i will burn you into the end of the earth

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mr. moran sounds like an italian mob don and looks like xavier from xmen.
i can't concentrate in fifth period.
some people in my lit class are insufferable bigots.


music:
redial: 45 overdrive
vanshe: sex city
tilly and the wall: tall tall grass
the kills: fuck the people
thom yorke: tell me why

book:
may it please the court

movie:
closer











dream:

can i talk to you. in private.

no.

please.

i'm not going anywhere with you. stay here and talk or leave.

i didn't know what to do. all i knew was that things weren't what they used to be like and i couldn't take it.

did you expect it to be the same?

yes. yes i did.

you always expect the wrong things.





i am resurrected.
you are more life than i have ever seen.



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INDIVIDUAL RESPONSIBILITY AND MUTUAL RESPONSIBILITY

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the most necessary and unholy baptism has occurred

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Today I spit out a first name that no longer matters to me. I ruined a mood and I kissed dry, chapped lips, licking plaque-covered teeth. Today I looked up--there were no clouds; I felt the sky, vast and unending as it is, consume my mind, starting with its insides. Today I was an exhibitionist. A sweaty exhibitionist. Today I was a creation. Today I pulled at something that didn't need any more tension and snapped a string, unraveling a machine and lapping the oil that seeped over the gears. Today I held back and did not say the things that would have freed me. Today I did not sigh when I needed to and felt the waiting breath ache within me. Today I laughed too much and smiled too little.

And tonight I watch my sisters play and listen for my mother's melodies as she coaxes our baby grand piano. Those songs bleed with me--I know neither their titles nor their purposes, but the melodies I know by rote, unwillingly, most of the time. Tonight I do not sleep and instead work for something unattainable, fighting advances that I wish would flee from me and move on to seek other victims--my heart, my lungs, my kidneys, but please, not my mind. Tonight I tame my stomach for the sake of experience, memorize a freeway system, dream while awake.

My day and my night are immersed in the air above a winding road--the road on which the ambulance and squad cars move; the road on which the drunken girls lucky enough to make it home unbroken stumble; the road on which the sun leaves its heat.
My day and my night are no more a part of me than the dusk. My days sink and escape; my nights beg incoherently of something unfamiliar and perverse. Sin and healing, deafness and tortous spirals laced with prayer.









You are the space in between days.
This leaves me with no time.
I love once and hard,
branching too far, then,
like a lesion,
I weep,
having been torn
like your philosophies--
your easily fallible philosophies

our
easily fallible philosophies
that I remember forming
with burns and tongues
back
when our sleep was rude
and the arch of the sun
was like a womb.

we fly from sidewalk to monolith

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it's two in the morning.
i write on your skin. "Mine. I lick your bone."
maybe the reason i am so willing to sleep with boys, or men, is because it's the quickest way to learn each other.

they are all the same and all different.
some of them love very well. some not so well. but those who do are worse at other things.
i take their cigarettes and stare at ceilings and whisper. sometimes it feels like church, but with laughter. sometimes it feels like being rubbed raw. you spit and moan to hide fear and vulnerability.
you can't live with disgrace. i cover mine sometimes with cushions. sometimes with--

i love all of them, some. not with what they say, drunk, at parties. not with the way they remember my skin. we love each other except for the fact that we can't wait to leave, after. and we're not in love with each other's cores, or each other's socks.
i don't even like socks.
i think if we can't love our drunken slurs, how we remember, our facts, cores, socks--this isn't complete love.
this is never complete love. never complete--

this will have to do.
no fondness and such wanting. i have been held. i have
been held.








are there degrees of blindness? because if there are, i'd have to insist that you are more blind than me. i, at the very least, understood the level of clemency that is proportionate to human fallacy. i, at the very least, forgave you. for the first time, anyway. you, on the other hand, were merciless in your standards and irrationally unforgiving--you had no place to not forgive me. it was entirely unfair.



