natural starters for long-rise narratives

"Bacc"ing out

2006-04-28T23:16:00.000-04:00

I am ready.

I can write without reservation or anxiety. My thesis is complete and my baccalaureate exam a success. There has been much celebrating, but mostly lazing about. And even my celebrations are humble. These include but are not limited to: nibbling on my favorite almond pastry from the local French bakery, glasses of shiraz and cabernet sauvignon, conversation with friends, a plane ticket to Montreal (!), finding the time to discover new music and read Chekhov and Janice Galloway. I'm very interested in how people reward themselves and where one can begin to draw the line between smug self-satisfaction and well-deserved congratulatory behavior. See? Damn this education. It's taught me to think about everything.

So I tried to take a break from thinking, which resulting in me sitting in front of the television for a few hours. But then I found myself watching Jeopardy and MSNBC, which defeats the purpose. Ah, well. I find it very difficult to come to a grinding halt after twenty years of education and formation. But then again, perhaps the difficulty lies in viewing post-graduation as less demanding. I have a feeling that the future will be different in the types of demands that will be placed upon me. They will be more tangible.

I anxiously look forward to joy and pain which I can taste and touch.

An internet representation of my identity (haha)

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

2006-02-16T23:01:00.000-05:00

Drinking two glasses of Argentinian pinot noir before attempting to write more of my thesis is a really embarrassing situation. I managed to excrete a few sentences about the significance of the Cratchit family's Christmas dinner as a sign of non-material giving in contrast to the miserly Scrooge. Then I put on a Smiths record and danced in my room alone to the brink of nausea. I did not want to leave that moment, because it was youthful. It was imaginary, yet real. For I couldn't imagine any other time in my life where I would be willfully engaging in the consumption of alcohol in the fulfillment of my duties. Are there moments in your life when you realize how very privileged you are? Do you consider how you afford to eat, drink, and write because you attend an institution which promotes the saving of the world, one graduate at a time?

I am not myself! I have been reading too much Dostoevsky and I feel like the walls of my cell are closing in on me! Ahhh!

Thank you for reading,
Dr. Gina

2006-02-14T18:24:00.000-05:00

Pain de campangne boules baked last week. Please bake your own bread. It takes time, but the pure taste and healthy satisfaction are worth the trouble. Plus, it's cheaper than cheap in the long run!

(Or support your local baker.)

Thank you for the photograph, Heather.

Bare

2006-02-13T18:19:00.000-05:00

It feels so magnificent to love someone at this very moment--to not remember who they were years ago, but consider who they are now, in this very moment. And when I talk about love, I am referring to my interactions with everyone, not a love object. Because I do not know how to live any other way. All other emotions function as layers of cloth worn over my heart.

I walked through the glass doors and looked directly into her orange eyes. I did not falter, but smiled, as did she. She recognized me and my love, because I do not wear layers of cloth even though the outside world is frostbitten. The reason I record this moment is because I realized that I did not need her recognition, nor her to reciprocate my love. Loving someone for who they are now, rather than who I knew him or her to be, was the greatest feeling imaginable.

Repercussions

2006-02-10T12:59:00.000-05:00

No meat for two weeks.
No dairy for one.
No honey for a week.

Honestly, the transitions have not been difficult, because I already eat well. I have had to up my intake of grains, vegetables, and legumes. Even though my portion sizes have slightly grown, I feel lighter, cleaner, awake. Not that I was ever heavy, dirty, or sleep, per se. I just had more problems digesting cheese, ice cream, and the occasional meats. Although, my advisor and my roommate told me I looked pale. It has taken me nearly two weeks to recover from a nasty cold. At times, I do feel weak. I suffer,yet I do not know what it is to suffer. If I am not desperate, then can I be said to be suffering? Stress is the culprit (for me and most Americans). No matter how healthy I eat and how much I bike and walk, I do not have enough time to live. Humor is lacking in my life as of late. Yesterday, I made the effort to connect with a few remarkable individuals. I stuck my face directly into the sun and said, "Fie, fie, fie wretched misery! You will no longer know I!" as if I were a lame Romantic poet. Only when I have suffered, will I realize my greatness.

Celebrate Callousness with Cookery

2006-02-05T19:16:00.000-05:00

I had one of the most dreadful days working in the café today. Yes, this strong-willed lassie was moved to tears of frustration by a customer for the first time in all her five years of service work.

I cannot stress this enough: Service workers are real people, not mere agents for your consumption. Customers are in no shape or form superior to us in neither intellect, nor feeling. Some might say that the relationship between customer and server is one of master and slave, but I say a big fuck you to constructed power relations. Excuse me, dearest customer whom lacks love and confidence and therefore must prey on younger, gentler souls: workers will step out of our "place" and it will make you uncomfortable. You are provoked (by yourself) to discomfort (read: anger) when we enact agency, emotion, and intelligence, because your idea of others as static, one-dimensional selves has been BLOWN UP.

So I created a dish to ease my own inner explosion. Cook this vegan main course on Sunday evenings, when "good" citizens turn bad, and you get burnt.

Gina's "Sock it to 'em" Sweet 'n Spicy Potato and Greens

Serves: 1 with some left over (depends on how hungry you are!)
Time: about 20 minutes

Raw Materials:

1 sweet potato
4-5 large leaves of any green you have (i had collard greens). separate the greens from their stems and save the stems for another dish. this is because they are harder to chew and are more bitter than the greens. cut the greens into 1-inch or 2-inch slices
1 clove garlic, minced
1 small onion or half of large onion
1 teaspoon olive oil
chopped, raw walnuts
salt
red pepper flakes
1 teaspoon maple syrup, or to taste

Creative Assembly:

cut sweet potato into about 1-inch hunky chunks, steam covered for 7-8 minutes, or until tender
heat olive oil in large skillet over medium-high heat
add onions and sauté for a minute or two
add greens, garlic, red pepper flakes, salt and sauté for another minute or two until greens start to wilt a bit
add sweet potato
add approx. 1/4 cup water
turn the heat down to medium-low and cova them bad boys
cook for 2-3 minutes or until water evaporates. you will sort of be steaming everything, cooking it through.
take off cover
add walnuts, drizzle maple syrup, and taste to see if more salt or red pepper is required

Serve with either small side of brown rice or whole-wheat flatbread. End meal with sweetest piece of raw fruit on hand. I love this dish, because the blend of sweet and spicy, crunchy and soft, earthy and warming, please many senses, as well as provide comfort and warmth.

