I'd like to think that it's super noble of me to be working on papers two weeks ahead of time, on account of Areli and Sam visiting. But it's not. It's shockingly responsible, but noble it ain't. To that end, el blogadero is not exactly going to be brimming with insight, photos or antics. Not until the 4th, anyway.

I'M SO EXCITED!

In retrospect, I should call it "playa theory." Elementary schools everywhere had a sort of anti-love Valentine's day, more or less favoring the kids who weren't exactly winning any beauty pageants. On some level, everyone knew that the "Valentines for everyone or Valentines for no one" mandate was a crock, a pity-play on the part of the teachers. That didn't stop me (and hopefully many others) to treasure the Bart Simpson or Kermit the Frog or Scrooge McDuck proclaiming Platonic love with some kind of pun. Occasionally, people would go all out and make 25 individual cards, attaching a hershey's kiss if they felt racy enough to kiss everyone in class. Therein lay the added benefit of circumventing the dictatorial love structure -- a savvy valentineer could make a little extra effort than the fold-and-cut heart for the Object of Affection. I did. I made a big, florid heart heart for Dylan Watts one year and agonized over what to write on there. My shyness won, of course, and a really ridiculous construction paper monstrosity dwarfed the inane happy-valentine's-day-you-are-really-nice (not those words, but equally lame.) In fact, I usually made my own valentines, either because my folks wouldn't buy the Muppet cards or because I had an ulterior motive.

The store-bought cards confused me after I made my first-ever round of 25 'tines. I had given time to every member of my class, and I got a forum letter back. The impersonality was one thing, but the mass distribution with nothing distinguishing me from the pretty girl, her from the weird boy mystified me. So here's where playa theory comes in. Mass valentines mean one of three things:

1) The sender doesn't care, but wants the candy. This didn't appeal to me, but was probably the most true. Also along these lines is the scattershot theory that sending out 25 valentines ought to yield SOMETHING.
2) The sender actually does love everyone in the class equally, making the same mass-manufactured Daffy Duck a pretty accurate measuring stick for his or her love.
3) The sender knows that there is something about this love thing that is desirable. My elementary school self wasn't so aware of the concept of sex drive, but I had figured out that people want lots of love from lots of people. I wasn't that dim. By way of flimsy, red cardstock, I realized that there is something Machiavellian in love. It's about gaining as much affection as possible at any cost.

In sixth grade, I didn't make valentines, but gave everyone a hershey's kiss instead. In part to satisfy the number ones, in part because of my disgust at the number threes.

I'm happy to say that we've all graduated from that. As well as from the incessant drama of junior high and high school. So let's take this V-day for what its worth and do something free of that sick control. Actually, it's not V-day anymore, which means in 18 hours or so, I should call my dad and wish him a happy birthday. but still. let go of that fucked obligation system.

Not taking pictures really fucks me up. Not writing is bad too, but the photos are an irreplaceable high. It's a reward, a miracle, a feat when something comes out better-than-expected, especially when your expectations are high as hell. So here's some stuff.


I thought of Sophie when I took this one. You know, because of her ferocity.


In which our heroine discovers the best light in her apartment -- it's the bathroom and it's reflecty walls.


Not doing the dishes sometimes results in good things. Really. I think I have about a dozen shots of these almost ethereal lines of starch clinging to my (christmas gift/totally sweet) saucepan. It reminds me of engraving.


Over winter break, my dad and I staked out the birdfeeders outside his bedroom window and had a couple long photo sessions. He has some BEAUTIFUL close-ups of nuthatches, black-capped chickadees and bohemian waxwings -- his little zappy camera has about twice the zoom as my clunker. But I love my clunker because I have more control than those zippity doo-dahs. So there. Anyway, this is a pair of feasting redpoles.


This fellow (Bohemian waxwing) knew I was taking his picture. I mean, look at him.


he's totally midcomplaint. Probably going off on the magpies.


Cropped severely, but otherwise undoctored. All of these were, for that matter.

Since I posted last, I've done some stuff. Such as turn in my financial aid and study abroad applications, make chicken stock again, turn in an agonizing paper for Comp Lit, agonize some more, read from Che Guevara's Guerilla Warfare (as well as some Shakespeare, Drayton, Marlowe, Lanyer, Donne, Nietzsche, Foucault, Rimbaud, blah, blah, blah von blah blah, and blah look at how intellectual I am!!! Reading brilliant minds makes me brilliant!!! ...fucking school... That's really more to illustrate how much crap I've had to do over the past two or three weeks rather than a display of my intellectual chops. I don't have to prove ANYTHING! [ha.]), noted the odd punctuation combination I just created, played Kingdom of Loathing a little too much, seen several movies, gotten an A on said paper, raged between hating school and loving it, and more fairly mundane crap.