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i'm a good liar. mostly because i couldn't care less what i say to people, and because i never just lie: i make up a whole story.

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This is teenage

My best friend is not a Christian.
But he whispers
like the finer things in life I never knew,
and I can remember
sitting in the back of a room together,
the dim light burning between us
as though we were reborn.
I can remember every one
of the easily fallible philosophies
that we created.
To me, they felt like prayers.



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DEAR ICARUS,

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You always fly too close to the sun--you're heart's too wild.
But wild hearts never break.

You lucky bastard.










CURRENT PLAYLIST:







We've been through some damn good times together. We've seen the sun divide itself. We've seen the love of the world become a different form of hate. We've done it all together. We've made each other's beds almost as often as we've made each other's murders. Don't you think it's all a bit odd--this slow song that we play for each other whenever we feel like utter shit. We've been to war together. I've killed for you. You've fucked for me. We are each other's rude awakenings. We are each other's fears and sleeps and reasons for insomnia, each other's manias. You stand on my feet. I stand on your heart. We lick each other's ears.
I think we deserve better.
You want to know the truth? I love waking up next to you. But I would never stay in bed long enough for you to wake up next to me. We're worse when we're together. When I'm with you I want to kiss somebody else.
But when we're apart I ACHE for you.

But it's nothing that I can't fix on my own.


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i wish i could be vulnerable more often than i can afford

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tension, release, tension, release

maybe i am the selfish one. maybe i am the jealous one. i know people who have never experienced the feeling of jealousy in their lives. i am one than feels it more often that i'd like to.
maybe i have every reason to do so.
maybe i have no reason to do so.
sometimes i want to be liberated from myself. especially from my thoughts and the dense, complicated matter that clings to the inside of my skull. but i can smell, constantly, the rust from the metal shackles that bind me down, keeping me from jumping when i want to, keeping me from dancing when i want to. all i can do is use my voice, sing old beatles songs and whisper things that i wish were my secrets.
but sometimes i can't even do that. or it's not enough.

sometimes i sing and the voice echoes maniacally, morphs into something else that i would never call my own; nonetheless it reveals to me the hurt of my nation and the weaknesses that i really, really hope i will be able to overcome.


this morning i went to love and came back.
then later on in the evening, after studying at chang's for a few hours, i went out with rick, met up with al and mike. i drew a lion on a pillar and wrote "RAWR" next to it. al asked why asian girls always do that.
how should i know.
i wrote lenore kandel words on rick's stomach.
smoked maybe 8 cigarettes.
had a venti americano.

then i came back home and took a two hour long shower, one hour of which i just sat in the shower stall, letting the soap suds and cold water slide my body down.
it was that kind of day.
i scrubbed my body raw today. the washcloth was grey at times, the bathroom smelled like vanilla.
most people don't scrub both legs at once. so after i'm done scrubbing my left leg, i stretched my leg out, and it was funny how it was slightly, oh so slightly lighter than the right one.
made me smile.










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balance through imbalance

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CURRENT PLAYLIST
Afghan Raiders: Solid Gold (Techjio Remix)
Herve: Cheap Thrills (Detboi Remix)
Sharkslayer: Cold As Ice
















we sat there, watching minnows circle. the sunset was in my back and the edge of the bank was damp. like our hair. the wet stones seemed to tease our sight. i had no sense of space or depth. all i could understand was that we were here together, and the little fish were eating each other. my skin felt distantly clammy, and the light hitting the river pushed me into myself as i rode the sunbeams out.
and then your head was on my shoulder. i smelled the muddled aroma of wet skin and dirt and the crook of my neck became warm. the day was just too hot. everything seemed filtered through orange and deep brown. your musk meddled in mine; your sweat fused us together and i didn't understand what was going on. but i smiled and laughed when appropriate, my elbow in the proper pose and all other thoughts away from me. i remembered you as you remembered me.
how do you explain moments like this to yourself. you remember through vague waves of feelings; you remember joy and timidity and softened hope, and then a lingering depression of acceptance, a weight of understanding. i can't remember specific sights, and every time i relive it in my head, something changes. the only thing that remains constant is the result and the smell of your skin.











