Sitting with my guitar in my hands, messing around with the first few bars of Motorcycle Drive By. But let's not kid ourselves, I'd need to dedicate quite a bit of time to it. And I think I will. It's worth it.

Through the speakers, it gets past the part I can play, so I put the guitar down and reach down to pet my dog. He's been coming upstairs again for a bit now- he stopped for a few months, we think because he must've fell. I'm proud of him, in whatever sense I can be of my dog.

And as I'm sitting, petting him, "and I don't know what I'm doing in the city" comes on. And my mind does that crazy flicker thing. Where it takes a random thread and just runs with it, until the spools run out. This one makes me think of New York and the bizarre tinge that I don't *want* to go there unless... well... you understand.

I'm mixing up words a bit occasionally here. I'm writing a lot more now, on a psuedo-professional basis. So maybe I can just cut loose a bit? I've made about a dozen weird errors tonight at least, either in IM or otherwise. I'm not going to correct any problems I see here, if I can help myself.

Sometimes, there's the most beauty in our failings.

Sometimes people understand you better when you fail than when you succeed. Everyone has specatcular (sic) failures they can relate to. Everyone has burned our (sic) or lost love or hurt something or lost a chance or failed a test or doubted themselves and maybe it just makes us feel better about it when we see someone else stumble that way. Can we really be empathetic *and* selfless? Give me a break. We're only human.

And so now I'm thinking of this image, of all of us back up on that silver screen I talked about before. And with that grand motion of brilliant cinemetography, the camera swings to catch my face, moving up from where it was observing my interaction cisco. And it rockets upward, but pans down so you see an aerial shot of me in my room, petting cisco, from a height too high for this room. And you see him driving, and you see her sleeping with a phone in the oddest place, and you see him awake still and packing and you see her sleeping as well, but only just now having fallen asleep, lying sideways with her eyes just open enough to be pondering this and that and why it's like this in the first place, and then you see him, on the couch and sleeping soundly and you see her, too, but you can't make out her face. And just for an instant, with the screen split however many ways this time, that many pairs of eyes open just slightly enough, and you catch the most momentary glimpse of each of their thoughts.

How brilliant if only we could see how well we linked like this. If we could just take a look at each other, a look at ourselves from each other's eyes. If we could be notified when someone else thought of us a certain way- I know with some people, it'd just be a dull buzzing, so frequent is it.

And so that's what comes of the scene. Just the dullest buzzing and the closing of eyes, and slumber, because that's where we can all be detached and irresponsible but also safe and brilliant and successful and truly happy.

How many of your mornings have been ruined by the fondest of memories, seeping into your dreams?

"I want to be an explorer!"
"Well, that's just silly. There's nothing left to explore, you see."
"Untrue. For I'm for exploring different viewpoints, different colors and different angles. We can never completely capture everything, every scent, and every perception of everything. The best thing we can do is die trying, so die I must. But not now. That will come much later."

I want to catalog people's smiles and frowns. I want to list them in bizarre terms with inappropriate adjectives that lend themselves more towards pieces of art than anything else. And so when there's a smiling face, a nice Italian woman, with the caption "Completely discontent, truly broken" what will they think but "this is brilliant, this is genius, pure. We must throw him money."

And so that's how I'll make my wealth. By calling colors names they're not. But I'm no sell out, no. Yeah? I know seafoam green from chartreuse just the same as anyone, but do you know your crimson as your indigo? How evocative are *we*, we have so many names for these things, simply because we can experience them in so many millions of ways. And so that's what I'll explore, even if I'm the only one it's a discovery to.

And maybe, one day I'll make it back to New York. And maybe one day, you'll invent a color and join me. Because you know I'll call it by its new name and you'll laugh every time.

Happy Valentine's Day

If I breathe in for two seconds as I'm lifting weights, I can breathe out for four seconds as I'm letting them down.

There needs to be at least one beat between sticking my ID card in the slot and drawing it out if the door will open.