Then sock it to 'em.*

*optional

Veggie tales

2006-02-03T00:31:00.000-05:00

What goes in, must come out. A simple rule, not often thought out to its fullest conclusions, but one which has been plagued me for some time. How long does it take for the pain and suffering to make its way out of my body? Does it ever? My body is now sick, my chest filled with phlegm, my head and heart filled with the puss of ignorance. I am blind to the death and disease of killing animals for food because I value pleasure and have been made to believe that eating fish makes you smart and healthy and beautiful. But now I am sick (and duly so) because I read that fish feel pain and are more intelligent than we surmised. I have told myself and others that I have been feeling morally conflicted lately as to the consumption of animals. Now I know that I hid behind a sophistical argument, too stubborn to choose life over death. It is the same as saying that you are morally conflicted about abortion, but nevertheless proceed.

2006-01-25T10:51:00.000-05:00

Oh! how I love the yeasty scent of rising bread. The anticipation, the planning, measuring. You can see the dough move, actually rise! when you place your eyes an inch away. The ordinary components of yeast, flour, water, olive oil, salt, and sugar (Italian bread) do nothing on their own, but somehow conjoin into a mass of billowing heaven when mixed and mashed by my hands. Do you not receive orgasmic pleasure from creation!? Do you not wish to take earthly matter into your hands to enhance their already perfect, individual essences?

Marvelous...and I thank this man's book for teaching me what little I know about bread baking.

Morning

2006-01-22T20:29:00.000-05:00

I have taken up the sword and freed myself from the burden of the death of my friend John. I am slowly, oh so very slowly beginning to weed out the illusions which cloud my reality. Have you been holding on? Because I have. To what I do not know. All that matters is that his death was necessary, because only now, does my ignorant ego understand the importance of transformation. I have been too literal, too quick to believe in the appearance of things and people. But now I see that I must transform base metals into gold. Have you ever thought that always going, never stopping, was some sort of achievement? No, it is a distraction. Distraction is my greatest illusion of all and I will work effortlessly to create, connect, feel, until I am one with my mighty God presence.

When I sit still and listen to myself quietly, I feel beautiful and ashamed and fear that I manifest evil only because I do not have a handle on my blinding perfection. This evil manifests itself in my nightmares and my occasional gluttony. My goodness is too wild, too unchecked, too rash, and so others find me naive. But now I am seeing that they are threatened by my goodness because they are in pain and want a part of me. But they must learn on their own, which I will paradoxically teach them through the example and presence of my goodness.

2006-01-18T02:48:00.000-05:00

I let loose tonight even though I know that I should be writing my thesis. Procrastination will not be the death of me, so I tell myself. And yet, I somehow needed to drink pints of beer and dance to embarrassing 80's jams karaoked by new friends. My requested song "Enola Gay" by OMD (one of my all-time favorites) turned out to be some shitty remix. I never did sing my song and the even though the DJ apologized, I felt like something pure and precious had been taken away from me. I will never get that moment back, which does not make me sad or angry, but at a loss. I am at a loss for words and that is why (or so I've told myself) I cannot write my thesis. Exactly why I learned this through a failed karaoke stunt is beyond me.

I met a girl who just returned from Australia and New Zealand. She worked on organic farms, which is what I am considering after graduation. Speaking with her really made me want to do what she did. Although, one can never be sure that the desire to do something, somewhere else is spurned from the self of by the extraordinary narrative of a beautiful stranger: "Yes, it was beautiful and easy. You too should do it." I must take care of the present, but the future is just within my grasp.

Recent desires:
To reject meat; to become vegetarian.
To love Jens Lekman.
To walk for hours.
To not talk with you, but be in your presence.

2006-01-08T02:47:00.000-05:00

I had a conversation with an artist which I will never forget, because I knew her and she knew me without the crutch of awkward smiles and conventional exchange. Come to think of it, connections are happening more often than before because I made a conscious decision to be awake.

My relations with others are not out of my hands or by way of chance, but a conscious materialization of us, of everything, of God. Sometimes I am afraid to talk to my peers about how truly I feel connected, because I fear mockery. I do not want to offend anyone. Get over it. Getting over it. Over it.

2006-01-07T15:03:00.000-05:00

He gave me the money not because I did him a favor, but because it was the only way he could apologize for the tall one's nasty behavior. The French woman with the limp laughed in disbelief when I told her I wanted the almond pastry. You really want this? It is very large! No, I came here for that which is no longer here. I could tell you that it was the pain aux amandes, but I would be lying. I came for the memory of a place lived in only a short while ago. It was a far away place where I needed no one except God and la boulangère. And I will feel very sad if I do not taste this place today. So I searched for the most prized Belgian endive in the basket and selected an attractive, crusty whole-grain batard in the pursuit of pleasure and piece of mind. I am not resentful anymore, towards myself or the tall one's behavior. My propensity to self-inflict loneliness grows from my need to help others embrace life and the pleasures it offers and their rejection thereof. The desire for good turns into an ugly game of idealized happiness and disappointment.

How can I sacrifice the quest for good, truth, and beauty without sacrificing myself? Call me stubborn, but I refuse to give in to anything less than:pure love, perfect bread, fresh Belgian endive, colorful swiss chard, your smiles, heartbreaking twilight, individualized laughter...

2006-01-04T22:25:00.000-05:00

I have no stylings of my own and not an original thought in my head. Groans and howls are all I ever hear anymore. I often feel that soundscapes matter more than me. I am the listener. When I step into a public space, I am a guest. I could go so far as to say that I am an intruder, but how could the soundscape exist without a listener? The space occupies a definite place in the physical world, but who cares if no one goes there? And does my presence not conjoin a layer of sound and meaning to the soundscape? You are also part of the music, rather than purely a listener. It is very tempting to deny my sonorous presence, also known as the vibrations of my body, when I hear the enchanting chiming of the bells or the scratching and sliding of the bow pulled across the strings on the violin. Reading no longer tugs at my heart strings (did it ever?) and so I return to the organic and sometimes synthetic (but never conventional) sounds of my fellow adventurers.

We are floating to the hims and haws of an oboe. We have noise when we have no one and for that I am very thankful.

Winter wonders

2005-12-19T00:17:00.000-05:00

Originally uploaded by Heather R..

