| I don't usually do this, but... |
[27 Nov 2006|11:35pm] |
In this video, Klaus the Forklift Operator cuts off the hands of one co-worker, decapitates another, drops a knife on the head of a third, impales two and slices another in half, maybe twice. It's in German and takes a while for the plot to get going, but once it does, the blood and safety tips flow like woah!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qqqVbp83ejw
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| Home Home on Domain |
[12 Sep 2006|09:04pm] |
Does anyone know where I should go to buy a domain name? I am going to want to publish my audio thesis online this spring, so I will need a bandwidth large enough to share about 3 hour-long MP3's with whoever stumbles upon my website.
Advice?
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| A Long Road |
[29 Aug 2006|11:18pm] |
My mom and I drove down a long road with giant buildings on either side of us. We wondered how we'd ever be able to tell the cardboard factory from all the other warehouses and distribution centers hidden behind young, scattered trees. When we found it, we cautiously parked, and walked slowly across an endless yard to single door. The door instructed us to wear protective eye gear, but we peaked in anyway, not sure if we should expect 20 bulky men to turn back at us, or a comfortable lobby.
I am here in Illinois helping my mom to move out of this damn house. I am the only member of my family happy to see our things packed up. This home has always felt like a distant curse to me, moving here a week after I graduated high school and then returning every break to find my family in gradually worse states of disarray and departure. When I sit at the front door, looking across at the house were Ed and my dad's fiancée Wendy once lived, and then over at our SOLD sign, I can't help but wonder how, if we lived anywhere else, would things have turned out differently.
Sometimes, if you sit outside late at night to listen to the frogs in our pond, you'll here the old German man who lives behind us playing his harmonica. It fills the woods so clearly that is sounds like a full band. Last night he set off fireworks when he was done playing.
Eventually, as my mom and I stood there at the factory door, a young hispanic man spotted our cautious glance. He was leaving work for the night, and, after finding another coworker to translate our request, he led us to the discarded boxes in the back of the warehouse. The coworker explained that this was no problem-- the factory had been recently bought out by a giant corporation that offered minimal oversight, and no one was there to stop us. He led us back, back, and back into the work area, my mom and I falling over with gratefulness and wearing the plastic eye gear he handed us.
When we got the the discarded boxes, he took them over and had some friends bind them together for us. Then, he carried them all the way outside to our car, and refused to accept the money my mother offered him. He was so nice, and I'll never forget his smile as we waved to him in his teal pickup truck.
St. Charles is a strange town. We have a huge hispanic population in the area, which means some amazing markets, but strange dynamics everywhere you look. The hispanic workers live in bordering suburbs, and come to St. Charles to build the homes for all the families moving out of Chicago to settle here. It's a booming town that sits on the shoulders of this immigrant population, which I guess isn't that rare at all. They work in our grocery stores, but not our government offices. They populate our schools, but you rarely see their faces in the local papers.
Coming home is never easy for me. Over my last visit, I learned that my father had drunkenly called my mother last February to request a paternity test. This visit, I learned that my father drunkly called my mother a few weeks ago asking if she'd ever take him back.
Packing up photos into those huge boxes today was eerie. It is so strange to look at pictures of your parents when they were young, at ages you are reaching, and wonder how they understood the world in that moment. In this one photo, my mom wears a pink dress with a gold rose neckless as my father stares over her out of clunky, modern hipster style glasses. I wonder, if I were to pull them out of that Hawaii honeymoon Polaroid and sit them down today, would they believe me as I told them the power of impulse, mutability, immutability and memories? Would they tell me that we'd all grow old together? Or would they help me pack?
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| You Know |
[25 Jun 2006|05:12pm] |
I guess I should actually talk about my summer, rather than just showing you all an adorable picture that an adorable high school kid sent me.
My summer passes in long days at the yellow admissions office meeting kids from around the world who I get to ask, well, whatever I want to ask them. I can think of few things I love more than collecting stories and trying to capture entire personalities in paragraphs.
You should know that I am learning how to make the best pickles you’ve ever tasted. Really.
You should know how silent a Wesleyan Sunday is when you nap in the sunshine on Foss hill.
