The Thumbless Wonder

Writing vs. Photography

2006-05-22T19:13:00.000-04:00

And here's another self-portrait.

Lately I've been beating myself up because I haven't been writing. I went through a phase where I was contributing about two sentences a day to the short story I'm currently working on. Not only was I uninspired, but mostly, I was just tired of thinking. After 8 hours of writing computer programs -- well, maybe 5 or 6 -- I just didn't feel like getting into the frame of mind necessary to write.

And then the writing dropped off altogether.

So, instead I've been taking pictures and playing with them. Yes, this is fun and creative, but somehow it feels less serious. I don't take it as seriously as I do writing. But I'm not even sure what that means. I suppose it means that I believe I'm a better writer than I am a visual artist. But who knows if that's true, or if it even matters? I'm not likely to succeed -- read: make money -- in either endeavor.

I don't know though, somehow photography just feels carefree. And perhaps my masochistic personality won't allow me to take seriously something I consider to be fun. The state of mind I'm in while playing with images is much more relaxing than the one I'm in while writing. It's probably because no words are involved. The sound of my own brain chattering can drive me nuts, and sometimes it's nice to play around with shapes and colors and faces and think, "Ah... that's pretty."

I've also been reluctant to brainstorm new ideas. Back when I was writing-but-not-writing my story, I thought, Since I'm dragging my feet so much maybe I should just start a different story. But no. It seems I'm too lazy to enter the free-associating mindset, too.

The problem is, eventually I'll have to enter that realm with photgraphy, too. The picture above represents the execution of a concept, albeit a simple one. Wouldn't I have to conceive on a deeper level to bring my work to the next level?

But probably, the main cause of my writer's block is the belief that my ability to conceive outweighs my ability to craft, which I was getting at in my last post. I have all these big ideas, but I don't have the discipline, the focus, or the wherewithall to execute them.

But... but! I think this is coming to an end. I think I'm ready to start up again.

Maybe I will force myself to brainstorm a new story idea tonight.

That is, if I can tear myself away from surfing the Flickr photostream. Or the television, which is currently tuned to a very strange British sitcom.

Work Woes (Thank God for Kitties)

2006-05-16T19:19:00.000-04:00

I took this picture in the alley behind my house. There are dozens of alley cats back there, and this is one of the more hyper and friendly ones. I've been told he looks like a pirate here. He's chewing on an electrical wire, which is unplugged, I hope.

I've been busy with work, busy with life. I'm totally wrapped up in a project at work that's going quite badly. Long story short, I bite off way more than I can chew, which is a recurring theme in my life.

When I was a kid I was in the Gifted and Talented program. We would get together once a week for a class period and work on advanced projects. My most prominent memory is a time we were told to create a word search -- you know, the puzzle where you circle words in a seemingly random field of letters. I was really excited. I had this really elaborate vision of what I wanted the puzzle to be. I had planned to have lots of intersecting words; I wanted to use really difficult words. Well, before I knew it, the period was over and I didn't complete my project. Everyone else was finished but me.

I realized then that it was a pattern -- that I always set out to accomplish much more than I'm capable of accomplishing. And for some reason, I never learned my lesson. I still do this.

And this is what I've done at work. Today I told my boss that I was way behind schedule on a project and that I needed assistance if I were to make the deadline. I would have been embarassing if I expected more from myself. I suppose I SHOULDN'T feel embarassed, after all, the project is on the right track -- it's just moving slower than it should -- and as long as my vision is implemented by SOMEONE then that's all that matters.

But still, I feel like a failure. Mostly because I know that I could have worked harder on it before giving in. Mostly because deep down I know that I am a procrastinator, and that if I had worked diligently from the outset I wouldn't be stuck in a hole like I am now.

Anyway.

I'm not going to sweat it. It turns out the guy assigned to help WANTS to help. Plus, I like working in a team situation. It's less boring than working alone.

(But I wanted all the credit.)

I've Been Out Of Touch

2006-05-06T19:33:00.000-04:00

When I first started to keep a blog, I never thought there would come a time when I'd be too busy to write something at a minimum, a few times a week. Well, I didn't anticipate the effect warm weather would have on me. I'm outside pretty much all the time. I've been taking lots of pictures, so that's pretty cool. I've also been fooling around with Photoshop (see above). I don't know if I'm any good at photo manipulation, but it is a fun way to pass the time. It's simultaneoulsy mindless AND creative, if that makes any sense. Writing is much more difficult -- it requires heavy thinking, heavy processing of information. Visual processing is a much more pleasant experience, somehow. But somehow the end result is less satisfying. I guess I feel like I should suffer for any endeavor to be worth my time.

Anyway, I thought I'd post a passage from a short story I've been working on. In a nutshell, the story is about two people at the start of a relationship. I'm planning to switch back and forth between the male and female perspective. Of course, both of them are depressed and damaged individuals. The male's situation is complex -- his twin sister was recently admitted to a mental hospital.

Here is a scene that describes the first time they met. This passage is almost omniscient, but really it's from the female's perspective.

Maybe I'll post the whole thing when I'm done. If I ever finish. I'm writing at a rate of about one paragraph a day, if I'm lucky.

******

They play several games. Ellie wins most of them. They don’t chat very much, but they communicate. They communicate with their eyes and their bodies and the tones of their voices. Each time they make eye contact, Ellie feels herself smile. He always smiles back, always swallowing a little when he does. She feels demure. When she leans to take a shot, she tries to be sexy. Not provocative, but subtle, sophisticated. She hits the cue ball from one corner of the table to the other, knocking in the 8-ball and winning the game. He makes a noise that sounds like disappointment, but she knows he’s joking. She stands straight, rests her cue stick on her shoulder like a soldier holding a rifle at ease, and then curtsies. He laughs. She likes being watched, being admired. She doesn’t like being leered at. She wants him to covet her, but to respect her. She wants him to think she’s lovely.

They play until closing time. He asks if she would like to take a ride to the beach. She thinks it’s too cold but she agrees. During the ride she talks about the moon. It looms large and bright in the clear night. Looking at the moon makes her feel strange, conflicted. Primal urges swell within; compulsions to howl, to grasp the giant rock with both hands, to stare at it for hours on end, without words, with an empty mind. But she also feels distinctly human, evolved, dreaming of the vastness of space, of the lifespan of planets and stars and people and trees, and of the unfathomable number of those before them who dreamed those same dreams.