This photo captures a tiny, pixelated glimpse into the friendship I have with Claire. She is my partner in bonne vivantism. I admire her critical perspective on all issues, which stems from her seemingly dedicated search for truth. Conversing with her pushes me to consider other ways of looking at the world, always in earnest joviality. This is the stuff real friendships are made of.

I look like a drunken Italian mushroom head from Super Nintendo Super Mario Brothers, except I'm pretty sure that I hadn't enjoyed a drink yet when the photograph stole my soul. Heather is dancing in the background and I just can't help but love her exuberance.

I am so blessed to be able to connect with these intelligent designs who are so different from me.

I am learning to speak Italian with the greatest of ease. Everything is beautiful to me right now, from this loaf of rye bread to a dinner shared with H at a Peruvian restaurant to laughing and laughing, all while never forgetting how important others are to the understanding of oneself.

Tree plea

2005-12-08T23:34:00.000-05:00

I bought a real, breathing! miniature Christmas tree today. I told my companion that I needed something to take care of, which I realized was false only after it shot out of my mouth like most ugly turns of phrase. I need to take care of myself, the nuke, and my comrades, not some fanciful fir.

I didn't need to take care of something which is alive. I just needed to be directly connected to an organic existence. Words are disconnecting me and the only way to unravel my twisted branches is through a little slice of greenery planted in forgiving soil.

Where are your roots? Do they meet mine under the soil?

Comment pourrais-je vivre si tu n'étais pas là?

2005-12-07T00:51:00.000-05:00

I haven't heard from you since the end of summer, and now the leaves have fallen and the nights are drawing in. But I presume that everything is going well on the other side of the world. It is dark now here but I am trying to imagine where you are - in a seminar studying, at home, having bagels for lunch? On the beach? I really have no idea, but if I try hard enough maybe I can visualise you. I'm well, just back from trekking in the great expanse of sand and camels that is the Sahara desert, which was incroyable, but looking forward to going home for Christmas. I'm well, but thinking of you makes me realise that something is missing in my life.

I do not eat bagels. I only visit the beach at night when I am sad. Sand is too mischievous to step upon, so I only go to listen. To visualise you in a place other than my memory is unsettling. You remain always and forever in a place and time that I can never reproduce, only replay in my heart of hearts until I end. A season has passed and I was sure you had forgotten me. I trained myself to put you there and never take you out.

And it was in this very moment that you refused to be contained in your dark corner of the world.

Rightly so, my friend.

I want to drown in your song.

Written before an analysis of Spenser and Milton

2005-12-01T18:42:00.000-05:00

I burn a candle every night for those who are absent. Silver fir scented, if you care to know.

No, I am untruthful. I burn the candle for me and me alone. I am very, very selfish and weary because many things, which are not my favorite things, demand much of me. And yet, they do not really demand my true self, only selves which are highly capable of performing certain acts primarily well.

These are complaints everyone has, which is a reminder of how very ordinary I am. Now don't you go ahead and chastise me for being too hard on myself. Individuality (in art, but I also think in Western society) is largely a nineteenth and twentieth-century concern and therefore my statement is nothing to be alarmed of. Unless of course, you are worried for yourself, dear reader. Then you have much to consider.

I am no one and nothing special, but an artifice of my surroundings. I am the grand sum of beautiful people, repetitive events, words, trees, and cuisines. I do not for one moment believe that I am a creation of my own doing. I leave myself to you, which is the greatest tribute to purpose imaginable.

Let's hope so. For I am tired of considering myself before others, or entangling myself in my studies, or worrying about how to protect my destruction. Disassociation is so attractive. But it scares me.

I am very weary and burn for others who are absent. Beneath the flame is a deep, dark melting puddle of contentment, which never dries but is often masked by the brightness of her creator.

I am generally satisfied.

L'histoire de la cuisinière

2005-11-28T18:00:00.000-05:00

Removed from my family far too soon, I retreat into my cave of a bedroom to chase away my blues. Dancing to Edith Piaf, I am on top of the world. Until I faced my dinner menu. Every recipe serves four, yet everything must be tapered for one. This one will amass leeks, tomatoes, flax fettuccine, spinach, garlic, and whatever else she loves. This one does not create an enticing three course dinner out of boredom, but love. So she thinks of her family and how much honest, unabashed love is expressed over a meal and how they are absent from her dinner table. Why cook at all? she asks.

So I tell her to remain patient. That she's worth it, because Edith sings for her.

2005-11-23T09:58:00.000-05:00

Tell me that I am not the only one who does yoga at 8:30 am to The Who's My Generation album. Tell me that there are others who awaken not to the prospect of success, but creation. There are distinctions, I know there are, but what they are? Who cares, they're just there. Tell me that there are others who embrace empathy; who submit themselves to others as if it were the last standing religion.

I tried to bring this day to a standstill by writing about it, when I haven't even lived it yet. Tell me to never do that again.

Pure Death

2005-11-22T14:24:00.000-05:00

We looked, we loved, and therewith instantly
Death became terrible to you and me.
By love we disenthralled our natural terror
From every comfortable philosopher
Or tall, grey doctor of divinity:
Death stood at last in his true rank and order.

It happened soon, so wild of heart were we,
Exchange of gifts grew to a malady:
Their worth rose always higher on each side
Till there seemed nothing but ungivable pride
That yet remained ungiven, and this degree
Called a conclusion not to be denied.

Then we at last bethought ourselves, made shift
And simultaneously this final gift
Gave: each with shaking hands unlocks
The sinister, long, brass-bound coffin-box,
Unwraps pure death, with such bewildernment
As greeted our love's first accomplishment.

Robert Graves

Ne plus

2005-11-18T14:05:00.000-05:00

Je me suis reveillée plus heureuse

mais j'ai commencé à sentir pauvre, sale, stupide quand j'ai raté l'examen. Quel examen? Bof, je ne sais pas à quoi ça sert sauf pour l'exécution.

Comme tout.

2005-11-17T18:53:00.000-05:00

Would you believe, dear reader, that my very own blog turned up when I performed a Google search for my senior thesis on "Food in Literature?"

How very mind-boggling. I can't decide whether information circulates randomly, too efficiently, or fails to connect me to anything beyond a five mile radius. Are searches secretly configured to return place-specific results?

