cloves & coffee

“Strength”- the aspect of our character in collaboration with other virtues that signifies our individuality, the word engraved on the tiny sterling silver plate dangling on a string knotted around my wrist, and the resonating theme of my life at the moment. It’s a constant reminder that strength is solely derived from a person and even though it isn’t evident at times, inner strength possesses the qualities of fire that can be a subtle glow from a waning candle or a vehement flame.

As humans, we’re versatile creatures and adaptation is not only limited to our environment but also our perspective and intrinsic consciousness. We can make any space our own, but without the mentality of possible change, the openness to challenges and struggles, and the faith you have in yourself that you will overcome potential obstacles, it’s difficult existing as the same person in a different setting. Inherent personality traits have nestled themselves in the canyons of our minds at this point in our lives, but virtues and beliefs tend to be capricious.

Lately I’ve been thinking about my inner strength which I never really contemplated about and I’m realizing that we instinctively “know” when we need a little more from ourselves. When a situation arises, especially a sporadic change, our human condition allows us to liberate ourselves from the proverbial chains in our daily lives and explore the depths of ourselves to make an effort to strengthen our weaknesses. We have our family as the foundation from which we’re sprung and our friends are the pillars that hold us up, but only you have the power to control your life.

The extensive commutes to and from the city have proven to be a curse and a blessing. Even though I’ll be physically weary, the open road at night stimulates a flow of repressed thoughts to seep through and heighten my state of mind. With my right hand on the wheel, a clove in the left, a thermos filled with coffee in my cup holder, and David Gray playing in the background, everything is perfect. Everything is illuminated and I’m not talking about the city lights. Every imperfection is glorified through my eyes and in my mind- broken stoplights, black ice, glances at strangers, growls of the merciless cold, homeless people begging for change, trash bags whisked away by the wind, my failing engine, my fingertips that are growing numb from the cold, my cinnamon laced lips as if it’s compensating for my bad habit, the paper crackling after a long drag. And while I’m absorbed in my unusually keen awareness, I’m reminded of my own imperfections.

I take pride in my modesty and humility, but assumption is more dangerous than most people realize. I’m guilty of assuming people know I’m thankful for what they do without saying a simple “thank you,” I assume people know that I love them without having to say it, and I assume that I’ll always get what I want. In a recent letter to my parents I wrote, “I’ve never had to work hard or fight for anything I’ve needed or wanted because you’ve always served it on a silver platter without me even needing to reach for it.”

My parents, like yours I’m sure, are hard working people whom I had to share a tiny one bedroom apartment with when we first moved to Chicago. I miss the days when I was a little girl and my mom and I would venture the city on foot because she couldn’t drive. I vividly remember the way she tightly held my hand and even though I secretly hated the fact that she couldn’t drive like everyone else’s parents, I didn’t mind walking the world as long as I got to feel the warmth of her hand around mine. I remember my dad missing my kindergarten graduation because of work, throwing a tantrum, getting in trouble, but somehow never telling him I hated him for not hearing me sing our sappy alphabet song or being there to take pictures like other fathers were.

I learned to see my parents as people first rather than seeing them as parents that you naturally love, and as they’ve seen me grow, I’ve witnessed their highs and lows with a vigilant eye. They’ve sacrificed and labored endlessly to make sure my brother and I never have to count our blessings, but its gotten to the point where I do want to count my blessings. I want to know what it feels like to sacrifice some luxuries in life to make sure you have enough money to eat. I want to know how to decline materialistic impulse buys so I know I have rent money by the end of the month. I want to know what it’s like to juggle work, school, and play. I want to know what it feels like having only yourself to rely on. I want to know how far I can push myself. I want to know how strong I really am. I want to be able to tell my parents, “I understand.”

