Restrospection on the Year 2009

I haven't done much writing in a while; at least the type of writing that inspires me or makes me think. After the harrowing experience of my temp job from August-November, my brain needed a rest. It had turned to mush and it was tired of thinking. Even when I forced it to think, to read, to work on homework, it would not comply. Like a paralysis but one of only the mind. I didn't want to believe that I had lost my drive to write or that I had lost my motivation for everything. I am usually quite motivated despite my general laziness.

But it was burn out. I used to believe the term "burn out," used to describe the mental and physical breakdown of the body after a period of extreme stress, was a cop out for laziness. A mental roadblock to convince oneself that "I have been procrastinating because I am burned out," but this was a real and true condition. The temporary paralysis of my brain: I would force it to move for me. Listen to me, brain, you are going nowhere!

Since after leaving West Hollywood, I have indulged myself in brainlessness. I've lost passion for many of the things I strove for and believed in. I used to stare out at the fantasy and wonder of the world, conjecturing about people and their stories, hoping to collect the pieces of information for the next writing project. Not now, no. I find comfort in the recluse of my bedroom. It is only recently that I feel compelled to take control of myself again and remember who it is that I am and what I believe in.

Selling portions of your soul to corporate goons really messes up what's left of it.

I found myself emotionless for some time, unwilling to do much beyond indulging in self-detrimental behavior. I reacted this way because I thought I was violating my sense of self, but in reality, I still hadn't truly formed who I was as a person, who my character was, for lack of a better term. I suppose I'm still in the process of figuring all of that out, and sorting out all of my sordid complexities and contradictions.

Despite all of the self-grappling and external issues (concerning school, family, home life, finances, other personal matters) thrown at me, I had an amazing year 2009: co-head editor for The Northridge Review, graduation, getting published in Tayo Literary Magazine, being employed after college with a job pertaining to my degree, seeing my two closest friends move away (an act of separation, which, will only each of us as individuals to grow as a butterfly emerges from its cocoon), and oh...finding a nice boy to spend some time with (a story for elaboration later).

I welcome the highs of the year because they were wonderful...and I also welcome the lows because those are tests of my strength. I can take something away from each experience and that, my friends, builds character.

I'm Lucky, Maybe

I'm lucky...maybe.

I'm lucky to have lived my entire life differently, with a lot of difficulty, knowing pain and the reality of life at a young age. A life filled with turmoil, disturbances. I'm lucky, maybe.

Someone weaker than me would have collapsed by now, but no, I plow through. I leave the house when it's dark. I come home when it's dark, and in the time between, I hope to see the sunlight through haze of an unclean bus window or through the blinds of a frozen corporate office.

Too much abstraction? I know. I tend to do that.

In plain language...(This is a bit of an exercise in creative non-fiction, as well. My brilliant professor has always stated that every occasion is an occasion for writing, so I might as well run with it)

Feelings I had felt three months ago when I started my new job and grad school have not taken a positive turn. Dad had been dropping me off to work and school, but he began to be physically worn down from doing all of that. Plus, all the trips he was taking, to and from work and school, were getting expensive. I was tired of paying for the astronomical gas. In the last two weeks of my job contract, I resolved to take the bus, which is more or less, a 2-hour ride from home to work. I leave the house when it's dark and I come home when it's dark. I'm exhausted at work. Today, in fact, I was so tired that I felt like vomiting.

I'm tired of people telling me, "suck it up," and the like because no matter how much I can explain, words will never be sufficient enough to sum up the sum of my experiences. What I don't understand is why I can be fine one minute, and then completely shut down the next. There are times when I don't even feel present. It's a strange feeling. There is my physical body, there is myself, but it is detached. I see nothing directly in front of me. I hear nothing. I snap to again, only because there is a bump on the road and it jolts me awake.

Then there are my fits of high energy and I feel ambitious. I type at astronomical speeds and spit witty phrases on AIM. I do my work quickly. I am invincible. I am a star! Yet soon, the detached confusion sets in again and I shut down. For reasons I cannot explain.

On the weekends, I indulge in my vices. The drink, mainly. I spend money that I should be saving and I have nothing to show for it. There are sexual curiosities. I feel bolder than usual and I wonder why men find me more attractive at this lowest of lowest points in my life than when I was on top of the world from January-July.