Welcome to the Machine

2006-04-19T21:11:00.000-04:00

Spring is Pretty

2006-04-15T19:08:00.000-04:00

View the series.

I Think I'm Dying

2006-04-11T17:22:00.000-04:00

Oy! What a terrible week! Ever since my party my body has been rejecting me in various, awful ways. First, I had a stomach virus. Once that went away, I suffered aches and pains and chills for a few days. Then yesterday, I woke up with a cough, a sore throat, and a slightly stuffy nose. Last night I went to a reading, which ran much longer than I'd expected. About halfway through I got really hot and woozy, but that didn't stop me from going out afterwards. I was feeling okay, but by the time I got home I felt like I'd been hit by a bus. I woke up this morning with serious congestion, a pounding headache, and the whole lot of it. I think I have the flu.

I went to work anyway because I am SWAMPED this week. My co-worker and I already pushed back a deadline, and even still I don't think we'll make it. My biggest shortcoming is making accurate time estimates. By now I should know to always triple the amount of time I think I'll need. But even if I do, I still need triple of that!

The problem is, I am a major procrastinator. I can't seem to focus on any given task for more than 20 minutes at a time. I wasn't always like this. Things have gotten bad in the past year or so. There are a few reasons for this.

About a year ago I decided that I needed to change my career. I realized how much joy a creative lifestyle brought me, and I realized that my current day job just wasn't cutting it. But being the practical-minded person I am, and also being the daughter of immigrant (which means I have an inherent sense of duty), I figured there was no way I could become a WRITER. There was no way I could justify idling my days away THINKING LOFTY THOUGHTS. So, I took a career test, it said I should go into the field of psychology, which wasn't surprising.

It wasn't a bad idea. One skill I'm certain I possess is an ability to listen well, to empathize, and to deliver practical and sensitive advice. Plus, I really enjoy studying theoretical models, especially those that relate to the "human condition". I won't enumerate every reason I'm well-suited for that profession -- nevertheless, I liked the image of running a practice out of a home office while raising kids and kittens.

But once I realized I needed to take a few classes, take the GREs, probably volunteer, collect recommendations from long lost professors who likely didn't think much of me to begin with (I was a B student), I became overwhelmed by the improbability of the whole idea. A phD? After all this time! What if I hate it?

Which brought me back to writing. I thought, "Hey, I can work a senseless day job until Paul starts making decent money and then I can quit! Then I can have babies and write full-time!"

But after awhile of not taking my day job seriously AT ALL, after blogging and writing an absurd amount, I noticed that my soul began to seep from my body ever-so-slowly. I also noticed that gradually, my co-workers no longer bothered to keep me informed about incoming projects, current issues, etc.. I did the minimum of what was expected of me and that's all anyone expected of me.

Some friends seemed to think that was a gift, "As long as you don't get fired, and they keep paying you, who cares?" And that's what I told myself. Should I care if I rip-off a stupid, soul-sucking multi-million dollar corporation?

Well, I suppose my ego started to get the best of me -- as well as my dutiful and guilt-ridden immigrant roots kicked into gear. I didn't like feeling out of the loop. I didn't like being perceived as apathetic.

So, in the past month or two I've been busy as a bee, redeeming myself to myself, and straightening things out. You see, I'm actually quite good at my job -- which is why no one fires me.

But... but! I don't love it. Not by a long stretch. And this knowledge has paralyzed me in all other aspects of life.

I haven't been writing, hardly at all -- the full examination of why left for another post.

I have some ideas for an Internet project, good ones -- but have I done anything about it? No. Not at all.

It seems I enjoy myself the most when I'm walking in the park or lying on the couch with a book. Are those such bad pastimes?

Why am I so compelled to produce? Not everyone is.

For example, my brother enjoys playing music. He spends almost all his free time playing the piano. He doesn't WRITE music. Why is he satisfied? Why can't I be find a mentally stimulating, non-creative activity?

Though I suppose the real question is -- why can't I just create without the burdens that accompany the act of creating? Why must I question myself so much? Why am I so inert? Why do I assume the quality of my work is poor? Why do I ask myself questions like, "What is the meaning of all this?" when I know the only answer is, "There is no meaning to this." Why do I care?

Ugh. My nostrils are sore. Woe is me.

Maybe I'd be inspired if I had a piano like this.

Crash (A Real Life Philadelphia Story)

2006-03-23T19:03:00.001-05:00

On my way home from work last night I experienced my first automobile accident. I am fine. I am not injured, but my arms, neck, shoulders, and back are sore from the impact. I crashed into the back of car when the car behind me crashed into me after another car had crashed into it. Think of it like dominos – four cars, the last one hitting the third one, the third one hitting me, and so on.

Immediately following the collision, I was a little shaken, but otherwise, cool as a cucumber. The woman behind me was completely freaking out. She was holding her face, sobbing uncontrollably and screaming through her open window, “Call 9-11! Help! Help me!” I opened her door and asked her questions, “Where are you hurt? Do you want to get out? Can you breathe? Do you legs hurt? Let me see your face.” The latent lifeguard in me kicked into gear. I suppressed an urge to administer CPR.

Once we established that her worst injury was a bruised hand, I said, “It’s okay. Your car is fine; you’re fine.”

She snapped, “My car is not fine!”

“What I meant was, it’s not totaled.”

“Bah!” she said, waving dismissively.

It turns out people have a very different idea of what “damage” means. My hood is crumpled a bit, the driver-side headlight is cracked, and the front bumper is bent. After I got hit I was convinced my car had been squished like an accordion, so I was really pleased to find it as it was.

The girl who had been driving the car in front of me, on the other hand, was very upset to find her back bumper and license plate dented slightly (and I mean slightly). If it had been me, I wouldn’t even make an insurance claim. She was nearly in tears after speaking with her mother on the telephone. Apparently she had been scolded for getting in an accident, even though she was the least responsible for its cause, and even though she appeared to be at least 25 years old, for crying out loud.

