Sun, Jan. 14th, 2007, 09:13 pm
"There is a kind of crying I hope you have not experienced, and it is not just crying about something terrible that has happened, but a crying for all the terrible things that have happened, not just to you but to everyone you know and to everyone you don't know and even the people you don't want to know, a crying that cannot be diluted by a brave deed or a kind word, but only by someone holding you as your shoulders shake and your tears run down your face."
According to a face recognition/consequent celebrity matching tool I found online, I look like a mashed up version of the following people:
2. Kim Hee-Sun
3. Lee Hyori
4. Tomiko Van
I have no idea who any of these people are, except I know that one of my co-workers has a crush on BoA. It'd be odd if he had a crush on me too.
Well, I would dismiss that idea as presumptuous and arrogant, but I don't know, it may be a dreadful possibility.
Anyway here are some pictures. I matched a couple male pictures--but they were unattractive 'men' with long hair. They only came up once each so I haven't posted them. The other women did not look like me very much, except in one or maybe two features.TOMIKO VAN
You can't tell in this picture, but her nose is more prominent than mine. I picked this one for the little resemblance it had to me otherwise--same general features, same preference for the long hair to frame the face. My hair is not dyed, but it's not black either. Dark brown with some faint natural blonde/red highlights.LEE HYORI
I've a thicker nose, shorter legs, smaller bellybutton, my body doesn't look like that anymore--why did the computer throw up her face so many times as a match? I have no idea. But you readers may gawk at her all you like. KIM HEE-SUN
I picked a still and stoic portrait of her because she's got cheeks and cheekbone when she smiles. I don't have quite so much happy flesh/muscle tone from smiling. It has something to do with how her orthodontist is different from mine, and hers took face shape into consideration when designing her braces and retainers. How do I know she's part of the orthodenture community? I assumed.
Notice all the Korean faces. I am not Korean. This image matcher is odd.
BoA came up most often as the 'best match' for various pictures of my face. Don't look at her when she smiles--she's got this weird crinkly thing going on. I don't do that. Mix her smile and Kim-Hee Sun's, and you've something roughly like mine. I don't have the chin cleft going on either, but most of the face features are similar enough.
That's what I look like. A mashed up version of all these women together, Westernized and agnostic. I am not nearly as Asian as any of these women, at least in mannerism/speech/probably thought. As any of you readers would know if you've read anything at all in my journal.
I feel as if my sense of self is dissipating into the air. When I walk I can feel it hiss from my pores, seep out of my skin and spill onto the floor. My store is running low, steaming and gasping and gulping in the Self pump tank as the essence leaks out into the air. It sifts around with the air, 78% nitrogen, 21% oxygen, and an additional one percent of me + argon and all. In the end it'll be Ar and Il and the rest, Ne, H, Xe, etc.
Then this thick and dull corpus, empty of essence and Self, can migrate out Elsewhere. Elsewhere being the strange land that I've never understood, Elsewhere being all the hobbies and indulgences of men that I have never found interesting, Elsewhere being someplace I've never occupied or wished to occupy. You know--in a hair salon with a high couture fashion magazine in my lap, ordering someone to highlight, to cut, to trim. Splashing pedicure waters into someone's face. In a pew. Dipping a dirty finger into the Holy Water and looking up toward the priest with a smile. At a frat party. On myspace. Never alone. Without a book. Cut off from the flow of information. Comfortable never enetering a library or bookstore. Without reading material. Without discussion.
These are all the places I never want to be, and easily, oh so easily--I could slip into this Elsewhere if these last drops of Self didn't gravitate me toward what I really enjoy, and push me away from the places I don't belong with their magnetically aligned ions.
Yet if this decay continues (Il seems to have a rather rapid half-life) then I will have to resort to extreme measures. Perhaps I'll have to withdraw and rewrite the Self, endow it with new and stronger properties. Il 2.0, perhaps, released with the intent of longevity and high reliability.
But fuck, if I keep doing this 'growing' thing I'll have to retreat and rewrite quite frequently. It means periodic liminality, suspension, uncertainty. Fuck the choices! Fuck postmodernism and its wealth of freedom, the possibilities for social climbing, the wide width and breadth of man and society and study--fuck all. You've all pressed upon me with such an existential weight that I want to slap you all in the face and tell you to get into line. Get the fuck into line! The Universe Does Have An Order, and I want you to follow it!
Yet of course, in a nod to my liberal ties, I can't help but enjoy this freedom, this course to a greater life, blah blah hypocrisy. I understand both sides. I am choosing a side. I am choosing the uncertainty and existential angst and misery and fuck-all; I concede to its overwhelming correctness, helplessly agree to the choice and wonder and beauty of it all.
But I'm still angry about it. Fuck you, though, because I have a right to be! Universal Order my ass.