And I’m learning to understand…although I’m not entirely deprived of the basic luxuries in life, I’m counting my blessings and appreciating the simple things in life more so than ever. At the end of the day the greatest feeling is someone touching you even if it’s just a finger brushing your hair off your face, profound conversation reminiscing through memory road with a good friend, and the knowledge that you have people who make you feel so big when the ruthless world makes you feel so small.

rambling

To my surprise, a few of my close friends have inquired about my current literary achievements- or lack of. Mind you, these are people from high school when I was a keen writer so when they remember me as the type of person whose world revolved around the power of words, it’s very endearing that they still remember me as the person I’m trying to find again.

I’ve been putting the blame on autumn’s stagnation, but it’s really the double edged sword of procrastination and my ongoing search for inspiration. I truly believe that when it comes to writing, you write what you know. You need to feel seething passion and raw emotion boil in your bloodstreams to actually write a masterpiece or something mildly decent, but I’m unfazed with the snippets I write and my official writer’s block notebook is quickly filling with random elaborate words and meaningless euphemisms.

So I’m searching.
I’m searching for motivation.
I’m searching for inspiration.
I’m searching for depth.
I’m searching for a paradigm shift.
I’m searching for something simple yet complex.
I’m searching for a fucking feeling.

I miss the days when I was able to feel everything that I felt suffocated by its immersion. The tumultuousness of the past allowed me to understand aspects of myself that I loathed and accept as my own distinct flair. My passion is digressing to mediocrity. I was so desperate that I made the mistake of digging up long lost feelings in order to complete a poem, let alone a stanza. Although it read beautifully with clever metaphors, it was artificial and I felt I was conning not only myself but potential readers. The past is just a figment of my imagination, the future is a possibility that has yet to be attained, but the present is taking the best of both worlds and putting it to action. My past has been reduced to photographic realism and visual words that hold no meaning so I’m not going to allow myself to be nostalgic and honoring anything for more than it was worth.

Maybe writing isn’t my thing.
Maybe I’m too critical.
Maybe I let myself go without even knowing it.

The few that know me well always say that I think too much for my own good and that I always hurt myself with my adamant pessimism. While it’s true that I tend to overanalyze things, I wouldn’t consider my pessimism a burden against myself but rather a self-induced pseudo psychological defense mechanism. I would rather come into a situation with the perspective that I will face disappointment than get my hopes up only to see it falter.

However, my pessimism is molding into a complex predicament. I have managed to conclude that if I can’t help but feel pessimistic about certain situations, what’s the point of driving down a road where you know you’re just going to hit a brick wall?

Even though you know you may not reach your destination, you should still embark on the journey because you don’t know what you’re in for. You might see something you’ve never seen before, learn different things, meet different people, try new things, and maybe, just maybe, you’ll find out that brick wall you were so worried about never existed. But if does exist, wouldn’t you be happy that you decided to take that ride because it helped you shape the person you are?

Yes, I’m capable of being an optimist as most people see me, but it comes down to the fact that I don’t want to relate idyllic moments with failure. I’ve failed too many times and growing weary of my array of learning experiences that I’ve grasp the perception that it’s better to be impenetrable and be a seemingly emotional void than allowing others to see through you.

Wow, I just got off topic.

coffee, pens, and bedhead

…this was me yesterday morning, this morning, and soon to be Friday morning. I’m beginning to amuse myself because I try to play it off like I actually tried looking nice for the day by wearing a coordinated outfit with spiffy earrings, but it’s pretty obvious that I just rolled out of bed and stashed a handful of pens in my front pocket as I walked out of the tutor lounge enjoying my free coffee. I don’t think I’ve ever consumed as much coffee in three hours as I did this morning. I had one cup for every hour and was chugging it down like water after running a marathon. I wish I hadn’t lost my cloves so I could’ve enjoyed it with my coffee…reminds me of my early college days back in the dorms when I had coffee in one hand, a smoke in the other, a leg dangling from the 14^th floor window, and my eyes glued to the TV because The Golden Girls was on Lifetime starting at 8am. Mornings were more enjoyable then.

