would someone, please, just

i would swallow my pride
i would choke on the rind
but the lack there of would leave me empty inside

swallow my doubt
turn it inside out
find nothing but faith in nothing

want to put my tender heart
in a blender
watch is spin round to a beautiful oblivion

rondez-vous
and i'm through with you?

i hear words
in clips and phrases
i think sick like ginger ale
my stomach turns and I exhale

so careless where my mind stays
but it's not my state of mind
i'm not as ugly sad as you

or am i origami
fold it up and just pretend
demented as the motives in your head

i alone am the one
you don't know you need
take heed feed your ego
make me blind close when your eyes close
sink when you get close
tie me to the bed post

i alone am the one
you don't know you need
you don't know you need me

For Shit's Sake

Cute Baby's
post-museum visit
hungry!
1:48 pm
Wednesday, April 26, 2006

For Shit's Sake

Remember who my life got all out of control all of a sudden there? No ATM card, not driver's license, and then my phone got turned off, all in the course of 20 hours. Oh, and least we forget that paper I had to write. Boo. Yea, anxiety attacks abounded, heavy drinking ensued.

BUT! Yesterday, instead of going to class, I fixed my life. Went to the bank, went to the Cingular store, found my driver's license, finished my paper. And like any hard working college kid, I decided to reward myself with a trip to the Pub. It was Evan's 22 birthday, so I felt justified.

I woke up this morning, and I can't find my wallet.

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!! FUCKING GODDAMNIT SON OF A BITCH WHAT THE FUCK??!?! AM I SOME KIND OF IDIOT? WHAT IN GOD'S NAME IS WRONG WITH ME?

Okay, Valdez. Deep breaths. Suprisingly, screaming in all caps does make me feel a tiny bit better. And luckily, at this point, I'm not too worried. I figured it all out last time, and I'm 85% sure it's still at the Pub (one of the advantages of shutting the place down). No panic yet.

better

The Reg
Jammin' to Dave
Almost on done with my ethical paper
Gonna have a work party with punkin
1:41 am
Tuesday, April 25, 2006
Happy Birthday Evan!

The paper's coming along. I took a four hour nap instead of going to capoeira, took care of some business, and am well armed with chocolate, sugar-free red bull and Sprite.

I had a super interesting talk with Aaron earlier. He claims that the world is on an upswing. In fact, he posits that we, as a human race are about to break free from our sinusoidal wave of death, destruction, rebirth and revolution. He sees George W. as another push in that direction. As he sees it, the good people are having an easier time of it.

And this from shouting revolution at the end of seeing "V for Vendetta."

While I'm not sure I agree entirely, I do support the view that there is a revolution of sorts happening, at least I hope so. Not the flashy type, full of slogans, angry mobs, regime overthrows and weeping mothers, but a revolution nonetheless. I'm not ready to venture if this is occurring outside of my circle of humanity, the slices of reality that I encounter and modify daily.

It's a revolution of introspection. The growth of the willingness, in fact joy in learning about oneself. Examining motives, change, beauty, love, faith. In short, I've been sensing a renewed effort to question life and our fellow man for the answers they've found to the same frustratingly transcendent riddles. To channel Heidegger for a moment, if you'll excuse me, it's as if we've slowly, almost unpreceiveably become more concerned with what it means to possess Dasein: to be an entity that has being as we attempt to understand what that being is, in itself.

Where do I see this? On the internet explosion of thoughtful, well-written blogs. In the explosion of artistic creation by people who claim they 'can't paint.' Yet they take up the paintbrush nonetheless, exploring a terrain of blank canvas towards a better understanding of self. Hippie Church has many new converts, all eager to explore her mysteries. It's the way we interact with one another, reaching for understanding, and compassionate kindness. It's jammin' in public, doing what feels right, standing by your convictions while being open to heated debate. It's putting band-aids on punkin's bike wounds, Ser Wilheim walking to the Reg to smoke cigarettes with me in a bathrobe and a tie just to make me laugh. It's communal beverages, positive change, quality reflection, honest opinions, and late night talks. Naps in the sun, calling my parents and paying my bills on time. It's asking forgiveness, granting understanding, and expecting so much of a person, and not settling. Ever.