2009--this was supposed to be the best year of my life and it had begun that way. I lost control of my life somewhere and I think about that cliche phrase "Why do bad things happen to good people?" Why? Is it because I sometimes say mean things, that I talk back to my father, that I've got a snappy tongue, that I'm not grateful for even having a job, that I'm not the shining person I once was, only the lifeless shell of me encasing inside, a rotted soul that deserves intermittent months of misfortune?

I arrived home at 7 pm. Reconstituted ramen noodles for dinner. Tonight, I think I'll masturbate to the remembrance of memories of times past to help me sleep, since I've been having great trouble falling asleep. Goodnight.

Remember November 6. This is the date of my salvation.

I don't like the coinage of 'FML'.

When people add 'FML' to their complaints, I don't doubt that they are going through a difficult time. They are obviously voicing that for a reason. Yet I cannot begin to believe that a life is truly "fucked" unless one is in a serious hole that he or she can't seem to dig out of.

I have been to the moon and back of ups and downs in my life, many downs, and ups that have been rewarding. I thought of this year as one of the most rewarding years of my life. I put together an amazing senior portfolio for my final semester. I was the co-head editor of the Northridge Review. I graduated college. I got into grad school. I got a short story published in a Filipino-American literary magazine. I got my first real job three months from graduation.

And that is what brings me here. Somehow, these upward trends in the graph of my life only suppress the things that makes me fall to the floor and brings me to tears. One wrong move, and my depression comes running back to me, always present, always with me, like a ghostly reminder that something is never going to be right...unless I fix it.

So I thought things like that I had listed above would fix me, but it only made things worse.

Am I that spoiled, that I'm never satisfied, that I always want something more? That I should be grateful to even have a job during these times? I swear I'm grateful, but to wake up every morning to tossed aside like sludge on a sidewalk, while I write profiles for septic tanks and air conditioners is not my idea of an experience where I can learn and grow at work. I have learned a great number of things while at work, however, concerning office culture. And the job has taught me a lot about other towns, and I've even got a few places in mind that I might want to visit someday.

But it's so hard to feel motivated in such a limiting environment.

For the past two years, I've been in the cocoon of CSUN's English program, where the world was far and wide, and we were free to roam, imagine, think, play. We were encouraged to push boundaries--no--kick them down and trample over to the untouched side. I thrived in that environment, I did so well. I was free.

And then...I sold my soul because I thought it was the right thing to do. I sit at a desk in a room with fake air, hoping for someone to talk to me, and wondering if gouging my eyes felt better than torture of complete lack of brain stimulation. Do you wonder about caged animals? The lions at the zoo, pacing back and forth? They're bored. They are not in the world they belong. And that's what I am.

My life at home has suffered. I get into fights with my dad, and my brother, when I don't mean to. I shouldn't push the people away who have done their best to help me even with all the bullshit. My car is broken, in case I forgot to mention, and it has been broken for over a month. I'm terribly lonely and I miss all my friends, yet I push people away, time and time again, especially when I'm depressed. No one wants to talk to a pessimist.

Soon, my contract will end, and I can go back to the life I want to lead. I've had the taste of the commute, the corporate atmosphere, the office politics, and I don't want any of it. Never, ever, ever again.

It's the same old emo shit out of me, isn't it? I'm sorry. I have nowhere else to turn.

Found My First Book (Novel Attempt?)

I just found the first novel/book I wrote that I wrote around the ages of 9 to 12, perhaps. It's called The Triple D Mortuary and Graveyard. HA! Emo much? I read a lot of R.L. Stine at that age... :/

And in this story, a 10-year-old boy named Tim who is fascinated with graveyards receives a ghostly visitor. In the cemetery by his home, he finds the grave of his father. He never knew much about his father, barely knew his name. His mother never explained much, and she was a coarse lady, not very nice to Tim.

Late one night, when he's visiting the cemetery, a ghostly spirit appears to him and then later appears in his home. This frightens Tim terribly, and he's afraid that he's disrupted the status quo of the cemetary, for whatever reason.

Along the way, he meets his sidekick while visiting the cemetery at night. The sidekick turns out to be Clint Eastwood, who becomes a father figure to Tim. He also helps Tim figure out how to shake the white demons that follow him.

