I don't

like to talk. I like to listen to other people, because I like the quality of their voices.

So, if I just don't respond to your question, it's not because I'm not listening...it's because I want you to answer it for me. I want to hear your voice.

Keep on talking. I'm all ears.

OH NO

Paz, I'm late! Happy birthday Wednesday, though!

Ahh!

R.E.F.

Remember. Experience. Forget.

About one week ago, while on the subway, I sat next to a crotchety old woman with big glasses and a babushka-esque (sp?) face. Babush was reading a slightly crinkled magazine…probably one of those cheap, off-the-rack, corner stand kind of magazines. In a sudden rush of sickening curiosity, I leaned in and started to read. I'm sure that I sound like a huge creep right about now, but I have to redeem myself. The little old lady looked so intrigued in what she was reading. I had to know what that article said! Besides, up until that point, I had never been that oily subway passenger who sneaked peeks at what people were reading on the subway, nor had I ever stared at ipod screens to see what was on shuffle, nor had I ever peered over into open purses to see what was lurking inside. You get the point.

Anyways, I had a looksy and read an article entitled "R.E.F. - Moving On and Feeling Good." The article explains that by using three simple steps - Remembering, Experiencing, and Forgetting - one could lead a healthy, pain free life. So, in order to achieve a quasi secure sense of self and confidence, one must remember a painful or embarrassing situation they were in, "experience" all the details of the moment - scents smelled, sights seen, emotions emotioned - and then simply forget what had happened. Simple, no? Sounds like a crock of over salted freedom fries, right?

Recently I had been having these terribly annoying flashbacks. I kept on recalling silly things that had happened to me within the past year. Things that made me want to hide in the nearest trash bin. Things that made me tingle nervously inside. The memories were so vivid that I could feel my neck and face warm up and my hands twitch. Being the brilliant child that I am, I decided to employ the methods described in Babush's magazine. I remembered the moments, evoked every emotion, etc at once (and almost passed out because of sensory overload), and tried to forget the memories all together. But putting these reflections in the overstuffed recycle bin of my mind proved to be a difficult task. How can anyone just let something that vivid go? And then it dawned on me. Those moments were only discomforting because of other people's reactions at the “event.” Those recollections had remained irksome because I had foolishly convinced myself that everyone had stored them in their minds as key indicators of who I was as a person. Oh, hark truth and reason! Behold the reality: no one fucking cares! No one remembers those moments! They were stupid blips in time. I racked my brain, (sadistically) trying to convince myself otherwise, but I failed. I couldn’t remember anything small or uncomfortable that my peers had done. Why would they have remembered anything that had happened to me? HA! Am I really that self concerned.

Moral of the story: R.E.F is bullocks and I take myself WAY too seriously.

P.S. The whole Babush intro was made up. But the article, or the idea behind it, is real. I read it somewhere...I just don't remember where.

Birthday Card pt. II

Here, Yisa:

Jackson

Coming home to Jackson is always familiar...the same crowd is always there, at the same coffee shop. Fondren, the art district here, is really small, just a few blocks, and the rest of the city is fairly non-nondescript and business-y, and if you wander too far you will realize why Jackson has earned a spot as the fourteenth most-dangerous city in the US, in the ranks of Detroit, DC, Birmingham, Memphis, Atlanta, and New Orleans. Mayor Frank Melton has declared more than one state of emergency due to the crime rate, and took to carrying around a gun for a while. (Crime stats here.) If you are any sort of alternative-thinker and can safely make your way through all the crack heads and trailer-trash prostitutes telling horny Caddy-drivers to "run them over," (which, despite our criminal record, is not difficult to do), you will eventually make your way to Cups, a little coffee shop in the heart of Fondren. Here you will almost always run across the usual characters: a talkative gay sexagenarian with a snuff-stained moustache, a handful of obnoxious "free-thinking" 20-somethings who draw shitty Tool-inspired trip-art with pens and hi-liters, and half a dozen or so teenage musicians and their trendy pseudo-privileged female groupies, many of whom have gone off to state schools but spend their weekends at home. Then there is the occasional radical free-lance journalist who may write for the independent newspaper here, in which most articles are devoted to bashing the mayor, analyzing city council, or, of course, reviewing...



local music. Much of the Cups crowd can be found at almost every local show. The 16-22 music crowd only frequents three or four venues, the most popular of which has in recent years been WC Don's (We Couldn't Decide On a Name).