You should also know about my sex talk radio show “Let’s Get It On” with Barry and Eve. We play some funk, we make some sexy talk, sometimes we get naked, and we’ll have a Mr. S. Aubrey on as a special guest this Tuesday from 10-11:30PM EST. I am going to start mentioning the show more often here, but you should all be listening online at http://www.wesufm.org, baby.
Oh how I despise the What I Do posts, and how I want to create more What I Feel posts, which is utterly intangible to me right now. I feel stuck, living in fauver frosh dorm and walking the same paths that I’ve been walking for over a year. I feel absolutely free, loving grotesque amounts of time. Somewhere between those feelings, I find myself tangled in the skirts of sunny days, humming.
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| thank you, codine |
[19 May 2006|01:14am] |
Left a bunch of issues of WESU Magazine in secret places around the airport yesterday.
Drove home with mom, who cried most of the way as she told me about a court order my father filed to force her out of the house.
He lied in the documents that "there is a good chance" that he will be transfered to Minnesota in June. The reality is that he may not even have a job in June. General Motors, a car company, has a zero tolerance policy for drunk driving. If my Dad loses the court case for his DUI, he will lose his job as well.
My father has been an alcoholic my entire life.
This morning, during a divorce settlement conference, my father's lawyer started accusing my mom of not working hard enough to find a job and told her that her two-year masters program wasn't fast enough. My father told her that she's had "a free ride for 25 years", at which point she had to leave the room in order to compose herself.
There is so much that is so sexist about divorce law that it makes me want to set every business suit in the entire world on fire.
I got my wisdom teeth out today, and it was one of the easiest things I've done all year.
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| wisdom: the teeth and the absences thereof |
[15 May 2006|09:44pm] |
The oral surgeon called my father and Wendy's new apartment to remind me that I have an appointment to get my wisdom teeth out this weekend. I hadn't planned for the unhappy couple to know that I'm coming home this week.
This is why he called for the first time in months. Asked when I was coming home. Asked when we could see each other. Asked how many wisdom teeth they were taking out and asked me if they do that in the hospital. He asked why I was flying back to Connecticut and I told him about my job as a senior interviewer.
I asked him about his DUI.
"Pretty stupid, ha?" he said.
"Yeah dad, pretty stupid."
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[28 Apr 2006|12:18am] |
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| i can't go on, i'll go on. |
[26 Apr 2006|10:15pm] |
right now I am taking my col comprehensive exams, or, you know, comps, as i like to say. in fact, we all say comps. we say comps a lot. comps. comps. comps.
i am 1/2 of the way into the 3 day process. after this next essay about the representation of pain, i will be 2/3 of the way into the 3 day process.
i think 1/2 is a prettier fraction than 2/3. the prettiest fraction ever would be 1/2/3.
:::here is a poem that i wrote today, inspired by virginia woolf:::
(ow!)
Just now!
Anyhow!
Just now!
Anyhow!
Just now!
Anyhow!
(ow!)
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| Count |
[03 Apr 2006|11:37pm] |
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At 01:02:03AM on 04/05/06, we should all do something drastic and memorable.
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| Rebirth |
[07 Feb 2006|11:03pm] |
Story for you: Tonight I was selling WESU Magazine advertising to all sorts of pretty awesome local businesses. The owner of Little Tibet told me that in his second life he'd like to come back as A Wesleyan Student. He told me that earlier this year three tall, healthy young men from the Wesleyan baseball team came to his store, and he bought five t-shirts from these fellows just because they were so beautiful. Then, he told me that we're all connected like this knot: me, him, nature, water, animals, all people.
"And Wesleyan?" I asked.
"Yes! And Wesleyan!" he said.
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| my last night of winter break |
[19 Jan 2006|01:16am] |
For years, when I sit and worry about things late at night, among my unreasonable worries, the reasonable ones always slip in. The most frequent worry has always been, "what if something happens to Pepé Powerbook?" Those who know me, know about my intimate relationship with Pepé. He's been the most important man in my life for years. This week there was a hard drive crash, a 6AM visit to the soho apple store, and refusing too need my father's help. Lost my 23G music library- oh well. Didn't lose the contents of WESU Magazine or the website I've spend the entire month learning how to design- hallelujah.