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be vulnerable for me as i am for you

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i cut my hair.





i was watching the season 1 dvd set of house m.d. today, and i noticed that white people honestly have no idea how to tell asians apart. there's a certain episode in which the korean actor from harold and kumar guest stars as a patient with a jaw infection and various sexual fetishes. the only person that seems to care for him is his dominatrix. there's a seen in which house coerces his parents into signing a consent form, and i'm thinking... what the fuck, that lady's chinese. and that man over there is japanese... so we have a chinese mother, japanese father and a korean son.
and then, of course, house makes a comment about dumplings. and that's the last straw.
you'd think that the producer's of the show would be a tad more consistent in their casting decisions. but what can i say, we all look the same to them white folk, i suppose....





photographer: chadwick tyler

and his demons--

imogen:





and ida:














i have murmured love against every line of your body. i return to you with fever and false wisdom. i want to be beautiful for you.



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SCINTILLA

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I just want to live with myself
And enjoy the Good I owe Heaven,
Alone, with no witnesses,
Free of love, jealousy,
Hatred, hopes and suspicion.

--Fray Luis de Leon










At times I sympathize with my mother. At times my father is insensitive. Most of the time I just wish he believed in God. I never really understood the difficulty of being married to someone who is of a different faith, and still, I can't say that I fully understand it, but sometimes I think that I can relate. Or empathize.
Religion... faith... constitutes so much of who you are. The beliefs that ground you, morally and emotionally, the tenets that guide you subconsciously throughout every action you make--it all defines you. And when you choose to be with someone for the rest of your life, you allow that person to define you too. And when that part of you meets your faith, and they don't agree... you lose so much of yourself and your effort. Life becomes tolerance, this enormous, taxing effort to maintain your beliefs while committing to someone who doesn't understand, or doesn't accept them. You become that much more vulnerable. My mother can't go to choir practice without feeling guilty to my father. Sometimes it seems like he doesn't respect her beliefs at all.
I love them both. But it's difficult to not take sides at times like this. And in regard to how this affects me... I don't know. Everyone who knows me outside of my family can pretty much assume that I don't lead a Christian lifestyle: I have casual sex, I've tried nearly every drug out there, I have the mouth of a damned sailor and my Bible is dusty, to say the least. Yes, I do to church, but I feel that it's more to please my mother than anything else; I struggle tremendously with my faith.
Maybe some of the reasoning behind it is because my parents are both so different in their beliefs. My mother tries her best and she's the most amazing, faithful role model I have. But my father isn't spiritual at all. I feel like my identity in regard to my faith is thus divided.



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GO PHELPS GO !!!!!!!

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Who saw the opening ceremonies and thought they kicked mother fucking ASS!


Shit.

CURRENT PLAYLIST:
Infadels: Free Things (Alex Metric Remix)
Scenario Rock: Skitzo Dancer (Justice Remix)
Coldplay: Fix You



These days I've been saying goodbye.

Today:

I fell asleep at six in the morning, slept until around noon. I woke up, put on some music and toasted some naan for breakfast/lunch. I read a couple essays before going out on the lawn for a smoke. It was a slow morning.
Then my father came to take me to MOCA, which was great-- focused on Marlene Dumas. I had already seen the exhibit, but it was nice to discuss it with the people there. And then we did some painting exercises, focusing on her wet style. Got a few paintings done.



Meeting with Henry for maybe the last time was, thankfully, smooth flowing and not irritating. I think he held back his usual aggravating remarks so I wouldn't get as angry with him as usual. We drove around for half the date, though, be being as horrible as I am with directions. The Irvine Spectrum was just.. lost on me. So we ended up going to Newport, eating at Yardhouse before watching Dark Knight (You catch a lot of things watching it the second time) Although I admit that I was focusing partially on other things...
I don't know when I'll see him again. I don't like that feeling.