The entire ordeal makes me feel ill, because I need to reformulate most of my thesis and can't find a British/French/non-Russian comparative text for my chapter on how food/hunger reveals power relations between class (intelligentsia vs. Bourgeois) in Yuri Olesha's Envy.

Any suggestions which might be more relevant than Virginia Woolf's To the Lighthouse "boeuf en daube" scene or Margaret Atwood's The Edible Woman? Because my superiors continue to insist on these two and they are just so damn unappealing to me right now.

2005-11-15T18:15:00.000-05:00

Tonight is a very British evening spent with fish and chips (my first time ever making them) and the infamous A Christmas Carol by Dickens. Comfort and solitude is what I crave.

Scrooge! a squeezing, wrenching, grasping, scraping, clutching, covetous, old sinner! Hard and sharp as flint, from which no steel had ever struck out generous fire; secret, and self-contained, and solitary as an oyster.

Dickens' language is fanastic. So physical, so real. And yet, the phantasmagoric lurks behind the next page. I often hierarchically order my passions in such a way that experience and gastronomy come before literature. I can safely say that applying an order to life does not hold sway. I could exist on the corporeal language of Dickens alone...well, at least until the morning...or the fish and chips are fried to perfection! Bah! I am a lowly creature.

How I became wise or always was

2005-11-14T21:39:00.000-05:00

I walked through clusters of God's hair here and there. Shadows want to play and so I stray from my narrative, a bricolage of others and concrete matter made by someone I do not want to be. But I've never been much afraid of the dark.

Because I've never known fear. Fear is not knowing, but I've always known that I was meant for you and you for I. Each time different in form, not kind. I have wandered alone into the shadowy wilderness of the mountains. Each time different in place, not space. Placed my precious life in the hooves of a lonely iron horse

sped through a tunnel of darkness which necessarily travels an
unknown path
to reach
a known destination.

Why does time collapse in my slumber? Why do I understand so much and so many of you?

I feel old, yet am constantly reminded of my juvenile appearance. The irreparable schism between one's image of herself and others distresses me. It is not a problem of vanity, but knowledge. Or so I've convinced myself.

Rhetoric and ritual

2005-11-08T21:20:00.000-05:00

Sometimes I question my rituals, because anything which takes up the majority of one's time should always be put into question. The rituals themselves are less important than my obsessive "need" to enact them (it is only necessary because I have been socially conditioned to believe that I must do these things to be a fully-functioning member of society). I must cook and dine in particular fashions, I must ride my bicycle, I must listen to music in the morning, I must create adventures for myself to forget. I must not be convinced of my undesirability, or dwell over my romantic dry spell, but rather engage in more learned, scholarly pursuits. I must become a jack of all trades. I must listen to others and bring them light.

Finding solid ground is something we all do, but I'm not convinced that it's truthful. Of course it brings happiness, but is it real? Are my rituals empty in themselves, and amount to meaning only because I use them to define a cohesive self and reality?

Am I married to my habits, rather than the hearts of others? But what happens when the ones you love live far away or you haven't met them yet? Should I stop believing in some moral construct of the "good" in people and submit myself to the possibility that no one will know and love me as I them? What a cliché. And yet, others are so inaccessible, absent, self-contained. They do not spill themselves into their surroundings, unless you count their self-erected motes and dams, over which I constantly build unsound bridges.

I am convinced that we create rituals to keep ourselves from ourselves. The self operates externally when it engages in the same act every single day. Rituals handicap the self from probing within, because one cannot think about "going through the motions." They just do, because it is necessary to do so in order to live. Acting constructs being and vice-versa.

Am I nothing more than an aggregate of my rituals?

2005-11-06T10:43:00.000-05:00

Swollen toes and sore throughout, this ruffian has awakened against her will. Midnight soccer with a dear friend and the satisfaction of crab crêpes with bechamel, mixed greens salad with gorgonzola, pears, and walnuts. Who won the war, I ask you. Sclera wine or pupil dark stout, blacker than forever: chalk, ginseng root, unsweetened maple syrup.

Earthy evening earnestly. We are tied to the ground and fail to remember so when we live on the stories of buildings and greatness.

Charge! my glorious comrades.

A charming evening remembered.

2005-11-01T22:27:00.000-05:00

Dinner party
Originally uploaded by Heather R..

My first dinner party

2005-10-30T01:28:00.000-05:00

The Virginia House Fall Dinner Party was a smashing success. We entertained outside in the fresh night air. Wine, fig bruschetta with gorgonzola on toasted sourdough, pumpkin raviolis, oooooh creamy butter sage sauce. Oh! but who could forget the roasted beet borscht with sour cream, granny smith apple shavings, and fresh dill. Chantal crafted delicious ginger spice cookies and hot apple cider! Heather made everything look great! Paule cleaned a lot! Tobey and Blake moved heavy furniture and Claire saved me right as I began to stress the fuck out by aiding me in the construction of 60 raviolis!!!

Everyone worked so hard and looked so good. I love my friends and house mates. I loved every minute of it. Running high on my passion for food and people, I could have subsisted solely on cutting, peeling, shaping, boiling, and broiling for many hours. Except all the while, I was forced to learn how to entertain our guests, for whom this entire night was created. It is incredibly wonderful and difficult to juggle upwards to fifteen guests at a dinner party. I miscalculated food, misplaced raviolis (when I came home after going to another party...there mysteriously appeared a dozen or so uncooked raviolis! And we stressed over late guests because we were forced to cook them other food when there were hidden raviolis somewhere!!) Oh the irony and blissfully selfless improvisation. I adore the unknown and unplanned that is the dining experience.

Despite all the craziness, I'd do it again and again and again. We spent more than six hours preparing dinner. Watching their faces take the first few bites of every course was the most pleasurable and fulfilling experience imaginable. Listening to their appreciative comments filled my heart so truly and deeply.

I now know that I want to go to culinary school or work in a kitchen. I must please people with food.

It's all so very honest. Except I'll never tell you how much butter and cream went into that sage sauce. Damn!

2005-10-28T12:57:00.000-04:00

I felt like saying many things today and yesterday, but definately not tomorrow. So I read, slept, and sautéed figs in merlot and anise instead.

You and your precious little ego.

"Drink of the Gods"

2005-10-25T20:52:00.000-04:00

Mix one tablespoon of dark dark dark cocoa powder with 10-12 oz unsweetened soy milk. Stir in a bit of sugar (1-2 teaspoons, or to taste), and a pinch of cayenne pepper. Whisk until hot and lumps disappear.