It is certainly the most hole-in-the-wall of the popular venues, and although it has gone through a few different hands (it went from being a smoky broken-down bar to a smoky broken-down vegan restaurant that no one trusted, then found itself a bar once again), it has stayed the same throughout. There are a few beaten-up couches that no one really wants to sit on but everyone does anyway, a dozen or so tables with wobbly chairs, Christmas lights lining the long hallway from the door to the stage, pool tables, and bathrooms inscribed with such poetry as "No need to wipe the seat, airborne crabs can jump ten feet." Apparently Don's is closing for good, now, though, and may be demolished to make room for a sad albeit necessary parking lot extension. But of course the heart of the music scene is the music: The Weeks, Lake Caroline, Colour Revolt, Questions in Dialect, the up-and-coming Da Vincis and The Romanovs are all major players, along with a handful of other southern bands who come and go. I am definitely not turning this into a music review post, so just check them out.

If your alterna-Jacksonian isn't out for music or coffee, he is probably living his life as the quintessential starving artist, painting at a drum circle in the park near the Old Capitol -- that or underage-drinking in a park near the magnet school. There are, of course, a few venues for real cultural and entertainment opportunities, such as the Mississippi Museum of Art, the Mississippi Symphony Orchestra, Ballet Mississippi, the Mississippi Museum of Natural Science, Davis Planetarium, and New Stage Theater, to name a few...none of which a true Jacksonian would ever find himself caught dead at...he only spends money on covers and cheap champagne.

Uh-oh

Last night I dreamt that it was early April 2008, and my mom showed up at Andover, informing me that she was starting a small business and that it was absolutely imperative that I be home to help her. She made me drop of Andover two months before graduation, telling me that the things I would learn those last two months wouldn't help me with the rest of my life anyway. I was, obviously and justifiably, completely irate, since I was, you know, a high school dropout. I wouldn't get into any good schools or get great jobs. I found myself in my living room, bawling, and I tried to yell at my mom, but I couldn't actually make any loud noises...my dreams have always been like that; it's weird. I wound up throwing and breaking everything I could, but, once again, that wasn't as effective as I had hoped...everything just landed with a dull thud. Then I woke up.

Don't worry, my mom would never make me drop out. That shows how attached I am to Andover, though...graduation is going to be a problem, I can tell.

Dear Quaedam Privata,

Thanks for having my back. Also, thanks for making me realize how silly I am, and that I must pursue he-who-chases.

Lovingly,
Personne

Post Script: Oh, and thanks for being picky like me.

Completely undignified.

Why don't my pets do this?

I wore

satin gloves today. They felt nice on my hands.

That's all I have to say.

That, and Happy (early) 4th of July.

Viva uber melting pot.

Hello.

I am off to Maine in six days, and that will be a very welcome respite from the monotony of home. I am really fed up with everyone, so I have just stopped interacting with people almost entirely. Also, I am halfway done with Latin 300, and I just want to get that over with.

For a peek into my life, please refer to the items below.

My shopping list:
40 rolls of Ilford HP5 ISO 400 36-exposure rolls of film
About 300 sheets of Ilford fiber paper
About 100 sheets of Ilford RC paper
Lens cloth
Portfolio binder
Archival print box
Tweezers because I dropped mine in the toilet
A Netflix subscription so I can rent Driving Lessons, The Dangerous Lives of Altar Boys and Goodbye, Lenin!

And a list of things I want to do:
Actually use all those rolls of film
Stop using the Oxford comma
Run every day
Finish the Cicero tomorrow
Have a fashion blog, although this is impossible in Mississippi, and I am rather unqualified
Send lots of postcards
Talk to that nice boy in the shoe store again
Do most of my college applications early

Things that are currently annoying me:
Sunburn
Razor burn
This lack of bottled water

And, of course, the contents of my purse:


Also, I would like a pen pal. Any takers?