Walking from my room to Cobb Hall third floor takes five minutes without snow, eight minutes with, nine minutes if I forget not to cut across grass after a rain.

Calling less than two days after a first date sounds desperate.

NPR cycles through a maximum of two news bulletins before my second alarm goes off.

I have three seconds after my purchase at the bookstore to gather my change and move out of the way before cashiers and customers start giving off a buzz of impatience.

It takes the CTA ten minutes to arrive at the red line bus stop when I need to get back on campus during the day, twenty minutes when I need to get back at night, and fourty-five minutes when I need to get back at night and the windchill over a freeway bridge is less than twenty degrees fahrenheit. In the lattermost case, two busses will arrive at the same time.

After pressing the 'connect' button, the wireless hub needs to stop flashing before I can begin to use my mouse.

After one second, it is impolite to maintain eye contact in public.

It would take me 4.5 days to listen to all of my music. It would take 1.2 days to listen to all of my worthwhile music.

An untreated cold goes on for seven days. A treated cold lasts a week.

Anything that can go wrong, will.

Please start speaking at the sound of the tone.

Good things come to those who wait.

Sitting still is a sitting duck.

There's a path near a river in my hometown. Around a foot wide at most, cutting across a sharp slope, it was a frequently used byway when I was a child. Through the neighbours' back yard, across their street, and just around a low-lying wall and handrail preventing people from falling into over the edge into the valley. We'd descend, one hand on the wall to steady us. Stinger nettles occasionally brushed bare legs; other times we'd slip, shorts and sneakers dirt-smeared. Navigating under bridges, across rocks in the river, we avoided sidewalks and blacktop and driveways and town squares and anywhere stamped with that distinctly human "for us by us" structure and logic.

I thought of that path two or three days ago for the first time in maybe 10, maybe 12 years. It came to me for no reason as I stood in the shower washing my hair and listening to the radio. Just the opening of the path, the tree to the left, the colour of the wall, the sensation of setting out upon it first foot first. Not only that: the sensation of then. All at once. Strong, real. More complex and rich than memories I've had of a million other things. This little tiny path that I used to walk. The sensation of there, then. Not here, now. I can't even write what that means. How are you supposed to write life? How are you supposed to write time? What words could do that justice? If I could write a poem about it, what reader wouldn't see a path of his own?

It faded as quickly as it had come back to me. Standing there motionless, ridiculous with shampoo-spiked hair, I considered going back and walking that path on a lark the next time I end up at home. The thought of doing that filled me with a sorrow I could barely fight off. Even now, I'm saddened remembering that remembering and feeling this forgetting. It was replaced by a question: if I could make a three-dimensional map of my world, what would it look like? What areas would be illuminated, what ones covered in shade? How would its shape have changed in the last ten years? Could a path the width of my forearm ever dwarf a highway? What else have I forgotten? I need to know before I forget the need itself. You never know what's lost until you remember a detail that didn't matter when it was yours.

If I could condense the sound of every motion I'll ever make, every word I'll ever speak, ever cry I'll ever utter, into five minutes and hear it, what would it sound like? Not as a song from beginning to end, but a loop of everything at once. Sometimes I think of life itself, life with other people, in terms of sound, music, harmony, dissonance, and most importantly resonance. Would that sound be the singing of the spheres brought down to earth? Would it be beautiful or ugly? Could it be both at once? I feel like it would scorch me and stop my heart. At least that's what I hope.

Orders of business:

I feel different now.