The people from the fourth car, the first car to crash, seemed about as ruffled as I was. They were very young, 20 years old, and according to the girl, this was the third incident she’d experienced that day. That morning she found her door window had been smashed, so she called the police to file a report and to make an insurance claim. She taped plastic to the window and headed to work. While driving later that day, she ran out of gas. She left her car in the shoulder and had to walk to a gas station to fill a canister with gas and then bring it back to her stranded car. After that, she picked up her boyfriend, and on their way home, she got into our accident.

After she revealed this information, the other women started gossiping immediately. “I bet she isn’t covered,” “Oh, we’re screwed, we’re going to have to pay our deductible,” “They’re young and stupid, they aren’t going to deal with this.”

And I suddenly got a strange vibe – a Crash vibe (the movie). I wondered if some latent racism was driving their suspicions. The young girl was Hispanic and her boyfriend was black. He had a large tattoo of a spider web across his neck. I dunno – there was just something about the way they were eyeing the couple, something about the nature of their words, and the tones of their voices.

And then, the woman who had been hysterical began to loudly state to whomever would listen that the young girl CLEARLY caused the accident, that SHE didn’t cause the accident, and neither did I or the other girl. She must have said this about 18 times.

Now, to be fair, the young girl didn’t have her registration or insurance information in her vehicle. She said she had left it at the such-and-such precinct earlier when she filed her first claim. Sounds fishy, I know, but I believed her. Maybe I’m a sucker, but she seemed very sweet and honest.

Actually, I think she won me over once we exchanged ages.

“I’m 29,” I said.

“What? I don’t believe you,” she said. “You really shouldn’t lie. Lying doesn’t become you, you know.”

“You’re crazy,” I said, laughing and clearly flattered.

We chatted a little more and she said, “Thank god I didn’t have my baby with me. All of my stuff flew from the back into the front. God knows what might have happened.”

“Oh, how old is your baby?” I asked.

“6 months.”

“Congratulations,” I said. “You’re a young mother.”

She laughed and said, “I am.”

"Oops. I meant to say, You’re a NEW mother."

I tried to apologize but she just shook her head, and showed me a picture of her baby. He was very little and very cute. He looked like he was being swallowed by his sweater.

Soon after that I headed home. I hadn’t realized how shaken I’d been until I got inside. I collapsed on the couch and fell asleep almost immediately. I woke up a few hours later feeling anxious, replaying the event over and over again in my mind.

I kept thinking, “Why am I so stressed out? What’s the big deal? Everything’s fine.” Eventually, my boy cat calmed me by resting on my chest, and I fell asleep again.

Oh well. Live and learn. All in all, it was an interesting experience. At the most, I’ll be out $500 if the young girl turns out uninsured. I’m just thankful none of us were hurt.

Fabulous!

2006-03-19T20:23:00.000-05:00

Last night my friend Greg had a party. One of his friends was gracious enough to let me take pictures while he wore a fabulous sequined jacket with a matching hat. The red sweatshirt underneath really made the outfit, in my opinion.

Many of the guests were actors. I don't really hang out with actors too much, but I always have a good time when I do. I love how theatrical they tend to be, how somehow they are always performing, even if we're just having a conversation. I love how actors express themselves through exaggerated mannerisms and body movements. It rubs off on me, too. I feel myself making strange faces, and I start waving my hands around a lot. At one point somehow suggested trying to see how many times each of us could spin in the air without falling. I could spin about one and a half times. My knees hurt today.

It's so weird getting old. I go to parties and act all wild and run around and give people flying side kicks to the head and for some reason I wake up achy.

I need to start working out again.

Or I need to download my brain onto a computer and exist in a virtual world.

I Love Global Warming

2006-03-11T17:34:00.000-05:00

God, the weather has been great. Right now we have a bunch of windows open. The cats are sprawled out in front of them, basking in the warmth and the smell of the outdoors. I love waking up to the sound of birds and to the early risers doing their thing -- when they aren't too loud, of course.

Tonight Paul and I will walk across town (about 2 miles) to get Indian food and to see Syriana. Of the 5 Best Pictures nominated, we've only seen Brokeback Mountain and Crash. I wanted to see Capote, but Paul said he'd rather see something political.

I don't have much to say right now. I just woke up from a nap and my brain is numb. Usually I blog while I'm at work. To my horror, I arrived last Monday morning to discover that our firewalls had been upgraded! No more blogging at work! At least no more 'blogspot' blogging at work. I'm so sad about this.

On the other hand, I was really productive last week. For the past year or so, I've kind of been in a lazy funk of denial, waking up everyday and telling myself how much I hated my job, how it was so ordinary and unchallenging, how I only want to do the minimum of what's expected of me, how I'd much rather write and kill time until we (probably) move to NYC.

And something strange happened: I started liking my job again. I can't say why exactly. I think I just got fed up with a lot of the disorganization within the department, and I wanted to help clean house a bit. Maybe it's because spring is here -- the time for cleaning up shop, the time for renewal.

I dunno. I might as well roll with it. It feels good to be useful.

Party!

2006-03-06T20:15:00.001-05:00

Here are some pictures from my friend Hannah's 30th birthday party. These are really blurry. I used to think the 'in motion' style of blurry pictures looked cool. Now I just think I need a better camera.

And here's a video (13 MB) of my friend Neda dancing with John, a nice guy we met at the party. Note how comfortable Neda is shaking her booty with a complete stranger. Note how awkward I sound merely speaking to a stranger. God knows why I was giggling like a developmentally-challenged 4th grader. That guy must have thought I was a complete weirdo. I would have thought I was.

But what a fun party!

I spoke with 71-year-old woman for a little while. She was really interesting. She wore thick, black-rimmed intellectual hipster glasses and talked my ear off about all sorts of things. She had been a Sociology professor at Penn. One of the nicest things she said was when she grabbed Emily (Hannah's roommate) to tell her that she and her boyfriend Vinny (Paul's good friend) were "a magnificent couple".

Emily and her Turkish friend Zeynep launched the belly-dancing portion of the evening. I tried and failed miserably. I swear, people were looking at me like, "Girl, take off the belly dancing belt and go sit down."