Drink your Mayanesque hot chocolate on a cold autumn day and gross out lovers of regular hot chocolate everywhere! They have no idea what they are missing. Other suggestions: real vanilla extract, cardamom, and/or cinnamon.

London

2005-10-24T21:59:00.000-04:00

Twenty minutes have passed and I still have not remembered in which part of North London I once stayed for a week. Clearly I recall a white, two-story house slanted on a hill, aside a convent and the oldest cemetery ever fixed upon by my eyes. Cobblestone streets. Tea houses and a lawyer's office. A crêpe stand with never less than twenty people standing in line, waiting impatiently in knowing anticipation. Truly sad to say that I never did taste those crêpes even though it was so close within my range. If only all of the underground stops would stop sounding so bloody familiar! My tendency to remember everything except one or two significant details frustrates me to no end.

Kensington? Hampstead? It matters. Photographs of this place exist and I need nothing more than to see them right this very second. Je dois saisir du temps perdu. Do not mistake this exercise for nostalgia; it is quite contrary. I do not miss the person I was with and our unsound love, or even objects purchased. Most momentous is the place, but especially the space. Its smells, names, time, clouds and sunlight strength. The strangers I passed and the click-clack of their very important shoes. Oh to step inside those shoes! To never return to the dogged streets of my ordinary existence. My life in a place where walking is near to impossible and the everyday act of melting is nothing short of eternal suffering.

But then there are my comrades, without whom I'd be displaced. If only I could transport them to where I've been, to see what I've seen. Then they would know me. Then they'd really understand, but I'm sure they already do.

Paradox: these spaces are best when enjoyed alone, for speech and baggage obscure the act of remembering. Yet painting a faithful portait of a space to an other is almost impossible. Any venture taken alone risks being rendered meaningless, because...it was not shared.

So they say, but my solitary travels are inexpressibly extraordinary. What are yours like?

Recipe for jeune fille distaster souffle!

2005-10-23T22:19:00.000-04:00

Mix one jeune fille with five hours of sleep. Add a dash of a 7-9 am shift in bookstore. Stir rigorously, add two hours of work on senior thesis, one more hour of sleep and excessive consumption of bread because body is in state of exhaustion.

Return her to work, but in cafe from 2-8 pm. Sprinkle with shitty morning cafe shift remains: inability to stock, MAKE THE DECAF HOT, and general stupidity masqueraded as charm.

ADD A FUCKING HURRICANE AND LOTS OF CUSTOMERS BECAUSE NO ONE ELSE IS DUMB ENOUGH TO BE OPEN DURING A HURRICANE. BAKE FOR 6 HOURS IN OVEN AT MEANINGLESS SOCIAL INTERACTIONS DEGREES.

Check to see if the jeune fille disaster souffle is done by sticking a phone call by Mom in her heart: "We all thought of you as we ate at a great Greek restaurant in Tampa. We miss you."

Mmmm. Tastes like anger, frustration, intellectual inadequacy, nostalgia, loneliness, ugliness, soreness, with just subtle hint of guilt.

Let me cook for you

2005-10-22T01:26:00.000-04:00

Orange and Balsamic Marinated Fennel with Bulgarian Feta

Tart and aromatic, crisp and refreshing, salty, sour, tangy. Absolutely, undoubtably pleasing. Try it for yourself.

Correspondence with my dearest friend

2005-10-19T00:36:00.000-04:00

Bravery isn't really an agent or agency to be applied to an other but rather internalized and reinterpreted by the self. I find that the word is an activator of the act. It is encouraging and supporting. It supposses that we have personal capacities and that we could possibly surpass them or rather understand them fully by banging up against them. Who knows really what the fuck that even means, but when imagining the progression of time and the corresponding hope for a positive progression of the "me and mine," I think it is important to imagine gallantry. This is the pinnacle struggle of being a child--a struggle that I don't think ever really goes away. In this way you could even argue that bravery is an inherent element of subjectivity, that it takes a little grit to have a position that doesn't coordinate because, well, because that is what a position is--the absence of the other position [...].

I guess I just like to imagine the bravest being the ones that aren't visible [and] can't contribute to this little whirlwind. That they sit up in the trees and watch the dead leaves blow around...smiling cause they are sitting and the leaves are blowing around and have no control. The leaves can't even watch the sitters sit.

But now I guess I am just being romantic.

Soon now the spirit of language will rise up out of these ratty old bones and turn into somethin else and then disappear. And then we will all giggle.

Good night.
You can do it-I know you can-that's why your my friend.

Tobey

Two tangents tied to a string

2005-10-18T00:25:00.000-04:00

A curly haired boy who always wears a red sweater asked me if I could please unplug him in the library tonight.

I reached for his laptop to smash it upon the ground into bits and pieces, but rather did as I was told and extended my arm towards his white plug. I gave her a yank to fulfill his request.

I'd give anything to unplug all of you, because I can see how technology has fashioned you into dreadful bores!

-----

OK. Enough negativity. Man, I have been in a slump for the past couple of days. My ego wants to consume me and I feel like each negative thought about someone spirals into more. Damn your snowball effect, ego! Yehuda Berg told me that I need to drop my negativity 'like it's hot' cause it gonna burn me up. Yeah. Thanks, Yehuda. Now all I envision are the flames of hell swallowing me whole. How can I know what my soul needs? I'm not sure if I can delineate between the voice of my conscience and the voice of my soul. Does the soul use language or simply produce these so-called 'gut instincts?' Sometimes I feel like my soul does neither, but emits varying degrees of light. Whenever I am negative, my light dampens. I am no longer a 20-feet radius of light, but a dull, unassuming glow.

How will I change this?

Put me to sleep.

2005-10-15T00:41:00.000-04:00

Yes! Time to sleep. I adore the stand still to my whirl wind of a day. The events and emotions of the day are replayed in fast-forward and although parts are omitted, an entire picture of my day is painted; meaning is constructed. It all happens too fast! My head spins and I should feel sick, but am gently rocked to sleep by the waves of epic time. I hit the pillow before I let it wash me to shore. For my accomplishments are tantamount to those of the old man, content to be with the sea, alone on his small fishing boat. Sometimes I am angry with myself because I was less patient with others, or too vain. I harbored resentful thoughts against someone and failed to express so out of fear.