So, yea. I'm doing better. After freaking out a bit, burying my head under the blankets at Cute Baby's for a while, she came up to me and sat by my head, patting the lump of lap throws with her tiny hands. "Bhut whake-up Mee-ah! Wwe haf to gho save bhaby jagwah! And Dhorwa!" And, I sat up, deciding to feed her strawberries while I brushed out her curls, not caring if she got red all over her white shirt or rubbed her sticky face and hands onto me as she snuggled closer.

Whelmed!! Whelmed!

As I was going to bed last night, I realized that my life has suddenly, secretly, fantastically gotten way out of hand.

I have a paper that was due today at three. Yea, uh huh.
I haven't gotten past page two.
I have to have my driver's license for Scav Hunt.
I haven't been able to find it lately.
I have almost no money in my bank account.
I haven't been able to access it anyways - lost ATM card.
I have an inadequate cell phone plan.
I haven't paid my cell phone bill in two months.
I have a Heidegger midterm to write this weekend.
I haven't done the reading.
I have to present at the Student Leadership Conference this Saturday.
I haven't started working on that.

Bitch moan bitch moan whine moan bitch bitch bitch.

I know I'm a warrior, but I want to crawl in bed and cry. The anxiety rises and I . . . I . . . I know that I can deal, and that things really aren't unmanageable. But, I don't feel as if I have the faculties to do it. I'm tempted to throw myself into the Pit of Dhoom and Despair and just get it done with - it's been too long since I've flipped my shit. I'm about due. If I ask for quarter and mercy, surrender honorably, will I be spared? Or at least given leniency?

But Damnit!

Whelmed. I'm muther fuckin' whelmed folks, and let me tell you, it's lame.

Of the Highest Quality

Each and every quarter I make resolutions, using the forced restructuring of my life, the counting of the weeks, the planning ahead to spur me into action. As I told Alii the other day, I sometimes feel as if my mission is to continuously become and even bigger bad ass. It's like Cam's New Year's resolution to do everything better, only actively renewed every trimester.

This Spring Quarter I've decided to embrace paradox: chaos and the nap. Focusing on the sides of me that are as in need of cultivation as this mind of mine, yet often not given enough priority. I feel as if I've spent the entirety of my life placing school before and above all and I'm not about to reverse that position. Come on, that would be folly. But well, I don't want all my inner-fun to die. I'm talking more of a shifting of focus while maintaining the foundation, employing the same pieces to slightly different ends -- ends of the highest quality.

Basically, to sum, I'm going to be a giant slacker.

But with purpose! This is my goal! You see, with just a slight tweak I can change the question and not lose all honor and integrity: how much of a slacker can I be, how much fun and personal betterment can I bring into my life (aka: awesome) without compromising my scholastic intents?

I was talking to Punkin about this last week and to quote as I foolishly thought I was going to leave to do work: "Oh, wait. You're only taking three classes. Naw dude. You don't have to start doing work until, like, sixth week. Seriously, you're good." And then we promptly found five dollars. Advice from someone who knows.

Tenants of the 5-Fold Slacker Plan

1. Dreads.
2. Smoothies.
3. Capoeira! CAPOEIRA!
4. Increased gangsta shit.
5. All reading is optional.

Dreads!!
So, after the Keller Show (the one I made it to, goddamnit. More about that ones later.), in a moment of transplendent clarity, I decided to stop washing my hair. Yup. Dreads are something I've been wanting to do, planning on doing, waiting, waiting. But what for? Moving to Austin? Peace Corp? Why not start now? In the greater philosophy that is my life I believe we have fewer valid reasons not to pursue the things we truly want then we like to believe, whether we're conscious of this or not. And in that spirit, I've been submitting myself to some pretty intense hair experiences.

How does this whole thing work? Since my hair is curly, basically all I have to do is stop washing my hair, and let Alii backcomb (read: knotting, tearing, teasing, scrunching, rolling.) the hell out of it. Hey, I have so many cool scarves and now, the perfect reason to wear them constantly. It saves time and worry really. Once they're formed, we're going to color them red and gold and purple, full of beads and awesome. Until then, I have bells because I don't make enough noise anyway.