I’m really glad I start my days off at the WC instead of sitting through a 3 hour lecture. I can feel myself cozying up to what use to feel like a strange and unfamiliar territory where Columbia’s crossword puzzle club and debate team held their meetings. It’s probably seeing some new faces around and realizing that I’m not “green” anymore- I have a year of experience behind me and the fact that I got rehired makes me feel a little more competent as a tutor than I had originally considered. Everything seems to be coming together to the point where I’m not scared to put my 2 cents in on random conversations with random people or my lack of a designated cubicle as a paradigm shift.

I’m definitely forming my own style on how I handle my sessions. Writing is a very intimate act (which is why I leave the cubicle whenever anyone needs to freewrite or revise their work). It’s not like verbally expressing yourself because once you say something, you can’t take it back. When you write something on paper, it’s definite. It’s proof that your thoughts exist in this world which have the power to create an impact on someone or something somewhere, whether you know it or not. However, as a writing tutor, writing is only half the work as the other half is discussion. The key to one’s best writing is to dig to the core of a person’s soul where fire and ice are intertwined. It’s ultimately the writer’s decision how far their passion will take them, but I’m definitly looking forward to hopefully paving a road even if it’s just a dirtpath.

So that’s why I love what I do.

It actually feels great being back in school. I think the reason I was slightly miserable and thinking I was failing at life these past two weeks is because I had the most unproductive summer. I didn’t read all the books I wanted to read, I didn’t try the experimental paintings I wanted to try, I didn’t learn sign language, and I didn’t host that dinner party I wanted to have that showcased my homemade cooking. Instead, I lingered in the sun until I had work and then after work I did God knows what until the sound of birds chirping reminded me I had to go home.

Nevertheless, one of the best summers I’ve ever had.

I definitely found myself this summer. Between going to the beach at 9am with my moleskin grazing the sand and being behind the steering wheel as the city slept, I realized a lot of things about myself that I never realized before. I expertised in the art of introspection. After prioritizing someone for so long, I finally got a chance to take care of myself and it’s exactly what I needed. With more time for myself, I had the chance to catch up with people I haven’t seen sinch high school and grow closer to friends who keep proving that they’re definitely the neon colored sprinkles on my cupcake.

As for my previous entry, I think I was a bit too overanalytic and contemptuous when I wrote it. I still stand by some general aspects of my psuedo theory, but I believe that we have no right to question a person’s sincerity and truth if we possess sincerity and truth in ourselves.  

I love how I can just ramble on about the most random things on WordPress. My journal reads nothing like this. I have a double life.

Reality as we know it does not exist.

 

 

We make up our own reality by our perspectives and experiences that make us who we are. This collaborative effort of mind over matter influences the way we see things and how we react to certain situations, setting us apart from everyone else and creating ambiguity to a word that technically doesn’t exist…“subjective reality” would be more appropriate to use.

 

So if reality doesn’t exist, how do we know whether or not a situation possesses truth? How do we know if people are sincere as they’re pretending? How do we unconsciously give moments different levels of significance? If something was placed in the middle of a hypothetical examining table and a handful of people observed it, what would be that object’s reality? For example, if there was a rotting red apple sitting on a table by itself, peoples’ opinions can span from one end of the (un)bias spectrum to the other- “garden of eden,” “temptation,” “grandma’s apple pie,” “garbage,” “poverty,” “hunger,” etc. How does something so plain and simple acquire an identity without a person exhibiting their personal attitude towards that object? –because really, it can’t.

 

I’ve always considered myself a realistic person with idealistic thoughts. Although I like to idealize things in my head, I know when to see things for what they really are. I’m beginning to wonder if my pessimism, cynicism, skepticism, and my other array of –isms are pushing me away from something that’s always been genuine.

 

 

 

Radiohead’s ’Videotape’ has officially gotten to me.

 

 

I’ll finish this blog tomorrow night. Tengo sueno.

So I had to write this here because I know you read this. You’ve always been a loyal fan.