Tyler Evans
, Grade 3, Mrs. Baker's Class, Shady Grove Elementary
Vichizzle McNizzle, Pimp Daddy

Valentine's Day

Vichizzle: Ah-right, muthafuckas, time to lay out dis Valentine's shit out fo ya post haste! Firstlies, V-Day is a buncha fuckin bull shit, y'all. Sho it started out like a long time ago and stuff wit dat Saint Valentine cat who defied The Man and married Roman soldiers when he wudn't sposed to and they fuckin clubbed and stoned his saintly ass to death. But before they kilt him, he fell in love with a jailer or something, so then after that February 14th became a day to celebrate love in that dumbass's honor. Then some pedophile or sumthin come along and said this flying nekkid baby should be V-Day's character, along with fuckin Santa Claus and the goddamn Eastuh Bunny. The story of the nekkid baby, or Cupid (which ironicallies rhymes with "stoopid") is that he some dude axchully named Eros, the Roman god of love and he fuckin busts arrows in people's asses and then they fall in love. Come on, what the fuck? A nekkid baby shootin people in the cornhole and then they falls in love? Tell you what, anybody shoot Vichizzle in the derriere the only love he see is my love to shoot dumb muthafuckas with my glock! Werd!

But the real reason V-Day be bull shit these days is it's another one of those fuckin holi-daze, like yo fuckin Momma's Day an Daddy's Day and yo goddamn Sexertary's Day, which is only out thur cuz of the fuckin greeting card companies like Hallmark wantin' to make a lotta jack! Fuck Hallmark and they millionz! Hur's whatchoo do fo fuckin Valentine's Day. Don't buy no cards or chocolates or any utha of that shit fo yo ho, whatchoo gotta do is fuck her good. Dat's right. An you ladies, what you get yo man is let him fuck you good. Dat's right. Vichizz know all 'bout it, I fucked many-a-lady good. First of all, break out yo finest weed. Get out yo best bongs, and if you gots a bettah of the two, give her da best one. Make her feel 'preciated, knowhaddi'msayin? Then ya gots to set the 'tude fo the mood, get out yo romantical -- i.e. fuckin -- music (that phat cat Barry White, now he the shit fo this) Then when you both high as the fuckin space station, after listenin to yo fuckin moo-zack fo a while, she be puddy in yo hands, so get her to yo bed, get dat bitch's clothes off, and get bizzzzay, muthafuckas! Tap dat bitch's ass, frontwards, backwards, up da ass, in the grass, and evurwhere inbuttween! Dependin on what she want, fuck her hard, fuck her slow, fuck her in any ho, fuck her smooth, all night looong if ya can last! Give her the best fuckin Valentine's Day present thur izz!

Tyler: Valentine's Day is a day where you give cards to people, called Valentines and candy and you do yucky stuff like kiss them. But most important, you wish them a happy Valentine's Day. At school, every Valentine's Day we have a party where everybody gives everybody else in class a Valentine. If you're a boy, you even have to give other boys Valentines. That makes my daddy mad. He says I shouldn't have to give Valentines to boys. He says only faggots give Valentines to boys and that the school had a homersextual agender. Well basically he means that the gays are taking over the schools and trying to teach everybody that being a fag is OK.

But anyway, besides giving Valentines to boys, Valentine's Day is fun. I like giving the best ones to the prettiest girls. I give the stupid ones to ugly girls or boys, like the ones that say "I choo-choo-choose you!" and it's got a picture of a train. I like trains, but it's a stupid thing to put on a Valentine. It's hard to pick out which ones say you don't like people without them actually saying you don't like them. It takes a lot of time and I am usually up past bedtime on nights before Valentine's parties because of it. That part I don't like cuz I'm tired the next morning.

Another thing you can do at my school if you have a few dollars is to send candy grams. I got one once from Sally Parker. She's pretty but bothers me. I got one this year already from Bobby Miller even though I told him my dad said we can't be friends anymore. Maybe my dad was right, maybe he is a fag. I miss being his friend, though.

Sometimes Valetine's Day is sad.

Vichizzle: Oh shit. Uhh, listen, if you see my girl, make sho you tell hur dat I, uh, went to get the chocolates, but, like, uh, the sto, they wuz outta 'em, ya dig? And they wuz outta flowahs, too. And don't mentions dat I say Valentine's was bull shit or none o dat. Oh, here she come, uh, Tell her you ain't seen me...!

Tyler: I miss Bobby.