"Oh, hey, let me check myself out in the mirror. Uh huh. Uh huh. Oh, how's my hair? Oh yea. Gross. Right on."

Smoothies
Don't get me wrong, I didn't miss the smoothie train that slammed into consumer culture about three years ago. I've recently been rediscovering the glory that is healthy food, organic smoothies in the morning and A COSTCO MEMBERSHIP. The combination of these factors has lead oranges to become closely akin to water: something you should have about, share with your friends, and consume as much as possible. There's something pretty glorious about not only walking into to Ethics two minutes late, but GIANT SMOOTHIE IN HAND, bells and bracelets jingling, to promptly sit on the floor, basking in The Splendor and Glory that is Michael Green, everything right and true in the world, moral satisfaction in liquid form.

Capoeira!
I'm getting my ass kicked. No shitting you dude, moving is a whole new abomination, stairs a horror, and I had to repeatedly remind myself that I am in fact a warrior so as to not give up halfway on the walk to campus. But once I got there, I couldn't stop checking out me and my hott bod in all visible reflective surfaces. As my Dad used to tell me when I was weight training and running 2 miles a day back in the Land of Usta-Could, the pain is just the suck leaving your body. To which I would shout: To be filled with AWESOME!

Gangsta Shit: Assundry Things I'm Doing, Like Ya Do

I've finally succumb: I'm doing scavhunt. Roadtrip with the F.I.S.T. w00t.

So, last weekend, we (Punkin, Will the Viking, and I) decided to go the Keller show in Indianapolis. To make a long story short, like always, we brought the horrible weather with us, got foiled by the TIME CHANGE ( I scorn you Indiana), missed the show, and ended up blingin' the fuck at the Hilton all night, thank you Papa Sailor. We did stumble upon the Indiana State museum and their grounds, a swear-to-god-i-can't-make-this-shit-up Talking Bridge. Yea, you wish you'd been there, I know.

I'm gauging my ears. I'm up to 4.11 mm but I want to go to 8.25.

I've also recently taken to holding my ground and speaking my piece/peace. I sleep a lot better at night.

All Reading is Optional
I haven't done work in a few weeks, and that's okay by me. I'm taking amazing classes. Heidegger's "Being and Time", Introduction to Ethics, and Lewis Carroll's "Alice and Wonderland." I have to write a paper this weekend, but such is life. I love all my classes, but with the sunshine and the gangsta shit, I can't seem to find time to read about Utilitarianism. Although I did learn yesterday that Jesus was a Utilitarian! Utilitarianism, or as we call it Ethical Hedonism, says that one should aim for the greatest good for the greatest number of people. To discuss this inside a logical construct Michael Green insists on working terms of Hedons. HEDONS. Yea, you'll get it, and then it'll be hilarious.

Peace, love, and potatoes,

- M

ps. No, the cute baby is not potty trained.
pps. I may still smell of pee.
ppps. Hedon = unit of pleasure
pppps. Happy Holiday!

Well, At Least There's Music

*I had to write a movie review for my Lewis Carroll class with Malynne. She said we could be as snarky as we want. Enjoy!

Hermeneutics is like crack cocaine: once you start interpreting, you can't stop and the weirder you become. Many a beloved book has been sacrificed to this fickle god, loved before inspection, cast aside upon too much reflection. Was that a Freudian reference? What would Lacan think? According to Nietzche . . . Under a Marxian reading . . . Once you open that Pandora's box of Interpretation sex, booze, Jesus, semiotics, Marxist tendencies, and Freudian slips sprout like wild mushrooms, only much less palatable.

When it comes to making movies, translating the written word into movies: bright shining pictures, talking, moving symbolism, there tends to be something lacking. The witty turn of phrase, the ingenious pun, precise dialogue, breath-taking descriptives, a sweeping scope of narrative all stand side. In their place, we get new fandangled technology, computer animation, and synthetic music.