 

 

I found your letter. I found it because when you gave it to me, I didn’t want to read it in front of you so I stashed it in between random papers in my side compartment and I completely forgot about it until I cleaned out my car on the morning of my birthday. I guess in some strange destined form, it was your birthday gift to me. Ironic isn’t it? …That the only thing I really want are letters and cards and the time you actually give me one is the time you don’t mean to.

 

 

When I said that things wouldn’t change between us, I was assuming that we would still be able to be best friends, but when I left on vacation without talking to you for a week and without even saying good-bye, that’s when I realized I was wrong. I kept thinking about you on my flight to California, wondering if you’d think I was purposely ignoring you if you happened to call me or if I should’ve called to say good-bye, but we hadn’t talked for a while so I let it go. Since then, it just got more obvious that we wouldn’t be able to maintain the friendship I hoped we would. Our conversations were burdened with awkward silence and repetitive questions and answers and it was silly of me to think that we could still be friends when our feelings for each other are completely opposite.

 

 

I think about you sometimes. I’ll be driving somewhere and see a familiar place and I’ll smile to myself. I’ll think about randomly calling you just to say what’s up or mention something random like “did you know that Estelle Getty from The Golden Girls died this morning?! Holy cow!”. When everything is going wrong and no one seems to understand me, you pop into my head and I think, “marvin knows me better than anyone else…”

 

 

Lately I’ve been witnessing a lot of heartbreak and tears from people around me and it seemed that the deeper you love someone, the more pain you feel when things don’t work out the way you planned. It made me think twice about whether or not I was really in love with you, but I knew I really loved you because for once in my entire life, I closed a door without having any regrets and feeling so grateful for the wonderful moments we shared together. You kept asking me why I wasn’t torn about our break up and why I wasn’t in tears and it’s because I gave you the best of me and when a relationship ends, that’s the only thing that matters- did I do enough?- and I know I did. Even though I practically shoved you out of my life in the beginning, I guess the reason I push people away when they start getting close to me is because I love with all my heart, all my soul, and all my being. I consider love a rare gift you give to someone who has changed your world and I’m so glad I had the chance to feel.

 

 

When you said that no one will ever love me as much you have and still do, I believed you, but you have yet to meet the person who will love you as much as I did and ever will.  

 

7:30 mornings. Lethargic U.S history lectures from novel stuffed powerpoints. Brunch on the deck. Lunch with old friends. “jill, you haven’t changed a bit.” Lazy summer afternoons. Loose cotton dresses. Flower motifs. Grass stains. Reading on the grass. Edy’s orange cream sherbet. Spontaneous plans with spontaneous people. Behind the wheel. Windows down. Sex hair. Stunner shades. Chill nights. Wanting everything and nothing at the same time.  Conversations on bedroom floors. Eyes that do the talking. could’ves, should’ves, and would’ves. Random escapades. Midnight trips to Margie’s. 2am trips to Dunkin Donuts/Baskin Robbins on Lawrence by the Admiral for cappuccino blasts. Taking the longest route home half asleep. Vindicating my tainted actions. Cat power on repeat. “where is my love…where is my love…”. Fragments of life flashing before me. Feeling so fucking emotional, it’s numbing. lights on just for me. Scrambling for keys and finding the niche for the stubborn lock. Walking up the stairs like I’m in a high wire act. Serenity in my bedroom. Throwing yesterday’s clothes on the floor. Slips and robes. Staring at myself in the mirror under one light bulb in the corner of my room. Looking like a beautiful mess. Secretly hating the way I’m able to suppress things and pretend they never happened. Moleskin babbling. Falling asleep with a pen in hand. Waking up with the night’s scents in my hair. Long showers to wash away all the guilt and loneliness. Repeat.