I've also started scrawling things in other places, but it's not amounting to much. Nor do I expect it to because I'm finally realizing that that's not the point. Expect stuff later.

My grandma sent me a scarf and hat today. She knits like crazy and sells her wares at the Saturday Market in Anchorage, but winter (except for the holiday bazaars and the occasional substitute teaching job at East) is a dormant period for her. I'm her guinea pig for some new patterns, she said in her note on endearingly florid stationary. She sent me the hats saying she wasn't too fond of them, but I was welcome to keep or distribute them. It was a really sweet gesture; she's not too demonstrative (somewhat Victorian in a way), so it really throws me when she shows me the softer side of Granny. Two Christmases ago, she gave me a couple framed pictures of my mom and her siblings, circa '66 or so. For the longest time, I thought she was sort of ambivalent towards me because I wasn't going to be a party to her dressing me up in pinafores. Learning that's not true is quite the process. I'm wrong a lot.

After the sun goes nova, vaporizes the earth and sheds its envelopes of matter into the universe, it will dwindle into a little dwarf star and eventually die a quiet death. My recycled bones will, in billions of years, disintegrate along with the rest of the planet and the molecules will reduce to atoms and perhaps some sub-atomic bits. Our carbon will float among the rest of the stellar discharge, everything from my fingers to the entire body of literature. Will the next archeology be an alien race reconstructing our art microscopic fragment by microscopic fragment? Will they learn our languages and piece together adolescent diaries and masterful sonnets? Will they eventually be defunded when their civilization goes to war? Or will we make up their world until the universe freezes in total entropy?

This is my kitchen, as drawn by me. With my new favorite toy.

ETA: It looks lamer than it did before. Suddenly, perhaps because it's public, I'm as proud of it. This ultimately goes back to something Lynda Barry wrote about why kids stop drawing. They start asking whether it's good or not. To avoid those questions, she contends, is to create great stuff because it's not constrained. So to that end, I'm still keepin' it up.

Thanks for bearing with the previous angst-o-rama/stressoutapalooza. Things are much less melodramatic now. In fact, I saw a fellow ardently playing a didgeridoo while walking down the street today.

Everyday my walk to school takes me past the ambulance area of Sacred Heart hospital. This doesn't affect me -- hospitals are necessary, and I'm not at all the type to be unnerved by them. Today, though, the hoity-toity restaurant across 13th Ave. from the hospital had declared war. Excelsior (the restaurant) incensed the air with garlic and cloves, and Sacred Heart responded in kind with vomit. Then SH upped the ante with a siren. A wave of laughter swept through Excelsior. Sacred Heart won, with a clattering gurney and a moaning young man. But it felt to me that Excelsior pulled out because it lost interest; the wine arrived, perhaps, or the waiter told a charming joke. I entered Deutsch feeling more contemplative than usual.

BAH to paperwork. BAH to UO. BAH to bureaucracy and departments telling me what I can and cannot do.

No, fuck YOU. It doesn't matter how well anyone knows me -- my elastic frustration at myself often puts me in that long-suffering mood that most people tend to shed in junior high. I could hurl myself off of my balcony right now, but not before writing an angry diatribe, filled to the brim with self-righteous and self-hating rhetoric battling for supremacy. I'm just that pissed, and the reason pisses me off still more because it's really not a legitimate impetus for leaving an Erica-shaped dent in either the parking lot or that red Jetta.

So I missed an organizational meeting for one of my classes yesterday. The one I was most excited about, actually. I completely fucking blanked it, even though I had, not two hours prior to the meeting, lamented leaving Espresso Roma for my apartment because I'd only have to walk that way again in a scant hour and change. I also spaced out the Literary Society meeting. Everything is getting hazier in my mental appointment calendar, when I was once actually reliable. I had an organizer last year. I eventually stopped using it, as I always do. Last term, I forgot a meeting with an artist for work. I felt shitty for days. Work in general tends to slide out of my brain now. I'm behind on my meaningless paperwork, and even though I honestly don't give any form of a shit, I still feel guilty. And a little bit like I'm breaking, falling into obsolescence.

I got theory-whacked in my classes this term. My comp lit class on madness has been especially difficult so far, not having read much Nietzsche or dense theory in a while. I never taught myself to read this stuff. I can do it, it's another challenge, but the conceptual arena is not a place that I should get stuck. Maybe it has something to do with my cerebral reaction to the university or my own disconnection from everything that doesn't feel like home, but my head keeps rolling away.