I never believed that all of the sins of the world would be absolved by my faith and prayers. In fact, most of my sins arise out of my faith in the goodness of others. I believe and believe and pray and am treated duly: with spikes in my palms and a crown of thorns. There is much blood on my face as of late.

A gentle nuzzle or rub of the head against the delicate pillow cloth wipes away the blood of our damaged altruism. Day breaks and I am no longer broken by the harshness of the world, but am ever-so forgetful. My harborings are lost to sea...

For my life will not consist of these fragments I have shored against my ruins. The cacophany of my fragments has a most beautiful phrasing. I assign each and every one of you your own leitmotif. My heart resounds with your theme song even in your absence, during the best of my slumber.

I appreciate...now give me a goat!

2005-10-12T23:54:00.000-04:00

I wish I owned a goat. No longer would I need to buy my treasured goat milk, goat cheese, and goat yogurt! Why are goat milk products so delightfully digestible and delicious!? Plus, I'd feed him garbage, which is pretty great in itself.

Recipe for best simple meal ever:

Crusty sourdough bread with healthy spread of fresh goat cheese. Match made in heaven. Add smoked salmon, lettuce or tomato if preferred.

Artist's rendering of my goat:

Other fantastic objects and events:

dark dark chocolate (more than 75% cacao)
ramequins, except I can't afford posh Williams & Sinoma
pumpkin everything
Jeopardy and conversation with Chantal
eye contact
sleeeping
Coast to Coast AM because a Cryptozoologist's work is never done!
the last words of the great 19th century Russian author and gourmand Nikolai Gogol who ironically starved himself to death because he became convinced that his soul was damned because he was a glutton, except not: "Quick! Get me a ladder!"

Always a kidder that Gogol!

2005-10-09T10:06:00.000-04:00

I just had a nightmare.

My brother and I were living with our parents and we were also hosting an Australian exchange student. Our house couldn't fit everyone, so I slept on the couch. Then the dream shifted to earlier in the evening at a dinner table in a restaurant. My brother was the waiter, which is creepy because he's never been one. He just kept bringing me dish after dish. A steak was flopped down, a boat of mashed potatoes, salad, pie, is that a smoothie? Then he told me that some ingredient which has been known to make people sick and whose name I now repress was in all of the food. I ran to the bathroom and puked endlessly. I woke myself up choking on my own saliva. Spit is all over my chin.

Grooootesssqqqquuueeee!

Took myself out on a date.

2005-10-08T23:57:00.000-04:00

Not sure why I plan each day. I'm often foiled.

I wanted and needed more than anything to be alone today, be it during walking, baking, sleeping. The universe sensed this and extracted "Gina's Gravitational Black Hole of Interaction" from one of its many black holes. My black hole floats a smidge to the left of Pluto and to the right of one of its undiscovered moons. Where is yours? Mine has been known to suck me into social situations which are exceedingly meaningful, but untimely.

My desire to disengage or withdrawal from personal narratives stems directly from my interaction with both novels and non-fiction. Analyzing the textual and lived stories of others is exhausting. I feel like a goddamn psychiatrist sometimes. You also? Yeah. I sense that others know of my training? I essentially read and extract meaning from texts and authors (people). My training has taught me to take the stories of others which bother or amuse them and repeat the content of their story, but in a different form. Upon offering my analysis to the other, his or her reaction is multifarious. This does not matter. The purpose of all of this elbow rubbing and conversatin' is interaction. This boils down to (1) a completely receptive listener who (2) relates the speaker's situation to her own life and (3) confirms this by repeating the content in a new form. Success.

Think again. The student of literature is trained to read novels as representations of the world, or as (lived) experience, at the very least. But what happens when these representations cause the student to idealize the exchange of interaction previously discussed? Frustration! For life is not a novel. Life is confusing as fuck because language sucks! The above system is predicated on an idealized view of language in which all meaning is perfectly conveyed.

Don't get me wrong. I live for my relation to an other. My black hole situated to the left of Pluto will always cause people to gravitate towards me. This brings meaning to my life. Language does not. Walking down unknown and familiar streets with strangers and friends is meaningful. It is the sound of space, fleeting glances and sprightly steps which speak louder.

We will know when you and I know each other. Be content to know that I realized this as I walked alone this very evening down a street lined with shops and couples.

soundtrack to a morning college seminar

2005-10-06T13:10:00.000-04:00

the shiftings of a room filled with young, able bodies rises and falls to the swell of the water seen through the looking glass. sit still. connect your wandering strains of thoughts to her eloquent, prepared narrative. it has a trajectory while yours is still lost in the allegorical forest of sin and get this: you don't even have a knight. constructions of moral behavior still plague me.

but then there are your swells without which my life would be crushingly silent.

2005-10-05T15:30:00.000-04:00

ginger + wasabi + sesame seeds + dark chocolate = one of the most creative truffles i plan to savour before death.

Naturally my thoughts have been germinating.

2005-10-05T14:00:00.000-04:00

I am so in love with the future that I find it difficult to focus on the present. Disappointing, isn't it? The present and I have had an quite an affair for some time now. He's always been there for me and he's never uninteresting like so many other suitors. We went to Toulouse together and invested ourselves in each moment with every willing party until too many Belgian beers were drunk, too many Gauloises smoked, and more men strolled with us along La Garonne than were privy to one another.

The present and I smiled at German tourists who would not stop eyeballing my tattoo in a bookstore. They returned my smile out of shame and self-consciousness. I realized that most situations which are potentially threatening or awkward could be resolved through smiling. Really, when was the last time you smiled during an argument? I never have fights with people because being angry is really fucking hilarious. The raging human looks like a monkey flailing about in its zoo cage, hungry for a banana, a poop, and an innocent slumber.

Oh yes, but back to my relationship with the present. He is my favorite because there are no regrets, nor hestitation, but a pure wealth of moments known to some as "opportunities." The present is the time at which I am most myself. I am aware, open to all people and forces in the universe. There are no limitations placed on my interactions. I accept the scary, engaging, and miniscule.

So, it really sort of upsets me that I am seduced by the future, even if it intersects with the present. I'm sure that the present felt neglected, but he shouldn't be so self-indulgent since he's partly responsible for introducing me to the future. I just wish that I could always live as a blank page to be written upon, read, erased, then written upon again and again. The future angers me, because he expects money and self-promotion. I do not fear change, but a new life fraught with debt and homelessness in New York City, the cultural epicenter of America.