There had been promises for a wide variety of entertainment, but only the belly dancing materialized. Emily plays the accordion, and she had planned on playing a few tunes, but for some reason she never got around to it.

She'd also organized a This is Your Life retrospective puppet show for Hannah. I was going to be one of the puppets. It was loosely scripted and the puppeteers were supposed to improvise. But after several drinks and a few puffs of weed I was extraordinarily grateful she seemed to forget about the whole idea.

The next morning I felt like I had been run over by a truck. I must be getting really old. I just can't bounce back like I used to. I woke up at noon, ate some breakfast, read a little, fell asleep until 6:00pm, woke up in a bitch of a mood, grabbed a greasy dinner with Paul at a local bar, objected to just about every word that came out of his mouth, came home, cried a little, wrote in bed while Paul watched the horrid Oscar's ceremony downstairs, and then fell asleep, only to wake up around 3:00am, wide awake and completely rejuvenated.

Somehow I just don't think I'm meant to live this way. But I think it's worth it. I must be having fun. Just look at me!

Why, oh why, must I continually embarass myself?

Snap Out Of It!

2006-02-27T10:32:00.000-05:00

I've been having strange dreams lately. It's probably because my life is in flux right now and I'm uncertain about my future. After 7 years, Paul is finishing his phD in Physics this spring, so he's spent much of the year tearing his hair out, trying to decide what to do next. (HissyCat can certainly relate.)

And after serious deliberation, he has decided to leave academia. He hasn't decided what job to pursue, but for now, he's leaning toward Wall Street, so in all likelihood, we'll end up in NYC.

I have mixed feelings about all this. I've made many, many dear friends in Philadelphia, and the city has really turned around in the time I've been there. It's a really exciting place to live right now.

On the other hand, NYC is pretty damn exciting. We'll probably move to Brooklyn. Plus, it isn't far from Philadelphia, so neither my friends nor I will have good reasons not to visit at least every month or two.

But I'm still scared. I get very attached to places and homes. I really love my home. My cats really love our home. That's another thing: My poor kitties definitely won't appreciate moving from a big rowhouse to a cramped NY apartment. It really doesn't seem fair to do that to them in their old age.

All of that was preamble to the funny dream experience I had last night.

In my dream, Paul and I were sitting on the couch in our living room.

"I think someone's in the kitchen," I said, and he shot me an alarmed expression. I was very afraid.

We got up quietly and tiptoed toward the kitchen. Paul went first and I crouched behind him, using him as a shield.

We peeked into the kitchen. Inside was a couple, about our age, smiling and unpacking groceries into the cupboards.

I started screaming. I was completley consumed by fear.

Scary dream, huh? Yeah, right.

Have you ever screamed in a dream only to realize you were screaming in reality? The feeling is akin to the feeling of talking while underwater -- no matter how hard you try to formulate words, they sound distorted and nonsensical. It's very frustrating.

My screams slowly penetrated the bubble of my dream, and as they did, I realized my journey back to waking life had been provoked by Paul. Paul had been slapping my face repetitively, as one would slap a person who had passed out drunk -- not hard enough to hurt someone, but hard enough to wake her up. These pats entered my consciousness gradually, and once I realized what was happening, I jumped up, gasping for air.

"I had a bad dream," I said to Paul. He began snoring.

It took me awhile to fall asleep again. I kept thinking, "What a stupid dream. Why was I so scared?"

This morning I asked Paul if he remembered me crying out. He said no.

I said, "You don't remember slapping me?"

Then he laughed, and said, "Vaguely. How weird."

Yes, how weird. How weird, indeed.

Little Miss Meow

2006-02-22T21:11:00.000-05:00

Don't be fooled by this precious face. Miss Kitty is PURE EVIL!

Kitty is prone to major temper tantrums.

"Grlrlrlrlunnnn!" she says every day, the minute I get home from work. Before I can even hang my coat, she's off to the kitchen, rumbling through the house like Sonic the Hedgehog.

As I follow, my two other furry meow-meows, Boycat and Girlcat, also run by and nearly cause me to trip. While I prepare their food, Boy and Girl stare expectantly, but patiently. Miss Kitty, on the other hand, makes all kinds of demanding noises.

I'm convinced she has learned to say my name.

"Kaa-rr-in!" A brief pause, then again. "Kaa-rr-in!"

Sometimes she sounds like a pinball machine, or a doorbell, or anything that dings. Or, in her case, mings.

"Ming-ming-ming. Ming-mak. Ming."

She never shuts up. Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night to hear, "Ming-ming-ming. Ming-ming." She doesn't want anything in particular. She just has something to say.

Usually, after feeding time, I retire to the living room. Her belly full, she relaxes for about an hour, but for no longer than that.

Then she's back in the kitchen. This time, she's hissing at the alley cats that hang out in our yard. She scratches furiously at the sliding glass door. Once she realizes she can't claw her way out, she gets REALLY MAD, and she grumbles, or depending on her mood, she belts out a screech as loud as a siren. Then she runs from the kitchen into the living room as if she's on fire. She claws the carpet or a piece of furniture, until Paul yells, "Hey!" and runs back to the kitchen, claws the window again, runs back into the living room, and zooms up the stairs two steps at a time.

Then, from the bedroom window:

"Meow! Meow! MEOW!!!"

And then she cries and cries and cries and cries...

Until she gets tired. She comes partway down the steps.

And then -- THE EVIL STARE.

And she just sits there and stares, with total resentment, as if all of her misery is ALL MY FAULT.

I plead, "Kitty, I love you. Please don't look at me that way."

I go to the steps to pet her. For a moment she forgets her anger and rubs her lips against me. But the second I rub her the wrong way, no pun intended, she cries, "Meow-meow!" and she runs down the stairs and dashes into the kitchen again.

Once she tires of the histrionics, she crawls ever-so-slowly toward Paul, who is sitting on the couch. She lifts one paw and moves it toward his belly at a snail's pace. He is usually reading or using the laptop and he'll say, "Don't even think about it Kitty," and he'll knock her away.

"I would never push you away!" I say to Kitty, but she doesn't listen. She only has eyes for Paul.

And so she tries to climb aboard again. He relents. She crawls onto his belly and does "The Paws". She kneads his belly like dough, until she begins to distend her claws. Paul can only tolerate that for so long.