So I get a "fuck you" email. I don't know how she means it, but I know nothing will end. We've been friends for way too long to just give the cowardly dramatic flourish of a two word e-missive as the sign. And I know that Joe passed away. And I know that I want to talk to Jordan. But what she knows (not Jordan, but the previous she) is that she's Jordan's protector and sister, and whatever she interprets my actions to mean. There's some gut reaction of hers that I'm not understanding, and fuck-all if I ever will entirely. But I am very transparent (she knows this) and I say what I mean about 95% of the time now.

Then I read the news, and I think the world isn't such a very bad place. It's just filled with assholes bent on ruining it. The scandal du jour and the rehash of the prior ones makes my stomach fucking turn.

In short, I want to cry. And I've wasted my day not doing it or anything else.

Doing some overhauls, now that I have time to do so. (Ahhh...free time.)

State of the Erica: BLAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH! Thank you, and god bless America.

Work broad-sided me when I got back. I'm sort of treading water for now, and all of those good intentions I had for the term (not blowing off homework, for starters) got knee-capped right out of the gate.

I miss everyone. A metric fuckload.

I dare you to match or beat me. Oxfam now has twenty of my American dollars, to be used for tsunami relief. If you're feeling guilty, indulge that little nag in your head and donate. A dose of antibotics costs a quarter.

Other areas need relief too. I started to type a list of countries off the top of my head, but it got too long. I'm going to keep this short because it's way preachy, and I'm well aware of the hypocrisy of seasonal charity (help is needed after Christmas too, although that didn't stop my mother and I from baking pies for Bean's -- I kind of thought it would be more appropriate in February when it's still fucking freezing, but no one feels compelled to help.) But America is proving its stinginess by bumping aid numbers only when criticized for being cheap. (From $15 mil to $35 mil to $350 mil...look up corporate campaign contributions and prepare to be disgusted. If I were prez or a congresslady, I'd propose tax breaks to companies that donate X tons of supplies. But that's just crazy me.)

In other news, I'm back in Eugene. Classes start monday, and I'm kind of lonely.

On Holiday Gifts:

I will be giving very few gifts in person. Most people like mail, so I'll be making and mailing gifts to y'all. 100% unique, but somewhat cheap and lettery. But they're a one-at-a-time process, and I'm taking my time because I want them to be good. Sam's is in the mail. I've got ideas for most people, but I'm taking my time on a few people (Areli being an excellent example -- but hers will evolve into a birthday thing anyway, so maybe that's a bad example) because I want them to be fully-formed, not some half-assed thing I whip out. So it's a slow process, but most people (read: Alaskan buddies) will be receiving mail from me over the next couple of months.

Clearer above: You'll all get something eventually. And it will be a thoughtful, personal gift.

In other news, I'm home.

I am still reading y'all's journals and whatnot. But don't expect replies to anything until the weekend. I'm in PDX without much computerage. This is Kyle's laptop at the commie cafe open mic night. Free wi-fi and loud grrrrrrrrrrrrrrl rawk,etc. Expect me in Anchorage late on the 20th. 21st, really. happy 'olidays.

It occurred to me today that a lot of my life is complete escapism. But I don't really object to that because what exactly am I escaping? I'm more or less at peace with the burning philosophical questions with my unique blend of existentialism and bullshit, I meet my basic survival needs admirably (we made a hearty Irish stew!) and my various mental illnesses are usually at some kind of equilibrium. So why not distract myself with blogs, chocolate, movies and Dave Eggers? Other than it feeling kind of superficial in that leaves-a-bad-taste sort of way, I mean. I haven't created much lately. That kind of smarts. The rut I'm in now was better than the rut I was in before, which was better than the rut I was in before, which... is this recursive, relative non-suckitude life? Gotta say that's not so attractive. Good thing I bought an iPod (20GB).

Hey, please don't read this as self-pity or any of that crap. I'm totally smiling right now. There's some funny stuff in here. I mean, I know that little consumer thrill people get when they indulge themselves. Usually, since I'm cheap as hell, it's how I feel when I buy myself a book or a new pen (and don't pretend you don't enjoy it -- you're all like me). And then later, you're writing with your new pen, and it's awesome. Great flow, nice grip...it's a fucking RUSH! But after a little bit, it's not necessarily the first pen you reach for. It becomes one of the half dozen you carry in the front part of your backpack, and whichever one you fish out first takes the notes that day. A different, older pen will splutter out of ink, and hmm. Maybe you oughta get a new pen. If you're like me, you'll hold out until most of that half dozen needs replacing, and then you'll make a calculated decision with a coupon. It totally looks like you're a dorky miser, but you are fucking STOKED when you try out every color in that style you like. Check out the ballpoint on THAT bad boy! The coupon and test pads are just icing -- the hunt for acquisition is definitely the cake AND ice cream. But what happened to that pen you bought X ago? Oh, it's okay, but just get a load of this one! And I've got a coupon!

