfied," the people on Forbes magazine's list of the 400 richest Americans average 5.8—the same as the Inuit people in Greenland and the cattle-herding Masai of Kenya, who live in dung huts with no electricity or running water. Calcutta's slum dwellers score only a little lower, at 4.6." - Money Doesn't Really Buy Happiness
When I traveled abroad about a year ago, I had several chances to volunteer and interact with orphaned or poverty-stricken children. They were the happiest human beings I had ever met. Manners abounded and the children always told us students how beautiful and nice we were. They were happy not beauce they didn't know any better, but because happiness was the best state to be in. Children always begged for food, and not for toys or money.
The two little boys I babysit though have air-conditioning, Goldfish and frozen juice bars for snack, pirate ships, soccer balls, a croquet set, space shuttles, and Revolutionary War costumes. And yet they are still not happy. When they are playing with their plastic army men falls down, they have a fit. I'm talking about an in the corner crying fit. Lighten up, little boys. Everything is something to cry over. If I only let them watch 30 minutes of television, per Mom's request, they pout and beg for more. As a child, I was always in the yard or at the pool or playing with our animals. The dog of this family is ignored, but sometimes given a Goldfish during snack time.
And by the way, I'm totally into Vox hosted pictures that way I don't have to mess with uploading them to different sites.