take a walk on the west side

I spent the afternoon venturing Oak Park which has been a long overdue escapade. I’ve always wanted to go after reading about the historical sites and neighborhood cafes and boutiques the quaint town has to offer, but I always end up making side trips or worrying that I won’t find my way back home. However, I was curious this afternoon so I took Chicago Ave. going west to be greeted by a niche neighborhood of exquisite architecture, broad streets, and a subtle cozy feeling like I was living in the 50s as I saw families riding their bikes in synchronized motion. (I’m referring to it as a niche neighborhood because there’s definitely a distinct difference once you get to Oak Park. It’s really a small suburb smack in the middle of the city.) Once you get to the intersection of Chicago and Oak Park, you can head south to Marion St. aka The Avenue which is Oak Park’s shopping district. Much like Milwaukee Ave. in the heart of Wicker Park, The Avenue features many local eateries and outdoor cafes, independent stores, and eclectic vintage boutiques. Not to mention, Oak Park also has a central park (which I forgot the name of) which I can definitely see adopting it as my own backyard…although painting there would get messy…I’ll have to keep it limited to afternoon naps under a tree, leisure reading, and journal babbling. How awesome is it that Oak Park is Hemingway’s birthplace? AND he also wrote in moleskin notebooks! I’m destined for greatness…I can only wish. 

 

Although The Avenue is an amazing place to stroll through, Oak Park is really known for its cultural and historical attributions, particularly its 19^th century mansions and the prominent architectural influences of Frank Lloyd Wright who was an Oak Park native. (I think I read somewhere that Oak Park is the only neighborhood that consists of numerous Wright buildings in one place.) The architecture draws many visitors in, but while you’re in the neighborhood you can also check out the Hemingway museum, the Unity Temple (which honestly, I have no interest in except the fact that it was designed by Wright), the nature museum, and the Wright’s home and studio. You can also go fishing! I entered the parking lot of the nature museum and there was a pond where people were fishing- decked out in checkered vests and fishing hats. I’m serious, haha.

 

On my way home I drove through Wicker Park without thinking about it- I’ve somehow unconsciously rerouted my life on the road. Wicker Park is still my favorite place in the city which is probably why I can’t spend a day without even driving through it. The neighborhood is just really interesting and there’s always something to do. There are days where I just want to slap the psuedo chain smoking hipsters outside the Double Door, but Milwaukee Ave. is really where polar opposites can come together and have fun. For example: Starbucks vs. the Earwax Café; Levi’s vs. Ragstock; Coldstone vs. Margie’s Candies- everything’s a mix. I love it.

 

My 9:45-11:15 class is canceled tomorrow morning so guess where I’m going?  

I’m learning how to play Damien Rice’s 9 crimes on the piano, which is one of the most beautiful songs eva!

check out www.my-piano.blogspot.com for print outs to your favorite songs. i’m probably going to work on some coldplay songs after i have this one down.

now off to ikea to buy hangers, star shaped ice trays, and pear flavored sparkling wine from their vending machine!

ps- i’m working on my next blog: ‘jill’s top things to do in the summer’ inspired by the trib’s 99 things to do in the summer …shall be interesting

I’m ridiculous…ly brain dead.

I’m done writing all my lengthy papers.
…i just remembered i still have to write 5 synopsises for the writing center. crap.
My back is killing me.
I have terrible posture.

I love jogging pants.

I’m meeting augusten burroughs tomorrow.

He’s amazing.

I’m going to stay up and finish his latest book.

I want to take a picture with him.

But I’m going to try to control myself because he’s coming back in june.

Maybe I can do something absolutely preposterous so he can write about me in his next book.

I can be his muse.

I have a presentation tomorrow.

I have to wear nice clothes.

I’ve recently been wearing more heels and it feels good to feel like a lady sometimes.

The darker the honey, the better it is for you.

I pulled out 5 strands of gray hairs today.

I hope I grow more cause I love pulling my hair.

I’m thinking of putting some hot red highlights back in my hair.

I don’t know.

My tshirt smells like tide.

My clothes are so fresh and so clean clean.

But I’m filthy.

I’m taking a long shower after this.