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YOU ARE MY PAEAN

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CURRENT PLAYLIST:
Splittr: All Alone (Alex Metric Vocal)
Proxy: 40 Seconds
Sigur Ros: Sé Lest
The Kills: Cheap and Cheerful (SebastiAn Remix)
Björk: Hyperballad

I had registration todayayay.
My senior year:

0 AP Studio Art: Gee
1 AP Rhetoric: Moran
2 AP Gov/Econ: Lee/Wan
3 Band: Acciani
4 Journalism: Chen
5 AP Music Theory: Gunderson
6 AP Literature: Kelly
7 Marching Band: Gunderson



Damn could today fry EGGS. After registration, I went to the bakery for chestnut bread and cream cheese pastries; then I went off to Elite for four hours of torturous, yet bittersweetly humorous classes. Torturous because it's just Elite, and torture is ingrained in the walls of the place, and bittersweetly humorous because it's Mr. Mann, and he's funny.

Things I must finish before school starts:
1. all Rhet homework (reading 3 books, writing 3 essays, finishing UC personal statements)
2. all Lit homework (analyzing 8 poems, reading 4 books, 4 AP book reports)
3. my CD/glass sculpture

I'm fucking screwed and tired to death already.
But hey, at least there's a party.



All the gold you wear will save you in the end. I feel the beating rush and the gentle flow. We wash each other at the water's edge, and I beg to be turned to stone. Your hair is sticking to your forehead, and your lips are cold like fish and skin of cooled cantaloupe. I want to taste them. I want to love in a manner that is, at the very least, like the manner in which the flowers you placed in behind my ear move when I walk. This gold will save you in the end, I whisper as I place my toes on yours and we face each other, my hands on your knees and your hands on mine. The birds leave, and the beating grows stronger. The water will reflect the workings of our heads. For now, we smile.


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SOME GENTLEMAN YOU TURNED OUT TO BE

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CURRENT PLAYLIST
Santogold+Justice: L.E.S.D.A.N.C.E
Danger: 11h30
Dan Le Sac vs. Scroobius Pip: Angles
Frank Omura: The Juggernaut Audition
The Management: Kids (Afterschool Dance MegaMix)

CURRENT READS
Ian McEwan: Amsterdam
Seneca: Slaves


Aujourd'hui, I went to the Quest Diagnostics lab to get my blood tests over with. While I was waiting to get my insurance papers in order, I saw a a little Chinese girl, maybe little over a year old. She stared at me while I made faces at her and smiled when I puffed my cheeks. But then she had to get a shot, and when she came back out, she clung to her father and cried. I hate that. And then there was this little white boy who started whining in this incredibly sad high pitched voice when his mother went into the doctor's office, but his father calmed him down and the kid soon began running around, looking shyly over to where my mother and I were sitting.. it was the cutest thing.
The TV in the waiting room was set to some AccentHealth channel; this is how I know how pointless it is to take SRC in high school: all they talked about was which vegetables have high vitamin C content and how you should always where a helmet when you skateboard... why anyone would pay to have that TV channel is beyond me. Maybe just to see Dr. Sanjay Gupta and his odd eyebrow flexibility lecture you on mirror therapy for amputees...
Who knows.

Anyway. The blood test was, thankfully, short, none of that goddamn stick a needle in me 7 times to look for the right vein shit. My mother said that the Quest Lab tends to have more proficient nurses.



I used to be terrified of taking blood tests, that huge needle and the ridiculously tight rubber band--make a fist... and, relax. Now I figure that since I have to take one twice a year, might as well watch as they do it and wonder at how quickly the little test tube fills up with my blood. But it's still cold in the lab, and the patient's chair looks like something one would be executed in. But whatever.