Somewhere along the way, the story twists and Tim and Clint become separated. This is when the writing gets particularly hazy (I might have been 11 or 12 at this point). He steps into a house, where, in an almost Nabokovian (though I didn't know it was Nabokovian at the time!), Lolita-esque way, a young girl coaxes him to have sex with her. She's being coy, she's being cute.

And then the story ends because I was probably either too shy to write sex or develop the story further. It's kinda odd, random. And goes to show that even kids at that age think about sex. It's unsettling, perhaps. Maybe a little disturbing, too...LOL But ya know, we writers are disturbed people. Edgar Allan Poe, ya know?

That is all. LOL. Thought it was interesting.

Red Sun Morning: The Last Week in Retrospect

A sun-themed blog today...

I pretty much stuck to the schedule (from "Persevere, Clare") but there was one hitch in the entire ordeal and that was that my car broke down. On Tuesday night, I was driving home from CSUN and somewhere in Sun Valley (an area I'm not familiar with, and very shady-looking), the smell of something funky began surrounding me. I wondered if it was my car, but deep down, I knew it was my car.

I had made it home, at least the exit of the freeway near my place, and that's when the car shut down. It shut down like a Windows platform. I was burning pure oil in that car.

The combination of the terrible triangle of a commute, the hot weather, and the fact that that car has been giving me problems since the beginning of time caused the, quite literal, burnout. I wasn't even in a foul mood when it happened. I was just tired. I wanted to sleep.

Thank goodness for weekends, though, as they give one the time to recuperate. Although, this weekend started off just as stressful, what with Jen Ni and Mi Ra Flo leaving (that's Jenny and Myra, lol) and Saturday being an overall bad day. I won't go into that.

Oh yeah, didja hear about the fires? There are evacuations going on right now in the Glendale-Tujunga-La Crescenta-Pasadena area, because of the brush fire in the Angeles Crest that firefighters are having difficulty containing. It's very serious.

I remember a year ago when I posted some diddies about the fires in the valley. Man, it happens every year. Oddly enough, even though I'm close by these fires, I haven't smelled much smoke or ash. The overall heat doesn't help much, either.

Through the smoke in the early morning, the sun is a tiny red dot worshiped by the smoke clouds. It is something awe-inspiring but only occurs in times of disaster. The red sun is altogether beautiful and ugly, frightening and gorgeous, a symbol of how relentless and unforgiving nature can be, but so utterly pure that one cannot help but be stunned by the rare treasure in the sky.

:|

Free Write: Monkey

I want to move to fucking Montana, or someplace like that. Away from the fucking high-rises and the gas leaks of these crowded streets. I tire of the talk of insipid wisdom that means nothing, except laughing and soaking in the awesomeness that you have created, that you will pat yourself on the back for. Why is it the main priority is to make cash, cash, cash at any expense?

"Let us produce. Let us be metropolis," the high rises will say. "We will give you the luxuries you seek, but while you do so, please hold this wrench, my monkey, my tiny cog in the conglomerate machine."

In 2009, smiles are bought in the form of bubble-wrapped packages masquerading as mementos. Make your pay, have it taken away, and the rocking uncertainty evens out while you hope to find something worthwhile in the wreckage.

I keep fucking up left and right because I'm a softie pushover. I am the cog with a slight deformity, forced into the gears, teetering between "certainly sure" and "out of my mind."

"Hold this wrench, monkey," high-rises say, and I oblige.

I oblige so that I can buy books.

"Persevere, Clare."

The title of today's post comes from the novel, The Time Traveler's Wife, by Audrey Niffenegger. It comes at a point where, the protagonist, Henry DeTamble (the time traveler) and Claire Abshire (the wife) are going through a stressful time in their marriage. Here is the excerpt from said piece (don't worry, I won't give anything away):

"How are you?" I ask.

"Terrible," she says softly. "Tired." I remember. Stayed in bed for weeks. "Henry, I quit." She watches me, trying to gauge my reaction to this, weighing her intention against my knowledge. "I give up. It isn't going to happen."

Is there anything to stop me from giving her what she needs? I can't think of a single reason not to tell her. I stand and rack my brain for anything that would preclude Clare knowing. All I remember is her certainty, which I am about to create.

"Persevere, Clare."

"What?"

"Hang in there..."

And then he goes on to explain why she should stop worrying, and that all her pain and frustration will soon become worthwhile, turn into something beautiful.