I wonder if the mane n’ tail shampoo I’m using is really working.

I’m going to be jumping through puddles in heels tomorrow.

I’m going to fall on my face and laugh.

Next week I’m going to finish my short story.

I’m also going to paint in my backyard if the weather is generous.

I need to catch up with people.

I want to call Kathy.

And talk to her about the thing even though I’m not supposed to know.

Sometimes I find myself really sad and lonely.

But I can’t cry.

And then I wonder if I really am as sad as I think I am.

I just think too much.

Polar bears are a threatened species.

Now I’m miserable.

No, just kidding.

I want to go to Caribou Coffee.

Heck, I want to go to Alaska.

I want to live in a log cabin in Alaska and go ice fishing in my backyard.

I also want a pet baby polar bear.

What kinds of fish do you catch in Alaska?

Because my favorite is tilapia and I don’t think they have tilapia.

Tilapia is a flaky white fish.

Reminds me of work.

I wonder if we’re busy tomorrow.

I wonder if I’m going to get my raggedy sheer shirt.

I wonder if Augusten Burroughs is going to be a pretentious bastard.

You can kind of tell by the way he writes and what he writes about.

But I hope he’s an overall down to earth guy.

I don’t know though.

He never smiles in any of his photos.

I think it’s part of his witty personality.

I wish I was more witty.

Like the characters Ellen Page plays or Electra on Q101.

I’m getting bored of the last letter game.

My body hurts.

I’ve just been stressed.

Which is good.

Because if I wasn’t stressed, I’d overanalyze things.

Analyze things to the most atomic detail.

I’m trying not to.

I will end.

Here.

Goodnight.

Tomorrow’s my last dayyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy!

I’m so excited.

I can’t sleep.

El fin.

Brainfart.

Reality gave me a good slap in the face this morning. I walked into work and all the walls where students’ showcased their work was completely bare, dreadfully reminding me that time’s winding down.

 

I’m really going to miss my tutoring sessions. I’m going to miss my five students that I grew with throughout the semester and the walk-ins that put their dignity into a stranger’s hands. Helping others in its purest form is life’s greatest high. You feel such gratification when you’re able to use your skills and talents to help others out. It’s not even about writing. It’s really about collaboration and the bridges being built by sharing stories and different perspectives.

 

Student evaluations are going on which makes me a little nervous. Its triggered random ranting questions in my mind like, “What can I do for students to be more passionate about their work? Am I unconsciously influencing their opinions when I explain my thoughts? How can I do my best as a tutor when a student has trouble explaining the assignment to me? Is someone going to kick my ass in the parking lot after work if they didn’t get the grade they wanted? Etc. etc. etc.” Nette, the office coordinator reminded me that I have to do paperwork on Wednesday. I have to make sure attendance and session reports are up to par. My ‘to do’ list is getting ridiculously long…

 

There’s so many things on my mind right now that projects and finals are the least of my problems…give me one whole day to myself and I’m pretty much golden. I’m still struggling to finalize the summer classes I’m taking as well as my fall schedule and I’m also searching for volunteer work or maybe an internship this summer, but for sure I’m going to do the following:

 

- Experimental painting- experiment with different lighting. Body painting. Use more oils and watercolor instead of my favorite acrylics.

- Finish crocheting my first blanket. (estimated total price of yarn for completion: $65)

- Carouse around town in search of a new cultural food joint. Perhaps greek town or little italy.

- Mini road trip to sonics. (this one’s a must considering I’ve been drooling in front of the tv for the past 3 years everytime their commercial comes on)

- learn sign language (goal from last summer that I have yet to accomplish)

 

I’ve been so exhausted lately, but once I hit the bed I can’t sleep. I fall asleep thinking the most random things and I wake up in the middle of the night from the most intricate dreams. I think that my mind automatically uses stress as a defense mechanism for self-deprecation.

 

Alright…back to finishing a whole semester’s work in a matter of days…