I am feeling less ranty today. Less confused, though I still have the nagging feeling pressing upon me to RESOLVE MY FEELINGS before I fall into a bizarre, confusing mid-life crisis and wonder where my adolescent passion went.
But oh well. Things will resolve themselves. I will check back later if I fall any farther into muddled confusion.
Now for a shamelessly long and time-consuming survey. I expect nobody to read it, because it's dull and long and involves my somewhat sprawled music taste.
Here's how it works:
1.) Put your music player on shuffle
2.) Press forward for each question.
3.) Use the song title as the answer to the question.
4.) NO CHEATING!
Wed, Jul. 12th, 2006, 10:40 pm
I kept beginning several entries but I never managed to finish them. Just a bunch of writing y'all will never read.
My body feels miserable. I am mentally intact, but my torso always begins to contort in pain as the sun barely starts to set--by nightfall, I'm fully hunched over, wondering what the hell is wrong with me. Long running nerves sprawl across my abdomen, shot with pain. They're shriveling and crying over my little muscles and intestines and bellybutton. If I stretch out to straighten my spine, these nerves shut up for a little bit so that their cousins in my lower back can join in on this chorus of hot-cold aching and aching and aching. The tendons that run up and down the cinched part of my waist start to contract, and leave the rest of my torso wondering if I can still support my weight, the ribcage and the arms and the head full of cerebrospinal fluid sloshing my brain back and forth, back and forth.
My back hurts, and I have cramps. It's hard to stand up straight.
None of this would seem too out of the ordinary were I on my period. Or nearing it, even. But au contraire! I just ended that devilish thing, for, at the very least, 20 full days--so what is this horror coming to devour me now? Why, I ask the almighty God--why!
Other than that. I'm feeling good.
The relationship is going exceedingly well. It's a bit scary simply because it's too much of a good thing. But I'll just accept it as such--because that's the only way it'd work. And I want--need--it to work.
Well, this entry has been fairly mundane.
I'm going to brush my teeth and nurse my ailing body now.
The days are full, full of life and sounds and errands. There are the daily transactions:
"Hi, do you need any help?"
"Uh, yes, can I check out a book on reserve?" [fluster.]
"Sure. What book is it?"
"Applied--no, Annual Editions. Applied Editions? Anthropology. No, let me check. Sorry."
[emerging triumphant] "Annual Editions, Anthropology."
[searching] "Is it 05/06?"
"Uh, 05/06 or 06/07, either will work." [fluster2.]
"102 or 201?"
"What color is it? Is it blue or grey? Do you know?"
"Mm grey, I think." [fluster3.]
[holding up a book from the stacks] "Well, it's listed under 201, just to let you know. They must use the same book."
"Just to let you know. It'll make it easier for the person helping you next time."
"Now I need your ID card."
"...damn." [fluster4. fade to exit.]
There are the everyday, polite smiles. New acquaintances, people you forget the names of ("Hey, you! How're you? Yeah, I'm fine."). A nod and a hope that your hair still retains some semblance of order and cleanliness and grooming. A nod and a thought about the fading reminder etched in pen ink on the back of your left hand. A nod. A nod. A nod to sleep.
At the end of the day, you find yourself in a familiar, comfortable domicile filled with aging, changing strangers. You speak and fart and keep secrets from each other, averting eyes and laughing at a poorly-executed joke. You sit down to rest, to think to yourself for the first time in the day.
Close your eyes.
A warm body sidles up next to you, soothing, calming. An overwhelming quiet invades your busy head, putting frantic thoughts to bed. It's late. It should be time for bed. Close your eyes, again.
You flick off a light inside your hollow skull.
Warm. Calm. Gone.
Sun, Jun. 18th, 2006, 06:01 pm
I know, it's an old story. You've heard about it before. But I gotta write something down or I'll never get over it.
If you don't want to hear about my father then skip the entry.
Anyway.( mixed emotionsCollapse )
Wed, Jun. 7th, 2006, 09:27 pm
Meme = me, me!
Take Free Advanced Global Personality Testpersonality tests by similarminds.com
Advanced Global Personality Test Results
clean, secretive, does not make friends easily, observer, hates large parties, risk averse, perfectionist, reclusive, solitude loving, more practical than abstract, does not like to stand out, high self control, intellectual, mind over heart, very cautious, takes precautions, respects authority, irritable, emotionally sensitive
Hehehe. I love how the first word is "clean."
The trait snapshot sort of makes me sound like a prude (which I'm sure is how I'm first perceived by others) but the actual percentages might be more interesting. Highest traits (70%): intellectual, work ethic, sexuality, and vanity.
Now that makes me sound like an pretentious bastard in love with myself.
And then my lowest (10%): religious. Now I'm a prudish, pretentious bastard who deserves to go to hell.