I gave considerate thought to attending culinary school in San Francisco, but decided that I'm not ready to spend $47,000 to become a chef. I plan to attend the six-week program "The Art of International Bread Baking" at the French Culinary Institute in NYC either this summer or next fall. After the program, they will set me up with an internship or job in whichever bakery will take me. Apparently one sometimes has to beg professional bakers just to be an unpaid apprentice. I am willing to do whatever it takes to bake amazing breads. I am so burnt-out on the academic world; it has grown increasingly superficial to me. Bread is so alive and real. I want to repair the daily losses of my customers' physical existence with hand-made, beautifully sculpted loaves of rye, wheat, and sourdough. I want to train in France or bake sourdough in San Francisco. I'd give anything to be trained by master bakers and somehow open my own old world bakery somewhere...or even just work at one!

I really, really really really really really want to work for Amy Scherber, unless you could recommend another outstanding artisanal bakery, preferably organic.

My friend Sean also told me that I could just move to Portland, Oregon and work in a bakery without schooling. There's just too much happening!!!

Regardless, I am going to become a baker after earning a Bachelor's Degree in Literature and if anyone considers that a step down, then they do not understand the value of physical and artistic creation and the pleasure derived thereof.

Sasquatch!

2005-09-28T18:30:00.000-04:00

Check out this clip on MedicineFilms

2005-09-27T14:22:00.000-04:00

In my culinary school research, I came across Pravda, a two-story underground caviar and cocktail bar serving over 70 varieties of vodka and Russian-inspired dishes. Weeeirrrd.

Artisanal love

2005-09-25T11:00:00.000-04:00

My first ever baguettes are in the oven. One is slightly misshapen and almost fell apart in my hands when I transfered it to my sexy baking stone. Then I had to spray the OVEN COILS WITH BOILING WATER AND SHUT THE DOOR SO I WASN'T BURNED! Madness. The steam achieves the golden shine which encases everyone's favorite bread: the baguette. Listen, you have no idea how such a simple, perfect product is yieled by an insanely time-consuming and intricate process.

It took 12 hours for the poolish (starter) to ferment. I woke up at 6am and mixed my poolish mixed yesterday with the dough. Then more waiting...and some more...oh! Then I was allowed to touch the dough!!! But then King Arthur told me to let the dough rest for 20 minutes or else Merlin would put a hex on me.

The time is 11 am and they will be done shortly.

[5 minutes later]

THEY ARE AMAZING. Slightly misshapen and sooo crunchy and yummy. Momma would be proud. I never want to buy bread again!

SASQUATCH THE PLAY: THE MOST CELEBRATED FICTIONAL TREATMENT OF A REAL LIFE EVENT

2005-09-20T20:48:00.000-04:00

Our house lacked electricity for almost six hours today. It was romantic and ANNOYING because I sweated (because Florida is ass hot) over over my gouda and baby spinach potentially spoiling. I now sit here mindlessly listening to lightning bolt. I am tempted to not write tonight. Yes, I will sit here and listen to rock and roll and the occasional doot doot until I need to drink earl grey. I fucking hate my glorious "undergraduate research" this week. I want to give it a big thumbs down for not enlightening me.

The only thing which currently astounds me is our play: Sasquatch: The Manbeast Behind the Myth which Tobey and I will unearth on Friday night at Digital 3 Art Gallery (off of Boulevard of the Arts and Central, two showings at 7:30 pm and 9 pm!). Why this is of importance to you dear readers is a fine question. This performance will concretize the reason I created this blog. My character, Dr. Gina Poilue, Cryptozoologist will no longer be a satirical blog persona, but a ridiculous reality!

OH YEAH AND SASQUATCH WILL BE THERE.

There is nothing else I'd rather do than make art with my friends and teach myself how to bake artisanal breads. I bought a baking stone from Williams and Sinoma. Heavenly. But OH how these books PILE.

I researched how to immigrate to Canada and Quebec. It is more difficult than I thought. Plus, that culinary school in Vancouver wants me, but expects $30,000 out of my empty pockets, excluding the cost of living. Perhaps they will give me a full-ride when they discover that I am an expert Cryptozoologist and promise to capture Sasquatch and make Vancouver famous.

EFF THE OLYMPICS! YOU NEED SASQUATCH, VANCOUVER!!!

2005-09-16T14:21:00.000-04:00

I have two phone interviews next week with assistant admissions advisors from Debrulle Culinary Arts at The Art Institute of Vancouver and the California Culinary Academy in San Fransisco.

Un film de la ville rose

2005-09-13T17:08:00.000-04:00

Regardez ce film de ma vie fantastique à Toulouse, s'il vouz plaît.

Check out this clip on MedicineFilms

Tu me manques.

The Sick Diet

2005-09-13T13:28:00.000-04:00

My culinary pursuits have led me down the unbeaten path of medicinal foods. You read right. I have surpassed the organic craze and eaten my way straight to foodstuffs invented for sick people.

It all began when I remembered how much I loved eating muesli in the morning with Pops. Muesli is a delightful melange of uncooked, rolled oats, dried fruit, nuts, and other grains. I was under the impression that it was like granola, except uncooked and better for you. Plus, I eat that which my father loves to fill the hole of his absence in my adult life. Hooray for Freud!

So get this. Muesli was actually "invented in 1900 by Swiss doctor Maximilian Bircher-Benner for patients in his hospital. The term is a Swiss German diminutive of the German noun 'mus', a cooking term for a semi-liquid made from raw or cooked fruit that lacks an exact English equivalent, but that is related to mush, paste, compote or the French purée" (Wikipedia.org).

The muesli I buy has a sexy Swedish woman on the front, which means that I will look like her if I eat it:

I am amused and bewildered that muesli was designed for sick people, who I assumed are fed horrible jello and slooshy oatmeal, not my delightful muesli.

Incident number two: I stood staring at Oliver of Bath's biscuits in the British foods section of a local grocery store. I was fascinated by the cultural practice of tea time in England and its trusty sidekick: the biscuit. "What do biscuits taste like?" I asked myself. "Why are some sweet and others 'savory'?" "Should I waste the money that I don't have to buy these biscuits to have them with Earl Grey tea, which I am utterly obsessed with because I live in an imaginary realm where I am not actually in Florida, but England?"