But he usually tolerates it long enough to make her calm. And once she's calm, Kitty retires to the floor.

That's where she is right now. As I type this, she's licking her vagina. The sounds of lapping are very loud. She's finally calm. Let's hope she's stays that way.

The Italian Market

2006-02-19T18:34:00.000-05:00

This series contains a mix of sepia-toned images, images of produce, images of raw meat, images of dead animals hanging in storefronts, images of workers and shoppers.

Yesterday afternoon I spent about an hour taking pictures at the Italian Market in Philadelphia. Earlier that day Paul and I met our friends Beth and Drew for breakfast (Beth is a fellow writer), and we'd had an inspiring discussion about art and creativtiy. Hence I became motivated to go forth and take fantastic pictures! What I hadn't accounted for was the freezing weather. By the end of my journey my feet and fingers felt like blocks of ice. I was chilled to the bone for the rest of the night.

I discovered how difficult it is to take pictures of people. I wish there was such thing as an invisible cloak, like in Harry Potter, so I could get right up in people's faces without them knowing. So many people have such interesting faces, and make such interesting expressions, but of course, as we all know, nobody likes to have their picture taken.

I was yelled at by a man pushing a shopping cart that advertised his business -- grocery delivery and the sale of shopping bags -- for taking his picture.

"I'm sick and tired of people taking my picture!" His face was very dirty and his eyes seemed unstable. It was then I realized he was probably homeless.

"I just took a picture of your cart," I said.

"I don't want nobody taking pictures of my cart! I'm sick of it! Go on! Get lost!"

My courage significantly diminished after that. I took some hasty shots of a wig store, a few murals, some belts on a rack, but most of them came out blurry. I was ready to call it a day.

But then, at a produce stand, the man working it motioned to me and pointed at himself, "Hey... right here. Right here!" He sang and smiled and danced a little for the camera. I took at few shots and thanked him.

Soon after I slipped unnoticed into "Irv's Plus Sizes", and stalked an old woman sifting through racks of dusty, used clothes. Eventually the owners, husband and wife, spotted me and said, "Why on earth would you want to take pictures in here?" (You can actually see the owner spotting me in the old woman photo.)

"Oh well, it's a cool place," I said. I couldn't articulate why a dingy warehouse filled with used plus sized clothes was cool. They certainly couldn't fathom it.

We chatted for awhile. They told tales of an old Italian man who, when alive, owned the market across the street. They said tourists often took his picture because of his unique face and boisterous personality. He had been in his late nineties, and had run the business up until the day he died. He wore a greased handlebar moustache, and had an extremely wrinky face. Apparently he had been a ladies man, so his wife would often beat the crap out of him, and subsequently, his face was often covered with cuts and bruises. But still, he was happy and talkative, and was rumored to be a magnificent dancer.

It's probably unoriginal to take pictures of the Italian Market. On the other hand, it is one of the more authentic and diverse regions in town. I'm glad I've documented it at least for my own purposes.

Before I headed home, I stopped to warm my hands over a burning trash can. (The name for these things escapes me.) There I spoke with a group of young boys from the neighborhood. They were also trying to keep warm. We had nice conversation. They laughed when I showed them the pictures I'd taken of them in the view finder.

Walking home, I felt good about myself, even though I was freezing my ass off, and even though I believe the cold weather compromised the quality of my photographs.

I felt good because I realized that I have a knack for talking to people and for putting them at ease, and that if I want to take really good portraits, then I should exploit this ability. That sounds awful when I put it that way, but if getting close to people is what makes exceptional pictures, then I must do it. And there's nothing wrong with making the experinece as comfortable as possible for my subjects (assuming they're willing).

I Have OSI (Ocassional Social Ineptitude)

2006-02-15T15:29:00.000-05:00

In honor of Valentine's Day: I posted this collage to PhillyWriters and someone said it looked like 100 old man penises. Should I take that as a compliment?

Last night, for the first time in the history of our 8-year-long relationship, Paul and I went out for sushi to celebrate Valentine’s Day. This is not as monumental as it sounds because we often go out for sushi, and we go out to dinner even more often, and it’s not as if he bought me flowers or candy or jewelry, and it's not like I wanted anything like that, but nevertheless V-Day was the excuse, and so we went.

You might think this might warrant me being extra-special nice to him, right? Wrong. You see, I live in “Opposite Land”, because every time Paul does something nice for me, I tend to get real grouchy and bitchy and I yell at him about stupid things.

For example: The restaurant was near his lab, so I parked the car, called him, and told him I’d wait for him on the corner. I waited, I waited some more, I called him again, the line was busy, I waited some more.

I called again and when I finally got through, I say, “What the fuck are you doing?”***

“Calm down,” he says. “I’ll be right out.”

“I’m freezing my ass off! And I’m starving!”

He arrived 2 minutes later, smiling. He kissed my cheek and started talking about something, but I wasn’t listening because all I could think about was how he ALWAYS makes me wait, and why does he ALWAYS make me wait on days there is heavy traffic, on cold days, on days when I’M HUNGRY!?!?

As soon as I sat down I had some Miso soup and I felt much better.

I was feeling decent until a male voice caught my attention. I recognized the voice. There was something familiar about its lilting, confident, “aren’t I the wittiest cat in town?” style. I looked around and spotted a college intern I worked with 2 or more years ago – an annoying, narcissistic, intelligent (but not that intelligent) guy I often had lunch with, and often had philosophical debates with. I once told him he was a fucking asshole, and I meant it sincerely. I apologized afterwards, and we made up. I was sincere about my apology, too.

Often I don’t mind running into old chums, but it really depends on my mood. And when my mood is bad (or fragile, like it was last night) I can’t imagine anything WORSE than running into someone from my past.

I just really hate the process of channeling the friendly, surface-y part of yourself, the part you use to muster a tone that’s often too loud and too forced.

“Hey! It’s great to see you! How have you been? Are you still doing, um… what is it you do now?”

Oh shit oh shit, what should I say, what should I say? Be funny, dammit! BE FUNNY!

