I am Helen of Troy

My home is somewhere in an airport, I think. It's traveling, my sense of home. It has already packed its things and dropped a dramamine because of nausea, nauesa, naseua. It's uncomfortable with the new idea of self. It wants to hunker down, give up, and fall in love with the first city it sees,
but my sense of home is a wanderer. And she Hates commitment.

So, Portland, there you are. You look more like a ghosttown with the bare branches and shallow pools. Lewis and Clark at night wasn't even frightening. Five in the morning, you are dead.

I locked myself out of my house last night. I stood on the porch for ten minutes figuring it out.
Yep, I did. I slept for an hour and a half in the purple Honda and called my mom.
The government calls me an adult?

I hate being Helen of Troy, in love with two warring factions. I used to privately support the Achaeans, but I am torn. Illusion never changed into something real.
I have the power to pack up and leave, or I had the power. I left. I'll keep leaving if you're lucky.
I can't stand between you.

I've got an agenda.

I'm my Father's Son (Buh Bah, Buh Bah, this is the sound of)

I decided that a snow storm is without question the best time to go to a movie theater alone. Up in the Air directed by Jason Reitman is a powerhouse. It was So good. I put forward the most extreme aspects of my personality when I am alone. I laughed louder than any other theatergoer. There wasn't a contest; it's something I think I've been trained to do. My Dad does that. I resented in public places and Here I Am laughing up a Storm in a crowded theater.
I was part of a collective review at the urinals, too.
"This movie was really depressing."
"Especially because of the sensitive subject of the recession."
"This is definitely not a holiday film. Last year around this time, my wife and I saw Valkyrie."

I agree with Max about Criticism. There is good in every piece of art. There's a point. I like being critical because it puts me, really without merit, in a position of power and influential subjectivity. It's Stupid, though. There's no reason that my opinion should count for more, or that you can't experience something beautiful beyond my clever critique. And there is my haphazard criticism of criticism.

The movie last night made me want to be different. George Clooney is a terrible person. He's laid brick for walls that surround him. He's close to no one. It's life for him. He's a great talker and he can make friends with most (that charming grin!) but he's got nuffin to lose but darkness and shadows.
I haven't been him. I'm not him. I'm connected to a lot, but I have a habit of getting up and leaving when a threat of emotional pain (or commitment, frankly) comes along. There's a girl or two somewhere in Oregon that laugh when I write that I'm sorry because it's over now and it doesn't matter. I missed the mark.

I'm trying to turn a new leaf. I'm trying to uproot myself. I don't want what I wanted before. Ms. Blum, I don't think I've made that clear. You'll get to know me.


One of my other friends wrote something that reminded me of the Intelligence versus Faith debacle. The smartest have the hardest time believing, just emptying their briefcases or backpacks and walking into something unknown.

Well, it doesn't stop with Faith. I can throw down some statistics (some fictional) and personal experience that will disprove idealism, but there's something beyond this masonry. I've had a hard time putting myself into anything that's stable. Something better might come along, right, but if you (Yes you) spend your whole life searching and correcting, criticizing, you'll miss out on everything.

The Monotonous shouldn't speak Chinese

Finals that are easier than the quizzes are the best finals.
She must have thought we not only didn't listen, but also are stupid.
Unstoppably stupid.

"¿Cómo se significa de 'agua'?"
Yo creo que agua, en íngles, se significa Water.

This holiday makes me smile. I smile regularly, but this season, I make sure
to make eye contact as I smile.
It comes as really friendly,
or creepy, really creepy.
That makes me wonder to whom I'm smiling.
Just with averages, I've got to be smiling at a crook or a grifter every day.
("Even in Manhattan?" someone in the back asks.
"Especially in Manhattan" I say, fixing my cuffs.)

So what does that Crook do with a smile?
Is he aware that he's batting for the other team?
"Oh, I bet that small unshaven man thinks I'm a good person."
or "I feel regret for living an unfulfilled, dishonest life because of this enthusiastic smile."

Who knows? We're only playing with averages.

You'll meet all sorts of fun people when you come to New York for some months.
I was making sure where Shakespeare and Company was located and I saluted a woman with "Hey Man," followed by an unhelping explanation about how I salute most people similarly.
That's how I met Tatyana from NYU.

There was a street musician at Union Square West and 17th. He was, I think, a rapper selling his cds and I told him I didn't have cash (without an introduction, I was out of the blue), and I would prefer giving him money for his art. He thanked me for the fresh of breath air. He described the earlier assaults he had incurred and then a Public Service Announcement:

"I haven't always been like this. I used to be clear in the mind when the world was brighter and I could think clearly. Remember that commercial, man? It was like," sternly, "'where did you get this from?'" Softer, pleasantly, "'and the kid is like, I got it from you? You did it twenty years ago.' You remember that, yeah?"

I must look older than I am because I remembered nonesuch commercial.
I said I did and we laughed together. What a habit it is to lie!

I walked home and spied two painted black fire escapes on opposite sides of a building. Unobstructed. It was stark. The escapes were like two twin black spires, raising up towards the turrets for the Kingdom behind. It was gothic and royal.