Or buying a book when you know there are at least two new ones sitting unread, pining for attention on your shelf, looking to your battered Neruda and Steinbeck for guidance. Pablo and Johnny aren't much help. They've always been well-thumbed. I got The Best American Nonrequired Reading 2004 for my birthday, but I'm not quite done with 2002. And I bought myself the complete short works of Kafka in PDX. So Old School is giving me a dirty look, but Cruddy is trying to calm him down. I got around to Lynda Barry, and I'll get around to Tobias Wolff, and man. It's worth waiting for.

Grabman, Sophie, Meg, whoever else may know: Where can I find Dreamweaver for no money? Or at least a trial version that I can scam?

Taking a brain-break from the final chapter (!!!!!) of Ulysses, on which I must give a presentation tomorrow. School-wise, tomorrow sucks. But otherwise, it should be awesome. I am leaving my teen years behind. In fact, in about 34 minutes, I'll be 20. The Awkward stage will cease. I will neither stumble nor walk, but float. Glide, if you will. (Ha. Given my absurd level of klutziness, I may have to hold out for 30. Or my next incarnation.) Kyle has taken over celebration plans, and I know nothing of what's going on. It's like Christmas eve, here. Except for the studying.

I SWEAR TO GOD I saw Snoop Dogg talking on a cell phone, smoking a cigarillo and driving a white Honda Civic (California plates) through the streets of Eugene today. Seriously. Down to the cornrows and mad cheekbones.

U of O has suddenly become a very alienating place in many ways. It doesn't always feel like I have a lot of friends here.

I will return to Anchortown on the 20th, and depart again on the 31st. Missing everybody ridiculously. I even found myself missing Europa (hellish bakery at which I slaved for almost two years).

There's a lot to say. I think of things I want to tell everyone every goddamn day. But I never write it down and it gets lost in the brainstuffings. More later. Perhaps much later. It IS dead week, after all.

A small preface: if you haven't seen sorryeverybody.com, (go to the gallery) I have linked for your convenience. These pictures, some quite eloquent, are pretty damn expressive of my feelings about the election. So I made my own to send. It's the new hip thing, so why not?



Sophie, you have formal permission to iconize. In fact, I'd like to commission that, if I could.

So. I was thinking about alphabet soup when I was eating my apologetic dinner. And it occurred to me that alphabet soup must not have hit the consumer market until most of the buying public was literate. When was literacy so prevalent that alphabet soup could be successfully introduced? To Google!

...so naturally, the internets crash. I'm having laptop difficulties like no other. Our wireless is incredibly unreliable and now my sound driver is fucking up for no discernable reason. I NEEDS MY MUSIC. This is making an iPod more and more attractive. Ima go reinstall some drivers now.

I promised pictures, and be damned if I don't deliver! VIEW MY APARTMENT AND ITS SHABBY GLORY!


Our lovely view. All you New Englanding foliage elitists can shove it. Eugene is gorgeous in the fall.


Unfortunately, Smoking Dude is not out smoking. We tend to stare at him, and laugh when he tries to adjust his (very nice) aloe plant and fails. He seems mildly intrigued by the three girls living yonder, but our relationship is limited to staring, laughing and the occasional wave. We can see into his living room (and he ours) -- we're glad he moved his furniture because now we can't see his creepy ceramic monkey. This thing could have a series of horror films. Seriously.


Our kitchen has a pointless wall. It seems to be there only for toe-stubbing reasons. I managed to get three toes simultaneously today. Needless to say, it better be load-bearing or else...


The rest of our kitchen. Note the bright orange countertops (only the finest in 70s decor here at Club Mill) and mostly-done dishes.


Here's the living room. The couches and endtables were so free. As was the lamp. In fact, we have tons of free stuff in our apartment.


Living room, different angle. I need to remember to post a picture of Awesomesaurus later. Truly Awesome. Saurus.

Okay. This is the only decoration in the living room, wall-wise, and it isNOT mine. Nor is it Kyle's. This tackiness, which I can't even enjoy ironically, brought to you by Marie. The one with the dragon and the yin-yang is (thankfully) in her room. She's a great roommate otherwise. Except for the bathroom time issue. But enough words. More pictures!