Fortunately, this guy had grown a beard since I’d last seen him. Plus, he was wearing a chauffeur’s hat and dark-rimmed glasses – also new additions. I figured I could just pretend I didn’t recognize him. I continued eating and complaining about my day to Paul.

Once the bill came, I decided to leave the restaurant through the side door, which was further away from my former colleague than the main door. This way, I wouldn’t have to walk past him. I bee-lined to the door, but as I tried to open it, I discovered it was locked.

Shit, now I have to walk by him.

So I did, and continued pretending I didn’t know him.

After Paul paid the bill, he met me outside and we headed down the block toward our car. We were about 100 yards away from the restaurant when I heard a whistle. I turned around to see someone waving at me. A couple was walking in between us and the person waving, so I just assumed he was waving at them. But the couple didn’t respond, and the waver kept waving.

I said to Paul, “Oh shit, it’s Aaron.”

“Better go say hi, then.”

As I approached him I pretended to be confused. I squinted, trying to craft a face of incomprehension, trying to pretend I had trouble seeing.

We grew closer, and he took off his hat and glasses. Once he did that, I said, “Ah! Hey! I didn’t recognize you! You grew a beard!”

“Yes, yes I did,” he said. “I saw you inside the restaurant but I didn’t want to disturb your dinner.”

“Oh… okay… You remember Paul, right?” I said.

“Yes, yes.” They shook hands.

“Hi, I’m Karin,” I said to his female companion. I don’t remember what she said.

“Ah yes… introductions,” Aaron said. “Are you still working at First Data?”

“No,” I said. “I’m… uh…” For some reason I didn’t know what to say next.

“How’s your creative writing career coming along?”

“Ah… well, I don’t know how the career is coming… uh… but the hobby… I still…”

“Right-o! Fantastic! Keep the fire burning!”

“Ha, ha, ha. Yes, right.”

“All right then.” He and his lady friend turned away.

“Oh, uh, where are you going?”

“Caffeine.” He points in the direction of the nearby coffee shop.

“Oh, you go to um… that place, too?” I couldn’t remember the name of the place.

He nodded and they just took off. Just like that.

As Paul and I headed back to our car he said, “Wow, that was one of the most awkward interactions I think we’ve ever had.”

“Do you think he knew I was trying to avoid him?”

“Probably,” he said. “It was pretty obvious.”

I am such a loser.

*** It turns out Paul was on the phone with Michael, a.k.a Mr. Saturday Night, having "guy talk".

A Beautiful Day

2006-02-13T20:56:00.000-05:00

I Am A Happy Lady

2006-02-12T20:57:00.000-05:00

"I like your duck," I said to the little girl who helped build this. "That's a penguin," she said. Oh. Right.

Upon re-reading my last post -- my Top Ten Formative Life Events -- I realized how my perception of my past is heavily skewed toward the negative. God, all those tales of doing housework makes me sound like Cinderella.

I have a lot of happy memories... I just can't remember them very easily. :-)

This has always been a problem of mine -- to microfocus on the negative and discount the positive. If I achieve something, I assume the task was easy. If someone is nice to me, I assume they're either ignorant or they want something from me.

I am trying to change, however.

Despite this, I am generally a very lighthearted person. I love people. I love life.

How could I not love life when I live with these guys?

Feeling Cranky, Latent OCD, and Dumping My Therapist

2006-01-28T23:52:00.000-05:00

This was taken moments after coming *this close* to sitting in someone else's wet fart.

For the past few weeks I've been in a really shitty mood. I'm not really sure why. My moods seem to ebb and flow like tides, and for much too long now the shore has been been barren and littered with seaweed and broken seashells. Or whatever. I'm too tired to come up with a more clever description.

Through the wonders of talk therapy, these cycles have become easier to anticipate, and I'm better able to ride them out than I was before. They aren't necessarily easier to tolerate, but at least now I realize I'm the cause of the problem -- not those around me. And oh yeah, Lexapro helps a lot.

Anyway -- last night Paul and I went to dinner with Michael and Yuriy. Michael was talking about his Psychotherapy course -- specifically, how therapists tailor their approach based on the personalities of the patients. Only 5 or so methods are used. This makes sense. Generally speaking, there are a finite number of personality types, so I'm not surprised therapists consult a manual to help them handle the neurotic ones.

Plus, I've suspected for some time that my therapist has been manipulating me. I won't get into all the details -- that's confidential! -- but once I realized this I decided to play along a little bit just to see what would happen.

For example: A few months ago, when the last downturn hit, I told her how writing seemed to be the only thing that made me feel good. I told her how I found writing to be a real blessing, that it had given my life a new sense of purpose, blah, blah, blah. She would smile and say how proud she was of me, how it pleased her to see me light up when I talked about my work, blah, blah, blah.

She also said she would LOVE to read something I'd written. I felt a little shy about it and said, "When I feel ready." And she said, "Of course, of course."

A few months passed. In the meantime I'd written something I considered particulary representative of the inner workings of my psyche. I was feeling good about my mental state, so I figured, "What the hell? I'll give her this one."

(Secretly, too, I was thinking, "I don't know if my story is any good. But if someone I consider smart who doesn't give a shit about literature is impressed by it, then it has passed a litmus test of sorts." So, my motivations weren't completely earnest.)

At the end of my next session, I pulled the manuscript from my bag and handed it to her. "I brought a story for you," I said, feeling a little timid.

Her face fell. She shifted in her chair. She stammered, "Oh, uh... that's great, but... I'm not sure when I'll get a chance to read it... I'm very busy this month..."

"Don't worry," I interrupted. "I know it's hard to find time. Whenever you get a chance. Really, it's no problem."

Needless to say, several months have passed with no word on the matter.

Now, I know it can be a burden for non-writers to read the work of aspiring writers. I know most people hardly read as it is, and if they do manage to turn the television off for a little while they'll likely pick up a REAL story -- one that has been PUBLISHED.

What I REALLY object to is her duplicity. She pretended to be interested in my work. She used a sympathetic, motherly, interested persona to help fuel my self-esteem, but when we got down to it, it was obvious she wasn't REALLY interested. She was just doing her job.

This isn't the only reason I dumped her. Mostly, I'm just tired of therapy. I'm tired of TALKING about my problems without doing much to actually solve them. The sound of my voice was really beginning to bug me.