11/24/04 == 12/20/04 == 12/21/04 == 12/30/04 == 01/31/05 == 02/10/05 == 02/14/05 == 05/18/05 == 07/25/05 == 09/01/05 == 10/24/05 == 12/22/05 == 07/20/06 == 10/31/06 == 02/07/07 == 07/13/07 == 12/18/07 == 9/17/08

Since the last time I wrote in a daylog, things have stabilized and progressed. Very little has deterioration, limited to a single class. Plans have been developed and a path or two singled out. I'm progressing, or at least that is how it feels. Mentally, I've been better, but that was a long time ago, when I was still naive. The world means something now and I feel like I can finally take it on. No, I'm no financially independent adult now, but I see my responsibilities and feel prepared to plan for the future.


I failed my math class, 3% below passing threshold. It will be tackled again next quarter. My Physics class isn't looking too much better. This time, rather than having problems with understanding, it is that I am not quick enough on the tests. Rather oddly, I managed a B+ on my Microeconomics exam. The professor and that class rock: Legible handwriting, respectable and respecting, a very clear voice, and a linear curriculum.

My major has pretty much been decided as Comp Sci, but I will be taking a few classes in it before declaring (which is required to declare, anyways). If I don't like Comp Sci, I may transfer over to University Of Washington and go into their Geophysics/Seismology program. I am definitely minoring in Japanese and am also considering minoring in German. Did I mention I love learning languages? I want to be a polyglot. I hope to spend the summer of '06 in the KCP International program located in Tokyo. Next year I am going to do the 200 series of Japanese and then take equivalent credits for probably 301 and 302 in the KCP program.


I've begun on the path to, 'normalcy,' physically: Basically taking into account info from The Hacker's Diet, a dietician's suggestions and what my stomach tells me. Gearing up the whole gym bit and decided on a standard to meet: Navy Basic Training entry standards by the end of this quarter - 14:00 minute mile and a half, 45 pushups in two minutes and 30 situps in the same time, or something to that effect. End of next quarter will be Basic Training exit standards - 12:15 minute mile and a half, 60 pushups and 45 situps, or something to that effect. (I haven't been able to get ahold of my friend's dad, who was until recently a Navy recruiter, so it's all in confusion for now.) I've got at least one person who I can convince to come with me all the time, so it's much easier.


Relationships have stabilised, thankfully. The semi-family social structure is all good and well with a few exceptions. This morning was really sad, but it pointed something out to me. The Japanese transfer students from AUAP all had to leave, which left many in tears. I was blown away while standing by the bus waiting for everything to be loaded. Marika, who lived a floor above me, came over to me and hugged me, trying to hold back the tears and failing. She reminisced about the morning or two I'd cooked an all-call breakfast and invited her, Yukari and Mie and cooked for them. Maybe if I go to Japan in the summer after this one, like I hope, we'll have to meet up and I'll have to cook a storm up.

I realized something, as I said: Life is short and our time together is even shorter. I have to act. I don't care if it's as small as hanging out. I don't care if it's as big as drinking myself to the floor, I'm going to start taking advantage of opportunities. The trio of Japanese women were all beautiful and incredibly nice people. I should've spent more time with them. There's a new batch of Japanese students coming in in a week or so. I've got classes and such to take care of, but making friends is key. I don't care if I will only know them for less than a season, it's just knowing people who I can hang out with and have fun with.

I did not sleep at all last night, rather I spent it with my friends hanging out in the main lounge. The Japanese students came in and out and then they left. Three friends and I were the only ones left at 7:00AM. Thomas sat down at the piano and played some very cathartic songs. About twenty minutes later, I took my Docs off, unlaced them entirely and occupied the floor sitting seiza. A sense of complete focus took over and my body felt as an ancilliary to my existence for a few minutes. My mind floated and picked itself apart. I decided. I'm going to live again. If I don't take chances, I will never win. About the time I came to this conclusion, Thomas began playing Aeris' Theme and two other people who had left us earlier returned. I broke thought for a minute. I thought and pulled myself away from my body a second time and discovered something. I knew right then and there that I have to ask her what she thinks of me. Stop fooling around and casting glances her way, I have to outright ask her. Why dance around the issue if the answer is basically out in the open? That's it. I remember how to live. I have to live again.