This means, for me, avoiding movie remakes of books I actually like; avoiding like the plague. (I mean, gawd, did you even see a preview for the abomination that was "Troy"? puh-leeze.) I imagine that for every cherished title, there's an author somewhere who's missing a chunk of their soul, lamenting they day they were seduced by the promise of fat royalty checks. (I ignore the fact that this teeth gnashing is probably happening over a mojito, in the Caribbean due to said checks, but hey, what do you do?) I get a little rush of karma-boosting righteousness as I say to myself, "I am above your shallow adaptations. I will not be lead astray by skin and special effects. To my books, I'll stay true," as I clutch Durkheim to my breast.

Yet, some books ask for it. Beg for it. Wake you up in the middle of the night, asking to be shoddily envisioned, lacklusterly displayed, dispassionately acted, a box office smash. And sadly, "Alice in Wonderland" is one such book.

Recently, I watched a version of Alice that seemed to lack this artistic, hermeneutic drive. Made in the early 90's, it seems to suffer from the opposite problem as it lacks any real interpretive drive. Instead of a turmoil of interpretation, open for discussion, its message is clear:

Growing up is lame. It involves doing lots of crack and becoming a mean, nasty adult, but at least you get to sing songs. Oooh pretty lights!

To make this message entirely clear, this movie throws the original text aside preferring to ad lib then expose their viewers to Carroll’s’ smashing wit, and nonsensical brilliance. Of course, everyone knows that popular culture isn’t supposed to be edifying in any way at all. Silly academics. To begin, an original opening scene was created, which goes a little something like this:
“I wish I was a grown-up.”
“But you’re not so you can’t have tea.”
“Oh, that’s sad.”
“I’m a cruel hearted adult, and don’t really care. Why don’t you go outside?”

Having tea is the ultimate goal of being an adult? The true signs of maturity reside in crumpets and herbal brews? I think not.

Other pretty pointless deviations: Alice falls into a creek the color of feces, not a river of tears. The caucus race doesn’t really happen so much as everyone run around freaking out for no stated purpose. And I’m sure many many more. But, as that’s as far as I’ve gotten in the book. .

Besides the heavy-handed moral, there are songs. Songs of joy? No, no. Remember: adults are not nice, and are mean to children for absolutely no reason and every song serves to shore up this moral. The mouse sings a saucy rap song about hating dogs, the malice clear in every word. Sammy Davis, Jr. sings a song, and does a little dance after hollering at Alice, dressed in lederhosen for no reason whatsoever. Then there’s the hatred song, everyone’s favorite. Then the sad treacle song. (Here’s an interpretation in an otherwise vacuous landscape for hermeneutics: Treacle = cocaine.) Don’t forget Alice’s classic reflective number, “Why is Everyone Crazy?” and who could forget the dictatorship and tyranny song that the Duchess sings?

Let’s go back to talking about drugs. To make this reference abundantly clear, there are the tweaked out birds. Now, it may be that since it was the early 90’s it’s merely a coincidence that all the actors were so very high. Or maybe it was one of the three driven artistic decisions made in the movie. But either way, the movie might as well be sprinkled with a fine white powder, Wonderland a snowy vista. The birds flap, shirking! Yelling! As the camera zooms in on their strained faces, wide glossy eyes. Alice is of course, frightened. Later, the actors must not have been given their allotted dosage as a riot almost ensues in two different scenes as characters chant: “TREACLE” and “PEPPER” respectively, hands shaking, eyes unfocused, looking for a fix.

Another side effect of the drugs is this movie’s preoccupation with their Stellar Technology. I remember when green screens were in vogue. And oh! Shiny flashy light things! And did you see how the Cheshire cat is a person, but half of him disappears? OMG! But the truly wonderful thing about the self-indulgent and conspicuous use of what was then a hot property is the musical clues. Did you hear that synthesized BBLLRRRIINNG noise? Careful kids: there’s some amazing technological moment coming up, don’t be caught unawares.

In the end, Alice falls in a pile of leaves, only to awake in her own yard, in time for tea. After her discoveries that adults are mean and make no sense at all, possibly because of their drug habits, she makes it back in time for tea. Was she anxious to sing moralistic songs herself, admonishing other Alices? Or is she now addicted to Treacle and pretty lights?

Is that what adulthood is? Losing the veil that tells us adults have it all figured out only to pick up a drug habit while straining to sing songs anyways, dancing in step? If so, at least the costumes are colorful and the lights distracting. My one worry: I’m not sure I know the words to the song.