These past few weeks with my grandmother have been glorious. She needed me, and I needed to be needed. I needed to be in this city: painting walls purple, being proposed to in elevators, eating out with my grandparents every night, sleeping in the greatest bed ever. I saw some amazing friends, music (The Wrens: sans drummer, improvised mock Eagles covers, cell phone tricks), Katz's Deli (of When Harry Met Sally orgasm fame) and Kim Stolz's hair stylist (new bangs!).
Part of why I ended up in New York was to separate myself from the divorce, and, more importantly, my father. He is too upsetting to have in my life right now, and I can only hope that I will someday be a big enough person to resume communications with him. Right now I'm not okay with how he is treating my mother with divorce-related things and how he has failed to put any effort into maintaining a relationship with me. He's made it clear that I don't mean much to him anymore, and distancing myself is the best way to be okay with his choices.
I've somehow been very calm and thoughtful this week, which is astounding considering that this break involved my aunt's cancer diagnosis, my father's antics, a parting, a stroke scare, grandma crying every day, and the could be worse hard drive crash. I am so glad everything happened at a time in which I could dance the emotional tangos gracefully. I wonder if winter breaks exist just to remind ourselves of ourselves.
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| Just fine. I'm doing just fine. |
[11 Jan 2006|01:08am] |
My grandmother sent me to the post office today to mail a package. The room was full of fake wood paneling and grunting New Yorkers. I was in line for the automated postage machine. There was a post office supervisor looking over the machines, bearded, concerned. (In his back pocket, I noticed a crumpled brochure for a tropical vacation.) All sorts of people were harassing him: little old ladies with handfuls of change, suits shaking their cell phones, and angry men asking "did they even tell yew guys the rates were goin' up?".
This supervisor noticed me and asked: "Do you know how to work this machine 'ere?"
"Well, it will be my first time..."
He lifted his eyebrows.
I blushed and asked him if there was a book-rate option available through the machine.
In response, he grabbed my package and disappeared.
When he returned, he lowered his voice, made sure no one was watching.
"Don't you go tellin' everybody in 'ere, but I'm gonna let you in on something."
He wrote a secret number on my package and told me what buttons to press, as if this was a key to national security rather than a book-rate.
As I walked home, a man sitting outside of a coffee shop, covered in coats and tiny dogs, said, "hellO, how awe yew?" as if we were old friends.
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| considering |
[10 Jan 2006|12:16am] |
I was at an Israeli restaurant with my grandparents tonight, drowning in tabouli salad. Grandma is awful dramatic about my aunt Sheila, and I spend all my time now finishing her sentences.
"You know, Sheila has to walk with a cane now" ... "because of nerve damage that will heal in a few weeks."
"You know, Sheila is just skin and bones" ... "because that's what happens after surgery like this, but she is digesting fine now."
"You know, Sheila is going to lose all her hair in chemo" ... "but she will have a full life expectancy after it is over. This is such good news!"
So, after playing these games all night, I noticed a man smiling at me from across the room. I had never seen him before in my life, but I smiled back. He was bearded with a large family around him, and I was not bearded with my grandparents around me. He approached my grandfather after the meal. Somehow, from across the room, he had assumed I was a college student from a good school in the area, and just instantly knew it was Wesleyan. My grandma chimed in to yell, "and can yeh believe my beautiful girl doesn't 'ave a boyfriend?" to the entire restaurant.
He smiled again, like he was pleased with me and believed I would do valuable things with my life. I felt like I had adopted a five minute father figure from across the room who answered all my Whys with his attention and kindness.
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| ending up |
[06 Jan 2006|07:14pm] |
I am in a city right now. This city may rhyme with Sue Stork Pity or Dew Dork Ditty or I Love It Here. I arrived with my darling mum, DJ Silence (my male sibling), DJ Silence's #1 Babe and our pet dog, Leo. Leo, a poodle raised in the suburbs, accidentally tinkled in the apartment lobby today. He was confused by the Christmas tree, poor fellow.
