You made your bed, now Lie in it.

It seems silly, doesn't it?, to take everything so seriously
and to expect that you are the exception to every rule
and to dismiss advice only to form an opinion identical to the original advice and
and
and
and

So many things! This is the mark of overanalysis.

I am back in New York today.
I'm not freaking out, but I'm not doing well.

"Summer went by so fast."
"I wish I could have done more."
"I know the facts but I'm ignoring them."

Give yourself, time, right? Let the world settle before you change it.
Or something.

I'm trying to think about life as an escalator. There's a big one in Universal Studios and another one in the 42nd street Regal Theater. The marvel is not in the breadth of the escalator you're on, but the sights and sites around it. You can't see the end of the line. It's been so long that you can't remember the beginning. You can run up or down, but it still goes onward and upward. You can jump off, but you'll just land on another escalator, ascending, ascending.

And there is also this zen thing where I try to find peace with whatever I'm doing. It'll get challenging when my family enters into an ethnic war with my friends and neither side wins.

Find your zen there!

I'm pining for the Oregon Fjords when I plug my radio in and I hear the Nine Inch Nail's cover of "Hurt". I turn it on and it plays 94.7 KNRK wherever I am.
There's solace somewhere in this.

Hidden History

Summer is ending in a flurry, but I'm preoccupied with genealogy. See, my mom and I entered in on a DNA database to see if there are any half-biological siblings or maybe a biological father available on the internet.

Oh, right. My dad isn't my biological father. That fact is pesky.

I was informed of this reality when I was 15. That may have been RELATIVELY late, but who cares? Not me. Bigger fish.
So I'm looking for biological ties just for fun! Who knows what I'll find?

But that's only my preoccupation. My dad woke me up, a strange occurrence for I lack responsibility, and tells me we should talk.
"Wake up, drink some water."

I mean, okay, but we're walking a dangerous line. I've never experienced a positive surprise in this position. I glance outside the window. Good. Good. The truck is still there. Is my mother pregnant? No, that's impossible. Why would he tell me this now? Is he mad about my sleeping friend in the basement? No. I wrote a note. There's silence outside. No, there are birds. I'm waiting.
I drink some water.

"When I got out of the Navy, I was sleeping with a girl named Diedre in LA. She said she was pregnant..."

Dad, we had this conversation five years ago. Not this one, but one involving this topic. I've lived this life.

He surprised me and proceeded to tell me about his ex trying to get him to be a father for her son back in '68, but her family was not receptive and he was escorted out of Ohio. He told me about he forgot the hypothetical son until 1989 when he called but they never met. He told me about the call he received on Friday from his other son. He told me about the lunch they had planned at Edgefield Winery later on Saturday.

He told me his son's name was Hoye. Joel Hoye.
He lives in Las Vegas, but had lived in New York and LA earlier in his life. Everywhere my parents had been. Strange coincidences. Laughable ones.

My father has two sons named Joel. The biological son doesn't share his last name. The one that does share his name is not his biological son.

Anything I find on the DNA database will be shadowed in comparison.

Quiet Majesty

I forget how jittery I get when I drink coffee. I don't drink coffee. It's excess. I don't need to have so much uncomfortable focus. I could stare at a tree for hours and feel like I've done myself a favor.
Well now I understand nature, I'd think.

I'm back from vacation and what do I do? Wake up at noon, even if I set alarms, I'll disable them. I know myself. I have no self control if I don't have a reason to have self control.
With my time, my limitless hours, I have done naught. I know that. I am nothing. I'm not working. I'm not reading. I'm not painting murals of Chicano history on Brooklyn walls.
I'm doing nothing and I am nothing.

I mean, there's that, but there's also this whole living in the moment thing that I'm doing. There are friendly faces and mistakes and meteor showers and the internet and gifts and gab.
Repercussions, sure, but eventually! Right now this is what I'm doing and it's fine and it will build me.
I'm back to running. I'm back to writing. Some, but some is some not none.
I'm back to forgetting what words mean and kicking myself.
Knowing that I'll do fine, but worrying about all of the possibilities.
Being too egotistical to be nervous around attractive women.

Everything.
Is this a recharge?
I guess.

I just need to make sure that I've grown.

Taylor and I were talking (He's not real, by the way; He's just a name) about what's wrong with what I think.
The issue is that I think heavily, but speak lightly. Simplified dialectic. One sentence is backed by a thousand sentences that I haven't spoken.
And also, "You're not as open-minded as you think."

"I'm Opinionated."

I'm liberal and not religious and that means I'm open-minded.
But not really. I'm notoriously, loudly set.

And I know that.

The point is, if you have a problem with anything ever,
I'm Sure that I can tell you which way is right.

Enough about Me

So I just watched "Julie and Julia" (sp?), a film by Nora Ephron (the famed fictionist who concocted the romance novels with the faces cut out, probably).

It was a touching film. It seemed to strike pretty close to my conscience with this whole blogging thing. That was an important part of the movie. Also, Stanley Tucci plays a diplomat. On top of that, Amy Adams and Chris Messina's characters live in New York.

If I had any interest or talent with food, I would do something with it. The sad truth is, I prefer frozen dreck to culinary artistry.

I guess that means a deeper meaning cannot be had.

I kept thinking loudly to myself, "Girl, you ARE a writer. Just because you aren't published doesn't mean that you aren't a writer!" I thought this many times.
If there's anything Writer's Workshop 1 and 2 Professor McCarl taught me, it's to think of yourself as a writer if you write.

(*Think of Oneself as a writer if one writes)

(**Correct Grammar is a waste of time.)

So I'm writing a novel, right? I'm REALLY writing it. It's real. It's in my hands. I roughly remember all of the characters...

But I'm holding off for at least five years, or so.

I know a girl, a college friend, who has written over two books. I don't know how she's sure enough about anything to write about anything.

Maybe that's just me. I want to know about life before I write about life.

There's something so Pretentious about a suburban teenager directing a school play version of "Serpico", you know?

That's a reference to the movie Rushmore, by the way.

Also, by the way, Condescending means talking down to people.

I'm in the San Fernando Valley right now, taking the scenic routes with my dad's side of the family. There is a real reason I wear a Star of David around my neck and it's not because I chose to be chosen. There's something Deeply rejuvenating about family, even if they are loud or ugly or talentless or unfunny or downright schmucks. It's an identity.

The second blog is churning. One more ingredient and it will be systems go. Taylor, that's you. Sign up. Let's get some criticism on the road. I want to decry Meryl Streep.

It's getting crowded in my head. I need to leave it for a while.