Units of Being

This past Sunday, we all went and RAGED THE FUCK at the Keller show. Yea, I know. You all wish you were me. It was as awesome as you'd think it'd be. In fact, better. Sydney was in town and helped us rage all the more.

To help ensure that we would be able, at some point, drive home -- the show was in Urbana -- we split into teams, one group indulging on the drive there, the other waiting until we were safely at our destination. Monks of Cool (Katherine and Igor) decided to go first, leaving Team Hyde Park (Lauren and I) to navigate through a tornado warning all by our selves. But! We prevailed!

Then, Team Hyde Park was ready for action. I could spend so much space and time trying to explain all the wonderful, amazing, transcendent, mindblowing things that went on, but I won't. I could never do it justice.

At the set break, we all went out to the car for fresh air, a little regrouping, and a plum. As we emerged from the sweltering, dank venue Katherine and I burst forth! running down the streets of Chambana, arms and voices huge, waving. It was great being outside, but soon, I was about to burstexplodecomeapartahhhh! I remember jumping up and down, braclettes and bells jingliing,

"The show. The show. The show."

And then, in pure Mia fashion, I decided what was more important and did just that. There was nothing I could do for Lauren, who was fine, and standing around wanting to be inside was doing no one any good. So, I left. Inwards! Showards!

It struck a strange paralell: at one time, school was more important, and in pure Mia fashion, I left.

Spending the last half of the show alone was actually quite magnificent. It's amazing the things I decided to ponder. It made me miss Bryan: he would have been right there with me. Adam too. My thoughts spun around Chicago, Hippie Festivi, the point of it all, distance, change. But mostly, I thought about units.

I stood there marveling at all these people there, who were loving the hell out of the Keller show with the other half of their unit. There's a tenuous, striking beauty to when two unique individuals join together, forming a singe unit with it's own characteristic, qualities, and needs. 1 + 1 = 3

Where's my unit? Have I already found it? There's something about our fatalistic, flawed, faithhful belief in us that says, yea, maybe I have. Or that says I'm so very, fundamentally wrong. About a lot of things.

But nonetheless, Woot! I say! Woot! Goddamn KDub! Afterwards, there was an inpromptu dance party when they put on "Jungle Boogie" and suddenly everyone had the room to jam the fuck.

Then we walked around UI-UC's campus for three hours, ate some Jimmie John's, ate some tree, had a good ole time.

At one point, we stummbled into the main quad, and were struck by the space, the size, the gradeur? of University of Illinois, Chambana.

"I wonder what it's like to go here."
"Let's check out this informative plaque and learn about them," as if we were so very different from them because we go to the big ole' school in the city, and well shucks, these kids just don't know.
"We're students. In college. Just not here," as we wonder over to the plaque, hoping to learn about these creatures who must be so different from us. Tell us, Oh Plaque! What of their History? Their Glory?

The plaque was about Corn. Corn.

"Well, that sums it up. That's all you need to learn about UI-CU. Corn. Right on. Like ya do."

Igor was our knight in blingin' armor and drove us home. No sleep for the weary: we got home at 6;15 and I was at Cute Baby's at 7:45.

I talked to Big Blue about all this yesterday, telling him of the hippie reunion I saw again, as I always do. This is when a unit breaks apart, one party jamming a little too far foward, little too much jam until gasp! They look up and they can't see their other half! Oh no! Then, the other party (usually the dude) will spot his lost other, and there's a sweet conclusion to what could have been a scary rest of the show. I pointed out to B-man that maybe I'm so fascinated in this common event because if I wonder/wandered off, there wouldn't necessarily be another half to pull me back. It always makes me a little sad to not have someone's shoulder to rest my weary head on after a particular draining jam, no arms to dream in on the way down. Maybe coming to Chicago was wondering off, and I am getting pulled back, drawn to be a part of my favorite units.

It left me with some questions. Are we aware of the units we place ourselves in? Are these the appropriate units? I feel as if being more aware of the units we invest with the superness that is ourselves, whether they're voluntary or involuntary, is a valuable exercise. What am I creating that's greater then I?

*I also wrote this post a while ago. Stupid free internet that we steal from our neighbors not working. How dare they. More about my general goings on soon.