Come home after a long Valentine's weekend in San Francisco. Grab what's in the mailbox by reflex. In the sickly-soapy-smelling elevator (who spilled the Tide, and more importantly, why haven't they cleaned it up yet?), flip past Amex bill. Junk mail. Postcard.

Postcard? On the front, it says in white type over a 2-seconds-in-Illustrator abstract green background:

    TAURUS You are the Toro, and the Toro rushes for no one. With bullheaded stubbornness you plod toward your goals. You deliberate over our extensive menu. You order a wrap..."

It goes on, an advertisement postcard you can grab from many eateries. It is meant to be "viral" text, never clearly stating the name of the place, but it seems to be about a burrito eatery of that sort that likes to elevate its delicious bricks of food by calling them "wraps."

Flip it over.

On the left, descending:

  1. Ad text for (no seeming relation to the other side of the postcard)
  2. In crayon:
    1. "Spare the poor fruits-" written in blue, gender-unidentifiable, mixed-case print.
    2. An apple. Archetypical. Swollen lopsided shoulders with small green leaf. Red outline with lighter red and yellow stripes for filling.
    3. A banana, outlined in green, filled with lemon yellow. Squat, a little curvy. Not particularly phallic.
    4. A signature, possibly reading "Chii", "Chil", or "Chie", hard to tell with the cursive and the smudged blue wax.
  3. logo & tagline for Song. (whatever that is)

In the middle, a line of ad text for the free-postcard company,

On the right, descending:

  1. George Washington stamp
  2. Postal cancellation, Boston MA 02114, 10 Feb 2005, that includes an ad (?!) for the movie Robots covering our first president's stoic face.
  3. My e2 handle, i.e. Tato, followed by my meatworld street address.

Sure, feed the cats, give them some overdue loving. Glance at the catsitter's report card. They were beasts. Clean the litter anyway and check email. But really, really, wonder about the card.

What is this? Few of my friends know of my e2ther life, and they don't live in Boston.

Is the "Toro" an oblique reference to my username? Seems a stretch. Taurus certainly isn't my sign. Was the choice of card, then, random?

Is the "spare the poor fruits" an oblique reference to my 05 Feb rant? Someone who wants to defend our friends the felchers? If so why so sweet and roundabout? Why so anonymous? Maybe one of my other gayish writeups? Who is Chii/Chil/Chie? No users under any of those names. Why sign at all if it's going to mean nothing to me? Could the fruit and statement be a reference to my vegetarianism? A petition to return to old omnivorous ways? Who cares?

Who crossed the sacred meatworld border? How did they get my address? (Kit knows from E2SS2004, but she's not Bostonian.) (And there's only a passing reference to my old photoblog on my homenode. That site might have had this address, but googling it is futile in this regard since it's been down over a year.)


Is this an e2 stalker? How would that work? Can virtual bunnies be found virtually boiling? Which e2s in Boston or MA are likely? If a he, is he cute? I can't imagine my writeups spurn any kind of passion to warrant this, but yeah, I'm curious and a little weirded. And, at the end, flattered that someone would find me worth the 23 cents and crayolas.

Spare the poor fruits-

Strangest. Valentine. Ever.

WiccanPiper reports he knows another who got the same card...He opines Chiisuta...The mystery continues...

Ah, Valentine's Day.

It has the potential to be my favourite holiday. There are no religious strings attached (I will insert something here as someone pointed out that it is a Saint's day--pretty much every single day on the calendar is a Saint's day. I mean no religious ties as in people are not going on a mass exodus to their respective houses of worship, my life is uninterrupted by the closing of shops or services, and there are no crappy TV specials, etc.), no need to go home and have family rows, I love roses and the colour red, and if you're lucky, you'll have sex at some point that day.