"What I read right now in the eyes of Japanese children is curiosity,"

is a quote from Sans Soleil.
The closing line is also a quote from the Chris Marker film.


A man was walking past as I snapped pictures of the tops of buildings.
"It's beautiful," I said.
"I see it every day and I never get tired of it," he replied.

Or maybe, sir, you don't remember the day before.
If you focused on yesterday, you would see stills of a time that was, right?
The highlights of your day, the memorable moments of your significant other,
of the ketchup on your sleeve,
of the support of your boss to move forward,
of Bette Midler song that blasted out a coffee shop in Chelsea,
and probably six dozen or so nagging images that were caught in your grill.

I think I don't look up enough to make it mean something.
The skyline is just a feature of everyday life, ignorable, ignoble, simple;
you can cast it away.
With that, every time you look up,
a pleasant surprise.

It makes me wonder what I will think of yesterday when today becomes yesterday.
And what will the images of me be tomorrow for that man?
For every man?
It's ridiculous to forget all of yesterday, right?
Right?

“The partition that separates life from death does not appear so thick to us as it does to a Westerner.”

Where have the souls gone?

I can write research papers. I have the ability. I wasn't so sure of myself, say, a week ago, but putting your mind to something, reading until you dream of the topic and not eating dinner for a week out of forgetfulness can do a lot for a person.

In my psych class today, the first of the last three classes,
up sprouted an argument about cultural sensitivity and Hmong versus Western medicine.

This class has been a hayride for group therapy. It's a required course for psychology majors and it inscribes a yearning to make change. It's a good class, but we are indeed prone to arguments.

Today was vicious. Half of the class was red in the face from either shame or anger.
"It's about the placebo effect; if someone believes it will help them, then why try to stop it?"
(This was the focus of the conversation. Western medicine doesn't have all of the answers.)

"Yeah? Well, my brother died diagnosed from leukemia. They used those crystals and they didn't do jack shit."

My hand sprung up. I was grinning. Man, do I have a rebuttal. A smile had appeared on my face. I was going to win this argument.

"My sister also had cancer," I said triumphantly. "And chemotherapy didn't save her."
There was a disquietude. I was proud for a couple moments and then my pondering mind reminded me that

I had lived that. This is my life. It is not some argument point, Joel.
Come back down to Earth.

There's a meeting at 5, so don't show up at all

I get really antsy when I'm writing papers. Every half page or so, I pour myself a glass of orange juice, scratch my chest like a bear, and strip off a top layer (It's too warm inside for three layers, anyway. MAN, it is cold during the winter season. Why did no one tell me this about New York?).

I'm just afraid of commitment to the point that I want to stop writing papers as I write them and I make jokes instead of statements. Only.

I need to work my ass off. I decided that as I stared at my reflection holding the orange juice.

He told me, "Jole, you need to work your ass off."

I asked him why he spelled my name like that.

He told me that he was testing me and that I should get back to work.

Well, I knew that.

I probably expect too much from my reflection.

I'm interested in becoming reclusively Indie, but I also want to be a weathered dictator of classical music knowledge.

There aren't enough days in the week, right?

Megalomanic Affirmation

I am Godly.

I am omnipotent.

I rule with molten fists.

Tremors in me run through the world.

I am the reason for existence.

Cheetahs can get surgery, can't they?

I should be doing all sorts of things.

I have two research papers that need to be written or refined. Oh, big whoop, education; you beckon and you grasp for my attention, but you are catcalling for nothing. I'll come to you if you weren't always looking for me.

Let a man breathe, education. Give a man space.

I should be writing myself silly. That's what I should be doing. I should be working on my first novel, or something. I don't know. Nadie sabe hoy o en el futuro. Nadie sabe.

I saw a video on Tuesday regarding The Conversation we must have. The Conversation against colorblindness and against racism. It was from the early nineties and there were some giggles about the staging and attire, but the message was so pure.

One man erupted at a White man that was a product of the blind society.

"You are holding yourself back. Why can't you just think of yourself as a person?"

"BECAUSE I CAN'T BE JUST A PERSON, THAT'S WHY!"

(Here I am, pleading with the masses to be empathetic, and the problem the whole time is sight, and not sensation. Understanding and not philanthropy. Man, have I been wrong.)

He went on, the exploded (emploded) man. He said that to be American was to be white and to be American was to give up his ethnicity, his color, but that is not allowed because he is treated as a black man. He is inextricably tied to his color.

"Why can't you just think of yourself as a person" meant, "Why can't you be white?"

Because you won't let me, that's why.

Because I can't change myself, that's why.

Because skin color doesn't change.

Because sexuality doesn't change.

Because gender doesn't change.

Because faith doesn't change.

But what of transcendence? What of Becoming something better?

Then what of Racism, Homophobia, Sexism and Faithful Ignorance?

In this country, Straight White Protestant Males who hold the power are Better. They have everything at their fingertips and they don't even realize it.

Well, Straight White Protestant Males who have the power, there's a world about and it wants to be reckoned.

There are some people that you're stepping on. You might want to mind them.