We visited my Aunt who is doing amazingly well considering. Watching her calmly smile as we discussed her thin body. A smile that said, "I am going to live," which sounds dramatic, but is just pain true.
I will be here, or touring the east coast, or hiding out at Wesleyan, or some mix of these things for the next few weeks. I want to see the east coast, or lose myself in this city again, or find myself in some pennsylvania coal mining town for several days. I definitely intend to chizl in a museum for a day, visit this guy I met in Munich a while ago, and add a chapter or two to that old book I used to write. I won't be making an itinerary until the loved ones drive home to Chi-Town on Monday, but I am open to any companions or suggestions.
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| all things know |
[29 Dec 2005|11:48pm] |
I'm staying up late to watch the Chanukah candles go out. All orange tonight.
I have found approximately four words that rhyme with store (bore, whore, chore, sore, more?). I am taking bubble baths with pear oils, e.e. cummings, and his line: (though love be a day). I'm staring down the frosted paths unwelcoming. I'm changing my scent, smelling my pets, and combing food products into my skin. I'm learning how to spell essential words like dialog(ue?). I have renamed all my relatives, alphabetized my every misguided notion, and discarded decadent decades. . .yeah, I've smeared your creams all over my body, picked fights with your ghosts, and slain twenty of your memories with one (1) bad day (>1),
so,
say, l make the entire town eggs in the morning,
say, you let go of my ankles and we call it a (neck)tie,
say, we put this behind ourselves if it fits there.
After all this, in so little time, I'm exactly where I thought I would end up, which is exactly where we always begin, isn't it?, with no plans for new years, some bruised knuckles, and the silence of the universe.
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| a different kind of terminal |
[23 Dec 2005|01:23am] |
My family thinks it is just HILARIOUS to keep really big news from me until I leave school. For some reason my grandmother's heart attack freshman year and my parent's divorce this summer, to name the most obvious examples, were all kept secret from me until my ever important finals were over and I flew home.
The Welcome Home news this time is that my aunt has stage four ovarian cancer.
I don't even know where to begin dealing with this. People you love, who have influenced you beyond belief, growing sick and -that thing- that's something so distant from what I spend my days thinking about. Everyone says, "but we're optimistic. but the doctor said this. but this could have been so much worse." Nobody says, "I can't imagine having so many things inside of me removed or so little life left. why her? why now? why her?"
Do I have abnormal amounts of drama in my life?
I'm developing a pretty serious complex around ever returning to this house.
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| I'm leaving you for Duluth, babe. |
[18 Dec 2005|12:58am] |
"Henry Tanner became convinced that people ate too much, and that the solution to stomach problems and inflammatory diseases was fasting. He took up the habit of week-long fasts, but his independent wife declined to join him in his abstinences. She was, however, subject to his experiments with food. He was sure that character was modified by what one ate: carrots made one fidgety and sly, turnips amiable, French beans irritable. He fed his wife 3lbs of French beans daily; sure enough, she became so irritable that she threw a jug at him. When he tried turnips, she sue for divorce and left for Duluth and three square meals a day."
Feel free to post the greatest things you've read this week, too. You know, this being Reading Week and all.
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| Bring it! Bring it! |
[03 Nov 2005|11:58pm] |
The word on the streets is that a Beta brother, in an interview for the Argus article on fraternities at Wesleyan, totally disrespected the G-Haus. According to my source he so eloquently said, "I don't think German Haus is valuable. I don't go to anything they do." Well, I think this just means Beta will be getting personal invitations to every event the German Haus has for the rest of the year.
( playing dress up )
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| wanton hussys |
[27 Oct 2005|12:02am] |
For a good time: Explore the stacks of Olin library and find an obscure book by an obscure professor from an obscure university that has never been checked out. I found one that told me the only voice humanity has ever heard is the voice of our navels. I have been thinking about this for a while.
And I have mentioned this poem to anyone who has used the words "peanut" or "hockey" around me for the past several weeks. It was one of my favorites to read at my dead Dead Poet's Society meetings. ( MY GIRLFRIEND IS WAY COOLER THAN WAYNE GRETZKY'S HELMET )
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