All of that was preamble to the HORRIBLE THING THAT HAPPENED last night in the restaurant's bathroom.

I had just finished telling this story to Michael -- among other things -- and I had to go to the bathroom. Like I said earlier, I've been feeling pretty shitty in general, so I was kind of distracted.

After I wandered into the bathroom, I did something I don't normally do: I sat on the public toilet. I didn't think this was a big deal, until I looked between my legs at the rim of the bowl.

There was a big blob of wet fart shit right there. Right between my legs.

(This is where the latent OCD kicks in.)

I ran out of the bathroom and told everyone that we needed to leave RIGHT NOW. We went back to our place, and the whole ride home I was hyper-conscious of every last atom of dirt on my person and on the surfaces around me.

The guys were laughing at me, and all I could say was, "I'm very upset."

We got back to our place, and while the guys hung out downstairs and I took a scalding hot shower and scrubbed my butt until my skin felt like it was going to fall off.

I felt much better, but for the rest of the night I couldn't help worrying whether I was going to catch genital warts or crabs or cancer of the butt or something gross.

On the other hand, I've heard that keyboards are dirtier than toilet seats so who knows?

Cockfights

2006-01-27T16:44:00.000-05:00

That guy is kinda hot, no? Too bad he isn't real.

I just got back from a meeting with my boss, and two of my co-workers. All of them are men.

I am so glad I'm not a man.

Today Zeldafitz posted about some of the bad traits women exhibit from time to time: vindictiveness, caddiness, jealously, etc. After this meeting, however, I realized that men, too, exhibit these characteristics -- they just go about it much differently.

Testosterone is the key differential, obviously. When women are trying to one-up each other, they go about it more passively -- they sneak behind each other's backs, slowly and gradually spread gossip, drop malicious hints here and there, sabotage ever-so-sweetly.

But with men, it's as if you can see the feathers rising, the spittle forming on their lips, their chests puffing out. "You're stealing my thunder, goddammit!"

In the office, I could care less if someone steps on my toes. I suppose it's because I don't feel emotionally connected to my work. I can spend days on something, and if my boss says, "I don't like this little piece, please change it to this," I don't really care, even if I think he's wrong. I know he's just telling me what to do because he wants to feel important. Even if what I present is fine the way it is he won't acknowledge it, because after all, it's his job to figure out what I've done wrong. And if he doesn't find anything wrong with what I've done, then how can he prove to his superiors that he's performing his job function satisfactorily? So when I come back from the drawing board with his changes, he can say to his boss, "See that little piece there? That was my idea."

Thank god for writing. I'm grateful to have found something I can pour my heart and soul into. I'm grateful my day job isn't the only thing that fulfills me in my life. (Now the trick is to leave my ego aside when people critique my writing.)

Some of the people with whom I work have been with our company for 25 years. It's obvious they consider the job is an extension of their identity, which is why they become so protective over the smallest things.

"I think these files should be stored in the XYZ database."

"No, no! That makes absolutely no logical sense! They should be in the ABC database."

"But the ABC database will likely be replaced within the year."

"We don't know that for sure!"

This is not worth explaining -- just know that XYZ is maintained by one person, and ABC is maintained by another. I will be the person writing the program that extracts data from one of these databases. Do I care where the data is stored? Hell no.

Databases store data, not gold.

Oh, hell. Who cares?

That's how I feel during most work-related arguments -- "Who cares?"

On the other hand, I'm sure my fellow techies would attend a writing workshop, hear the discussions, and think, "Who cares?"

However, I don't think the difference between the disciplines a matter of apples and oranges. I do think office and technical debates are petty. At the end of the day, the main goal is to get a system up-and-running efficiently. It is an objective task. When you're debating over two possible solutions that are more or less identical -- the only difference being that one person came up with one solution, and that another came up with another solution -- then the argument isn't worth having, in my opinion. Let a manager pick one of the solutions, and shut up.

But with writing, a subjective discipline, the possibilities are endless, as are the interpretations.

Which is a problem I have with the discipline -- because I do think there is an objective standard when it comes to writing. It's just much harder to discover. It's buried beneath so many layers. I suppose that's the point of workshop discussions and blog discussions -- we're trying our best to uncover the fundamental logic behind the arguments and themes and character motivations and whatever else.

Yawn. I totally have to pee right now. I'm only writing this to kill time before the work day lets out.

I really bore myself sometimes.

Lumpy Trees and Police

2006-01-25T20:47:00.000-05:00

Today, during lunch, I was out hiking, minding my own business, taking pictures like the ones above, and then... I was approached by police!

"What are you doing? Taking pictures of graffiti?" the policeman asked.

"Yeah," I said.

"What -- do you have some kind of project or something?"

"No."

"You're just taking pictures of graffiti?"

"Yes."

"You know it's my job to make sure no one is up to any kind of nonsense."

"Yeah?"

"You wouldn't be up to any kind of nonsense, would you?"

Now, I should have said, "Do I look like someone who would spray-paint abandoned buildings?"

On the other hand, I don't always look exactly cheerful. Especially by that point -- I was freezing.

I suppose he was just doing his job. It just seems dumb that he would even bother interrogating me. I mean, I was at a park, walking on a walking path.

I don't know why the situation annoyed me so much, but it did.

Workday Blues

2006-01-24T17:43:00.000-05:00

“No, no, no, Lisa. If adults don't like their jobs, they don't go on strike. They just go in every day and do it really half-assed. That's the American Way.”
-- Homer Simpson

Why is it that I am the only one who seems to find the day-in day-out grind of office work utterly monotonous? Why is that I appear to be the only one in meetings studying other people’s facial expressions, doodling in my notepad, dreaming about sex, food, and the outdoors? Sometimes someone will be saying something that seems so confusing, so mundane, that I can’t follow one word to the next. And then, to my complete surprise, someone else will respond with an equal degree of unclearness and mundanity and I’ll think, “She actually followed all that? Why wasn’t she thinking about kittens? Why wasn’t she wondering what the temperature outside is like?”