After we went to Yoshinoya, and my mother laughed at the amount of ginger I spilched from them. I said that I didn't take too much, that would be mean, and then I opened my container and all of the rice was covered in nice, fresh red ginger.
Muaha. I'm Korean. Leave me alone with my ginger.



And then I went to Chang's suffered for three hours before going to Chino with my mom. We looked around at Target then picked up my sister and hit Barnes&Nobles, where I got to page 131 of Ian McEwan's Amsterdam. I really do like his style of writing-- it's very introspective and.. slow moving. He takes the time to ponder detail after detail and every thought; he seems to know the characters incredibly intimately, and he sure as hell knows how to tell a story...
Anyway. I can't wait to finish the book.




.
Very interesting blog. Very.
But very NOT SAFE FOR WORK. Don't say I didn't warn you:
http://www.theingoing.blogspot.com/

MOOD: WOWBEENS

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CURRENT PLAYLIST
Beastie Boyz: Intergalactic (Yellus Remake)
Justice: DVNO (LA Riots Remix)
Beck: Modern Guilt
Radiohead: Nude (Holy Fuck Remix)
LetroN: Don't Need No Man

The last one is like Uffie times two. I listen because it makes me feel like one of those girls that call themselves independent women when they should really just call themselves sluts.


Today I jumped around with my baby sister while listening to MSTRKRFT's remix of Justice's D.A.N.C.E
She's 6. I'm trying to foster a fondness for electro in her while she's young. Muahaha.


I haven't updated in a while, have I? Welllll, since the last post.
Oh shit I met up with Domo. That was fun. She biked, I scootered, and what do you get when you mix those elements with HEAT and a couple issues of Interview? Something pretty chill, I suppose; something pretty dazzle dazzle. It was nice to be able to hang with her before she heads up to SanFran with flowers in her hair.
And then it was funny because the day after I saw her at the same place while with Ms. Chen.


Went to LAGUNA. Waves roll. So do avocado and shrimp vinaigrette. And of course, being the femme fatales that we are, and Fashion Island being on the way back, we stopped by there, and I f-f-finally got my Obama progress t-shirt, which I will wear as often as possible just to make the thirty bucks worth it. But yes, that day was fun, full of American mass consumerism and salt water.




So, that was Friday (?). Then let's skip to Sunday. I painted for five hours. Straight. It was one of those unstoppable, inevitable periods of overworking and productivity. I still didn't paint anything I would be proud of, however. I don't like how sporadic my creative ethic is, how I'll find myself in lulls of weeks during which I don't even want to look at my sketchpad/paintbrushes, and then during a period of 1-3 three days, I won't be able to do anything else BUT paint and draw. It bothers me that it's so inconsistent.
The same thing goes like flows like blows for my writing.
And then... after getting my hands dirty I grabbed my jeans and my spankin' black leather jacket and went out with Rickckckckckckck. Which resulted in going to McClain's and biting. And talking about deep dark secrets like shhhGOD. After this, what was after this: for some reason which I still don't remember, he had to take Al to Riverside. So we did. And Selfridge played tag-along. It wasn't necessarily the greatest car ride. And Rickckckckck looked half perturbed half indignant the entire way through.
But after we went back to his house Jeff's house and he looked happy again. We moved around underneath black lights, I tried to read a play but failed after my eyes felt fried, and Jeff gave his whole-hearted attention to the impossible quiz, which... I confess I will never find amusement in. I took a 2minute shower and stole Rickckck's Christmas boxers. I was about to tackle Jeff but he held off on the rum, thus excusing him from my great affinity for manhandling semi-innocents. The rum's gone?

Sweet goodbyes.
Frustration.

Monday was shit in a hole and more painting and dealing with insufferably judgmental schoolmates that I can not believe are the same age as me. I beg for patience and find none. How am I supposed to smile, then?





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