This is the first year in my life that I have had a man in my life on Valentine's Day. This is a person I've known for five years but just started dating in December. So it's relatively new, and also a little scary as it is my first relationship since my last boyfriend committed suicide in September 2003.

My beau and I spent Christmas Eve, Christmas Day, Boxing Day, New Year's Eve, and New Year's Day together. So by now, we're no stranger to holidays.

I'm a hopeless romantic. I made subtle hints regarding me making dinner for the two of us, and pulling out some goodies scored from Agent Provocateur--no cheesy Hallmark crap. Due to drama in his life outside of our relationship, we discussed celebrating the holiday of love on a different day. My best friends (who are single) and I then planned on spending the evening together, as we all love each other (though not romantically) and always have a good time. Fine with me.

Due to unbelievable luck, which usually goes against me, an incredible and massive opportunity fell into my lap: to be a runway model in a show that was part of London Fashion Week, which would take place at 8pm on Valentine's Day, killing any potential plans, and at least I would be too busy to be bummed out that I wasn't seeing my paramour. And my friends, always the greatest, all agreed to come to the show. This would be me making my debut in a career that I did not only not pursue, but am not that bothered about or dependent on--I'm doing well in University, and I'm going to make something of myself in the world of business. But the fact that someone else thinks I'm good-looking enough to do this is a compliment. It's really cool to be paid to have people dress you up, make you up, and have you walk around.

It was only six years ago that I was a fourteen year old girl, too tall and too skinny, with big black-rimmed glasses and a mouth full of braces. I've changed since then but when I look in the mirror I still see that girl.

So then I tell my beau about this and he is very thrilled for me. He knows how I have been depressed about my bad luck for the past few years, losing Matthew, and being unable to do anything. He says he will come to the show, to support me. He knows I have crippling anxiety and that seeing his face in the crowd, or at least knowing he's there, will make me strong.

So I spend a few days before the show working fourteen hour days with the designer, doing fittings and hair and makeup tests and such. And my beau calls to tell me he cannot make it to the show, as the his outside drama was affecting his availability. I was irate but understood. When it comes to his drama, of course I understand, I can do nothing but understand.

The show happens, and I do well. I don't trip, I don't faint, I don't fall, I don't mess up my timings, I walk right, it goes swimmingly. I couldn't believe that I wasn't anxious at all. I really felt confident and good about myself. And I think that showed. At least, that's what my friends said.

The atmosphere backstage was one of stress and bitchiness, but I was so damn grateful to be there that I was Little Miss Happy All-American Girl and actually awarded the title of easiest girl to work with, and nicest girl to work with. Which is funny, because I don't think anyone has ever called me nice before.

The show was a trip. There was one more designer after the one I did and I went to watch. The whole thing was straight out of the film Zoolander. The shows were in a tunnel under London Bridge. The designs of Gareth Pugh, the designer after the show I did, were completely off-the-wall and bizarre. I felt like walking up to someone and saying "Have you ever wondered if there was more to life, other than being really, really, ridiculously good looking?" but then I had such a massive grin on my face after pulling off the show that I couldn't, not without a straight face--with that crowd, I would have been taken seriously...which of course gives me the giggles.

Of course everything ran late so my best friends and I were unable to be each others Valentines dates and go anywhere besides the show, but the fact that they were there to support me was so amazing.

I hadn't felt real support for years before these people came into my life and I love them.

So my beau rings when I get back home and everything is fine, until a few days later when he becomes increasingly more uncommunicative. I feel things are falling apart and there is nothing I can really do about it. I hear about people splitting up over Valentines Day because of "pressure" but there hasn't been any here and I am wondering if this relationship is going to be a casualty of that. I hope not.

But at least I got one souvenir from my Valentine's Day--a pillow that says "I Love You Less Than Moshing" from the giftbags at the show, and my photo on

My heart could use some repairs, but all in all, the day wasn't a total loss.

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