Sometimes I think I’m on the verge of being laid off – when I’ve arrived 20 minutes late to several meetings in a row, when I’ve arrived wearing sneakers and worn-out pants after being told not to, when I’ve neglected to complete my technical training modules on time, when my teammates hold meetings and I’m not invited. But then, I receive good marks on my annual review, and my boss says, “Let’s wrap up that little project [which has taken much, much longer than it should have] because we’re going to be real busy soon.”

Then I think, “Everyone feels the same way I do.” Work is not about passion, silly girl! No! It’s about the burden of having to pay the bills. It’s about doing as little as you can and being paid as much possible.

It would be less productive for the company to fire me than it would be to hire someone new. My absence would add a new element of stress to the people left behind – my managers, my co-workers – and they don’t want to deal with that. So they look the other way when I stroll in an hour late, when I take 2 hour lunches, when I fall asleep on the keyboard – when I write.

Someday I plan to fulfill my dream of becoming a housewife. I’m cultivating a blue beehive as I type this. Until then, I’ll just keep grinding along, popping pills and drinking into oblivion.

Crazy Cat Ladies

2006-01-21T18:35:00.000-05:00

Please contact me if you're looking for a full-time illustrator. I'm just oozing with talent, aren't I?

Our new neighbors let their cat out the front door, and leave it out all hours of the day and night -- rain, wind, snow, or shine. Whenever Paul and I leave the house, this little kitty comes running up to us, mewing and begging for food and for petting. There's nothing I can do about it -- in the past I've knocked on the owner's door, but no one ever answers.

Sometimes I think I should bring him inside, but I know I can't. I can't have more than three cats. Three is already borderline wacky.

My other neighbor, with whom I'm friendly, has an unknown amount of cats in her house. She refuses to divulge the amount because it is somewhere over 20. I don't know what the legal amount is, but I do know she's surpassed it. She knows I won't tell anyone -- after all, I've been inside her house and have met most of the little ones. One of them is missing an eye. I told her someday I'd make her a little eyepatch.

This morning, after chatting with her I felt inspired to draw this picture of her and her babies in her backyard. The urge to do this was inspired by the painting on Aimee's wall, of her cat Gretel, which was created by her friend Jodie.

I feel so lucky to be surrounded by such talented artists!

Franco & Luigi's

2006-01-17T20:13:00.000-05:00

Yuriy the Mysterious
Originally uploaded by kagogo.

This past Friday night, a group of us went to Franco & Luigi's, an Italian restaurant in South Philly whose defining characteristic is that the waitstaff happens to sing opera and show tunes.

As usual, Michael, a.k.a. Mr. Saturday night, in all of his glory, stole the show. I believe it was 'Tonight' from West Side Story that moved him to stand up and sing along. Franco, the owner, waved him over to the microphone to join in.

Michael, oh my dear Michael, always a crowd pleaser. Yes, indeed.

Drunkards and Balkan Food

2006-01-10T11:33:00.000-05:00

Belligerence

I've posted the pictures from my latest outing to my Flickr! site.

And yes, I've decided to post even especially unflattering pictures of myself for the sake of humor.

The pictures appear in reverse chronological order, so we become more sober as you move through the site.

I Heart Fucked-Up Men

2006-01-09T17:11:00.000-05:00

Is there anything more sexy than a silent, broken man? A man who uses emotional distance as a means to conceal the deep angst brimming within? Sure, sure, maybe once in awhile he punches out two biker dudes in your honor. Maybe once in awhile he smiles at you a little after forcing you to have anal sex. Maybe. To me, that's hot. It's why I fell so hard for Heath Ledger in Brokeback Mountain.

I'm kidding! I loved this movie wholeheartedly, and was so moved I posted a "review" of the movie on PhillyWriters.net. I wrote it quickly, so it's kind of rough, but I think it gets across most of what I felt.

~

An aside: Before the movie began, two elderly women were trying to find seats. The movie was packed, and the previews had just started. One of the women was covered in makeup and hairspray; the other was on crutches. They were headed for the seats between Paul and me and another group. While they were settling in, the two women were making such a loud fuss, the man sitting in front of me turned and said, "STOP TALKING," with such venomous hatred. I'd never before heard anyone hush someone so succinctly. He achieved his desired effect, and I was certainly grateful.

Gorging Oneself, My Bipolar Relationship with Food

2006-01-07T16:13:00.001-05:00

Michael and me, at the Indian buffet. Just because it's vegetarian, doesn't mean I can't overdo it.

I don't know when it happened. I might have started when I quit exercising cold turkey about two years ago. When I was young, I was a competitive swimmer. I swam ALL THE TIME. Then I went to college, and for almost two years, I swam ALL THE TIME. Why I quit is a different story.

One of the side-effects of my constant exercising was an enormous appetite. After practice, I would go to the dining hall and eat two servings of pasta, a large salad smothered in Ranch dressing, french fries, and two pieces of chocolate cake. It didn't matter because I'd burn it all off the next day in the pool.

But that's not the case anymore. I woke up one day and decided that cuddling on the couch with my kitties is far more favorable than huffing and puffing on a treadmill. Yes, my lack of muscle strength is beginning to take it's toll, and yes, now I huff and puff climbing stairs, which is pathetic. But despite this, for a long time, I kept eating at the rate I'd always had.

This worked for a little while. But this past year, due to increased socializing, I've integrated a lot more alcohol into my diet. I don't have a "problem" -- isn't that what everyone says? -- but the restaurant-prepared food accompanied with an alcoholic drink or two (or three) has proven a little problematic for my waistline.

So, my resolution for 2006 is to cook more, and to eat better. I've dabbled with vegeterianism, and it's worked out well, though I know it's not something I can be militant about. Dinners with families and friends often results in some meat-eating. I don't want to be rude.

So, I got this awesome cookbook, whose name escapes me right now. Actually, the format of the book is really good -- the recipe sections are interspersed with articles about health, vitamins, the nutrients in certain foods, holistic approaches to curing common diseases, insights into the diets of Eastern countries. The main point of the book is that "healthy" does not mean "boring". She introduces many spice combinations, and shows how to bring out the natural flavors in grains and vegetables. There is also a section on "fake meat" recipes, which is cool, because the book is not exclusively vegetarian.

Anyway. How boring. Talking about food. Almost as boring as talking about cats.