Going the Distance, Evading the Cycle

I've been confronted lately the with enormity of space -- the distance between. The closeness of family and friends tumbling into sharp contrast as I count the miles and miles from home, yet no nearer towards it then when I left.

As Dr. Steve poignantly mentioned once: "You gave up a lot of love in moving to Chicago, didn't you?"

I don't grant his premise. I don't think I lost love persay, so much as tempered its mettle. And some loves were too brittle to withstand the strain.

well the hoofers washed off the five o'clock
i fear i'll never find him

While in Texas, I went and found Adam. He decided to shut me out, pass me by, push me aside. So, I showed up at his house. And then it was lovely. And painful. And brillant. And horrible. And lovelier still.

dear john where are you?
i know you're out there somewhere

But, you see, that's the problem right there: he continues to keep me at a distance, pushing me away while whispering that he always wants to hold me close. As if the distance weren't trial enough, I have lost my faith -- there are few objective truths to justify it. It's not grains of salt I take his words with, but giant hulking chunks.

i've got a hurrican in my pocket
but no one wil believe me

Empty promises? Can you really have a fulfilling relationship which lacks faith, trust and honesty?

i poured a bucket of tar on top of a flower
somehow i knew they'd try to find it

When are you leaving me again as you spiral so far down you refuse to let me to follow?

and buy it
or ride it
or style it

We've been here before. Then, at his urging, I was done. Then there was what I deemed impossible: magically, tragically? the mental requirements I made, the reasons I wanted, the change I needed to see all were meet, created, or manifestly presented.

let's go dancing
let's go dancing
to the fireflies
to the hurricane

And it's not as if I every stopped loving. That can't be willfully done.

to the falling rain
to the open flame

As I see the pendelum begin to swing, I want to tell myself this time it'll be different. This time, this time, things will be as they should, as they could, as they would.

how many times?

It doesn't make me question my own personal worth so much as suggest I'm not good at loving. Because that has never stopped, that has never faltered, yet it hasn't been enough in the past, by far. What is to make me think it will be this time? I've remained as steady and honest as I know how to be while offering the best love I know how to give in the sincerest way I can.

i stop a freight train with a grain of sand
can't you hear me crashing?

And for what? A cycle of distance both physical and psychological, hearts colliding to spin off again in the distance, leaving each colder and more poignantly alone then before.

split a mountain in two with a flake of snow
but no one will believe me

I tell myself, no. If he falls off the planet again, I'm done. Too many time have I danced this dance.

the stories were long
the stories were good

But, I'm probably lying. And I hate that.

that's the reason I believe them
what do you know about revolution?

As Eric points out, I'm in it now, again -- as if I was really gone to being with. And I can't turn back. Support, love, kindness are all there. I'm not going to leave.

what do you know about revolution?

And that scares me.

i said, what do you know about revolution

Is this cycle unescapable? Would I really want out if I could? Is this what I've committed myself too forever? Do I want that? Will things change?

all i was taught was patience
or making a statement

I was reading a book of Lauren's, given to her by Yitz, and there's a part of it that's been haunting me. A women who is an expert psychologist specializing in co-dependent relationship states that the the lasting patterns of all relationships are established in the first encounter.

let's go dancing

Gawd, I hope not.

Forever is a promise. So is I love you.

Thursday, I sat in front of Cobb with some people playing Go, smoking, enjoying the soon to be spring. And suddenly, we saw a little old man and a little old wife bycycle by. She was sitting pretty as you please, hands folded in her lap, perched on the cross bar. His arms encircled her as they made their steady, confident way across the quad. One of the kids we were with say, "Wow. I think I just found my new driving purpose in life. I want that."

let's go dancing

And I thought, yes. That's what I want. That's what I have? Is it even a possibility or am I fooling myself, trapping my heart in a cycle of destruction, heartache, and the looming weight of being fundamentally alone? I'm not sure yet.

to the fireflies
to the hurricane

And that scares me too.
I don't like being scared.

sometimes

* Since I wrote this, about two weeks ago -- our internet isn't working -- I've talked to Adam a couple of times. And I'm a little more sure, mildly reassured. But I'm still scared. The problems remain.