But anyway. I'm actually rather insecure about myself, though that might just be the estrogen. But oh well. There's that test for you.
Fri, Jun. 2nd, 2006, 10:44 pm
I don't believe in the feeling of vulnerability. I don't believe in powerlessness.
Sure, there are some things you can't change. Lots of things, maybe. But the key to eliminating helplessness is to absolutely deny that you can't do anything. Make believe that if you take little steps toward progress, then things'll get better. It'll make you feel better to be moving somewhere, even if you end up nowhere at all. The trick though, is to seriously believe that you are going somewhere. And if nothing happens, try again.
There is no such thing as powerlessness. It doesn't exist if you don't want it to.
On another note, I edited one of the short descriptions I posted here earlier. It's actually a complete story thing!( EgestionCollapse )
Wed, May. 31st, 2006, 09:14 pm
I'm not real.
I had the unfortunate luck of growing up with a verbally abusive father. He pretended he was decent--and I'm sure he is, to some extent--by always scolding us when we name-called. He insisted, "don't call your sister stupid!" A good principle.
Of course, inevitably, sooner, later, he'd refute his good principles with his own baffling logic.
My brother and sister and I would arrive home and need some rest from a hot, tiring day at elementary school. So we plopped down and watched some afternoon cartoons, usually mindless, usually bright, usually distracting. We took to the habit of bringing our snacks--steamed green beans and ranch, cantaloupe, Goldfish, juice and crackers, grapes--to the television and eating, mesmerized, indiscriminate. We'd sometimes even watch infomercials just for the hell of it. Hell, we were very easy-to-please children.
The clock creeped toward 4:00. The shows winded down into prime time.
Then, the customary knock on the door. It was banging and clear and it meant two things: clean up and shut up.
We all fell silent and watched a strange, foreboding person create dark blobs in the crack of light under the door. The knock, again. A loud voice yelling over the TV--no one was even watching it now, their eyes were on the door--and one of us would have to get up and pull the door wide open for my father to storm into the house.( it wasn't prettyCollapse )
Sat, May. 27th, 2006, 12:46 pm
It was strange of me to realize that my parents are neither mature nor well-adjusted.
Granted, they are wiser than in some ways, and probably much more experienced in the matters of life and its hardships. But honestly. Sometimes I think my parents are pretty immature.
For one, my mother has said to me:
"I love you, but I don't always like you."
This is sort of a backhanded insult (I used to dole these out all the time, after the fashion of my mother, before I learned what I was doing and how I could improve). One, it's a statement of unconditional love, so it's [theoretically] great. But two, it's a statement of how unlikeable and simply disgusting I am, implying that my mother is forced to love me against her will.
What the hell is that?
My mother has her own esteem issues in that she feels as if her self-worth is solely determined by exterior, quantifiable characteristics such as "weight," "wealth," and "education." This is a sad state of affairs, both for my mother and for her children. She attempts to project these values onto her children.
"You are so lucky," my mother will tell me when she's having a fit of affection. She will be stroking my hair and hugging me in a maternal fashion.
"I wish I had skin like yours. You know, I used to be like that when I was young..."
I want to scream at her: "GET OVER IT!" But I realize that's cruel and inhumane, because she's only human and middle-aged, worrying about age and death and time and all those grand things.
Other times when I am feeling tired or unwell my mother will attempt to cheer me up.
"Do you want to go shopping?" she asks. "I'll buy you some new shoes and you can even go get a new haircut," she tells me, pushing my chin so that I'll look at her earnest and ready eyes.
I want to yell at her: "IT DOESN'T MATTER!" I was never very materialistic, and I don't intend to start now. But I realize that it's one of her effective coping methods, and she's only trying to share it with me.
So, as you can tell, I am unusually callous and very pretentious when dealing with my mother as a human. It's all ameliorated, or at least mediated, by my irrefutably innate connection to her. I am weak before her because she is my mother, and she weak before me because I am her child. I shouldn't exploit those vulnerabilities to gain the upper hand. I will only be slighting myself by denying tenderness and all those other things.
Anyway I am developing a headache and I should get up and get some blood circulating.
St. Leonard touched a philistine
a sacred tongue, a perfect rhyme
But even he was "not much nourished by modern love."
So i told her that everything she does is divine
and she replied with a blank expression (an object lesson in making me feel benign)
Then whispered, "independence and indifference are the wings which allow the heart to fly."
Feelings I've had too often, still no plan in place to soften the inevitable blow (the rituals we know).
And with the right revolting piety of tone,
the word "freedom" can make you want to lock yourself in a deep dark dungeon.
But I know everybody follows pleasure, everybody gets somewhere.
I swear, I wish I could be less aware...
now it's absolutely clear to me that solitude is not the same as singularity,
but that's not why I'm lonely.