Show-ah. Our bathroom is pretty tidy. Current reading material: Trader Joe's Fearless Flyer. We read about yuppie food in our water closet.


Close up of a shower tile. Does anyone else think this looks like what I think it looks like?


Mah room. Note the posterage. One is of Mannhattan, another is pasta. Quilts courtesy of my mom.


The built-in desk/dresser. It's pretty nice, but I never do work there. I haven't once. Great place to put stuff, though.


You may have noticed the floor is clear of clothing. It was once not so. Piles of clothing EVERYWHERE until we invested in this fine device. I can walk without tripping again! I've reclaimed my life!


The obligatory mirror shot. The better of two.


I loves me the Freudian criticism like I loves me the barbeque.

General update: I am buried in work (for which I finally got paid. bastids) and schooly-school. My brother is officially coming down to Eugene over spring break. He's going to have a blast. Or he better, if he knows what's good for him...
Our friend Aaron came over last night, ridiculously stoned. He wanted to have a nerd party. That may or may not happen. He's a nutty guy, and he's got that lovable college scruff going for him. He'll have some great stories when he's 40.

To bed!

Short post for the moment, but if you're not actively seeking independent news sources by NOW, you may as well plug into FOX news. So try Salon. You have to watch a short ad to log in, but it's worth it and the cookie lasts all day. They carry Tom Tomorrow and WayLay too, so all the more reason.

Also: Forgive the lack of postage, please. Like all of you, I'm ridiculously busy. The next post will have pictures. I promise.

Since it seems to be trendy to bitch about the election and/or make stirring posts about Our Civic Duty, consider this my two bits.

First, I'm disappointed and shocked. Our civil liberties will need defending. Chances are, the US will continue to lose international support. The US may end up very alone. Things look bleak, and action will be necessary.
That said, I want to give my gut to the noble e-speeches cropping up in my Friends List, in high-profile political blogs, in a few scant op-eds floating around. I do agree that we will need to shout louder and hit harder and raise more money and cause more hell. But will the inspiration be there for the public? My first reaction to Kerry's concession was not plotting to overthrow the Bush regime, nor was it dreaming up a new non-profit to defend us. It was to leave. Expatriation for an ex-patriot. In essence, I said, "Fuck this." Because I didn't choose him the first time around, and I didn't choose him this time, but apparently by dint of being an American, I deserve this circus. My first point: I, like many, simply want to leave it all behind.
A mass exodus, however tempting, seems unlikely. At the first signs of the flood, most industrialized countries would close their borders, leaving the ones to whom our lined American pockets would be a boon. Historically and by the fact of human nature, no one does anything until their standard of living is in peril. Not just in rhetorical terms. The Patriot Act chafes us and robs us of our basic right to privacy, but it doesn't keep food off of our tables. Until, like wars past, everyone knows someone who was injured or killed in Iraq, Afghanistan, or whereever we invade next, nothing will change. The US presence stayed in Vietnam for almost a decade --that's how long it took the people to impress upon the government that something had to change. And that was a certain majority America talking. Second point: When people can live normally, politics floats to the periphery.
The majority was tired of seeing the death toll. For some reason, the number, somewhere near 1100 now, of Iraq casualties flashes on the screen and then goes down the memory hole. No one is impressing the horrors of war onto us. No one is showing us that No Child Left Behind is a steaming heap of shit that will make struggling schools worse off than before. No one is showing us how borrowing some healthcare ideas from those Crazy Canadians or "Old Europe" may actually help us, especially our senior citizens choosing between food or pills. The media is failing us because, pay attention, they make money off of partisan politics. The punditry and business and dog and pony show of it all is good for business. Don't want to alienate the (left/right)-leaning advertiser? Tweak the story, change the wording. It doesn't seem to make a difference because we're locked into the two-party system anyway. Another crazy idea from those countries that aren't US. Final point: Media + two-party system = political circle jerk.

So my basic message is, yes, your heart is in the right place. I will help, for as long as I'm an American. But please, and I mean this without aggression or arrogance, put your money where your mouth is. A lot of people can talk or write well, but who can follow up?

This is hilarious. It's already been Sophie-approved, so don't just take my word for it. These people are passionate about their cheese. I mean Wallace passionate.

I'm trying to solve the "More..." dilemma with the last few posts. Ideally, I'll have the cut-text option with some nifty little code bits, but I guess I did something wrong.

NaNo: 706 wds.