Now, I don't have a Henry DeTamble to tell me that everything will be okay. I'm a solo act, and have been for a while, which I don't mind as I'm quite comfortable. But I am at that point in my life where I have a slight bit of uncertainty, frustration, stress, and worry.

I started a new job two weeks ago. I work full-time in West Hollywood. What? English majors can get jobs, really? This must be a milestone. No, in all seriousness...I started a full-time job that I'm not particularly fond of. I'm not going to complain or vent about it, because it's going to be hard to explain why. I'm aware that in this economy, I can't afford to be so picky and spoiled. I'll ignore that ill feeling in my stomach when I think about my job and my commute because I need to remember that it could be worse. It really could be worse.

Romeo said to Juliet, "All these woes shall serve for sweet discourses in our times to come."

Meaning that right now, I'm frightfully unhappy (well, was never 100% to begin with, anyway. Not yet at least.) and I feel ill when I think about going to my job, but I'm going to suck it up. I'm going to try.

Because, if you recall, I am also starting grad school. I am taking two classes:
ENGL 457 International Literature
T 7:00-9:45 pm

ENGL 652 Creative Writing Studies
Thurs 4:00-6:45 pm
This week is the first week of school, in fact. I'm going to devise a plan for organization and will post it here so I will have a written document of what I will be doing. Hopefully, if it's in writing, I will stick to it.

I work in West Hollywood. I go to school in Northridge. I live in Eagle Rock.

Now, in any other town, these distances aren't so bad. It would take me 20 minutes to drive to each destination, easy. However, this is Los Angeles we are talking about and I have drivento all three in one day, during the times I need to be at any given location and I will be traveling at peak times. I will need to be released from work early on Thursdays to be in Northridge before 4. My boss is aware of this, but has not worked out how I can make up the hours. So I will hypothesize what I might do.

Here is what I propose for this coming week 08/23-8/30, as well as a sample outline of what I will attempt to accomplish through 11/10 (when my contract at my job ends):

Sun, 08/23
8:00 pm - have clothes laid out, ironed, lunch packed, gym clothes packed, water canister filled, complete 400-level course approval form
9:00 pm - finish reading for ENGL 457 (syllabus was online, so I could start reading right away)
9:30 pm- attempt to sleep

Mon, 08/24
5:00 am - wake up
5:05 am - snooze
5:30 am - really wake up, shower
6:00 am - breakfast, coffee, get ready
7:00 am - leave for work. 2 South, 101 North, exit Sunset, until I hit West Hollywood
7:45 am - work. I will try to write 3 pieces of content for websites an hour, for a total of 15 a day.
12:30-1:30 pm - lunch
4:45 pm - release
5:15 pm - drive to Northridge. Sunset, left on Laurel, right on Hollywood, left on Highland, 101 North, 170 North, exit Roscoe Blvd, west on Roscoe until Reseda Blvd, R on Reseda towards CSUN
sometime between 6-7 pm - EAT
7:00-9:00 pm - grad program orientation
9:30 - Glendale, gym
10:45 - home, then collapse

Tues, 08/25
Much the same as Monday, substitute grad program orientation with ENGL 457IL

Wed, 08/26
Day is much the same. No class.
6:00 pm- Hollywood, gym
7:00 pm- dinner, homework, reading
8:00 - sleep in early

Thurs, 08/27
Day is the same.
2:00 pm - end work. drive to Northridge.
4-7 pm - ENGL 652
7:45 pm - Glendale, gym
9:00 pm - home, collapse

Friday, 08/28
Day is the same.
5:00 pm - end work, go home, get ready for my Friday night when I will say goodbye to Jenny and Myra, and celebrate Lainey's birthday

Saturday, 08/29
Happy birthday, Lainey!
Some time in the afternoon, drive to Northridge for Northridge Review business.
Make up the lost 3 hours from work...somewhere?
Homework, reading.
Evening: open to festivity

Sunday, 08/29
Sleep in.
12:00 pm - personal training session
1:00 pm-? Northridge Review business
Homework, reading.
9:00 - sleep

Rinse and repeat roughly the same way, minus the extra drive to Northridge on Monday.

Does anyone have advice for me to plan this better or...words of wisdom? Any help would be useful. :) Somehow, none of this could even compare to moving across the world to Korea, though, like two (and soon a third) of my friends will soon be doing. :)