Yeeeeesss! screamed my inner monologue.

So my shopping companion and I return to our home where I broke them open and began to nibble.

"These taste like crackers. Except a picture of this guy Oliver is printed on it."

"Uhh, yeah. I thought you knew that biscuits in England meant crackers or cookies in America. Haha. That's funny."

"Haha...aww. Well, they sort of taste good...I mean, they're made with milk." (looks dejectedly at the "biscuits" and reaches for chips and salsa instead.)

I then proceeded to spend almost an hour researching the history of the biscuit in England. These plain bicuits were made by Oliver of Bath for his sick patients to eat while enjoying a dip in the restorative hot springs of Bath.

In conclusion, the combination of America's frantic, expensive quest to achieve an organic lifestyle, our high rates of bulimea and anorexia, and my culinary discoveries lead me to predict a new diet trend: the sick diet. No longer will we brag of our free-range turkey breast and organic mâche. We shall soon boast of sipping yerba mate tea in bed while a loved one spoons muesli into our feeble mouths. We will return to the Victorian model of femininity, in which pale complexionon and frail health are highly prized. We will smoke cigarettes and eat two Oliver of Bath biscuits a day.

If you thought that the South Beach Diet or going organic was hot, boy were you wrong.

It's all about being sick in this modern world.

interaction

2005-09-03T18:35:00.000-04:00

how abouts we listen to records and make couscous...

my hand will rest the needle on swirling wax if you merely touch the photo.

oh. i forgot. you don't like music anymore. then maybe you prefer a lovely walk in a rare forest? it's the only one in the world with flat brown trees.

or shall we slip around the bend and watch
ariel pink shift his shape in more ways than one?

ah, i hate to see you unsatisfied and slightly offended! forget i said anything. let's just go to france...

except this time, i'll remember every detail about how we fell in love. i might even forgive you for never writing me.

Russian ruse

2005-08-31T18:24:00.000-04:00

I believe that the common Russian adage: "A chicken's hardly a bird, a woman's hardly a person" precisely explains why I am struggling to find Russian women authors for my thesis.

Well you know what, Russia? I'm gonna find some chicks and hatch an analytical masterpiece from their scrumptuous literary eggs.

Hrm...why do I always take things too far?

What's that you say, C. Johnson? You, a lover of poetry, my colleague, housemate, and future lawyer recommend Tatyana Tolstaya to me? Who is she? The great grand-niece of Tolstoy.

I am sincereley indebted to you, C. Johnson.

Unrelated: This video by M83 is strange and beautiful.

Shutter Song

2005-08-30T21:41:00.000-04:00

Make it new make it new make it new one must make it new. Shut the cite of excitable speech, stein. C'est slipperyyy. The Sasquatch Society steals our show and seals our success. Shoot and a shucks! I don't even got one hundred bucks.

My knowledge subsists of specialised, scattered sentences: Spenser, Stein, Olesha, Fisher, Woolf. Seven hundred dollars tab avec ma mère. Seeeventeeeen hundred dollars à la credit card company. Delish!

Salad on my salary? Si.

Shoo 'nuff everythin' be sweet 'n sour.

2005-08-26T00:03:00.000-04:00

Could you just wait. I'll be there soon?

Just let me write this magnum opus. Except I wrote it on a post-it note. It's on the fridge of academia, swimming in yellow. Rubbing corners with other post-its.

Soon it will find itself without adhesive, on the floor, in the garbage.

A fictional work on fiction on a shelf in The Fictional Magnum Opus Room in a library in a fictional college in a sometimes fictional Sarasota.

I must confess that I am not tailored to make words with these hands; but moments, or loaves of bread. This is a most frustrating confession. The worst, because it is a truthful lie.

And so it is, but only because I say so.

So there.

Can I come where you are? Really? Don't be skeptical: I am not running from something, but towards everything.

SYPHILIS SCARE 2005...THE NEW ANTHRAX?

2005-08-25T17:03:00.000-04:00

This post is inspired by one of my roommates who watches sensationalist cable TV news shows.

And now, we interrupt your meaningful, productive existence for an update on...

SYPHILIS SCARE 2005
(cue laser beam samples and frightening amateur graphics)

A young Cryptozoologist was thought to have contracted the embarrassing Old World disease syphilis last Monday. Her symptoms included swollen lymph node, fever, and psychedelic night sweats. She was diagnosed with a sinus infection by an underpaid nurse practitioner provided by her college who disdainfully called her "honey" and sometimes "sweetie." The witch doctor prescribed omoxicillin to the respectable young lady, who could never be stained with the dirty disease syphilis. Eight days later, her entire body was covered in a frightening non-itchy rash. This symptom is a hallmark of the disease.

She knew her time had come. She prayed to baby Jesus, who is also a reporter for Fox News, to take away the syphilis of the world. Jesus was quoted as saying, "Gina is a pure ray of light sent from the heavens...and rays of light never get syphilis. Something is amiss."

Jesus was right. Upon further investigation, it has been discovered that she is allergic to penicillin-based drugs. She will now takes Zyrtec for a few days until the rash hopefully disappears. WARNING: Zyrtec is known to cause drowsiness, which in turn caused Gina to lazily lounge on the couch and watch Food Network for two hours straight. When asked how she was fairing, Gina said, "Don't look at me! I'm rashin'! Eww...is Paula making a recipe for Krispy Kreme Bread Pudding with Rum Sauce?? Now THAT is the most disgusting thing that I will never taste."

2005-08-15T14:46:00.000-04:00

Diagnosis: Sinus infection! Yayyy.

Furthermore, the internet is evil because it filled my head with horrible, nasty lies. I therefore babbled to the nurse practitioner about the causes of my swollen lymph node (see previous post) before I could give her the satisfaction of diagnosing me:

Me: I tried to diagnose myself because I don't have health insurance and you weren't open until today. I read on the internet that I could have syphilis or AIDS or mono (nervous laughter).

Her: Yes, all that Internet stuff is scary.

Me: I accidentally drank the water in France on certain Sundays because nothing is open and I couldn't buy bottled water, and well, I'm sure that I'm more susceptible to Old World diseases, right?

Her: Oh, people only drink bottled water there?

Me: (Is she even listening to me? Is she skirting around some horrible diagnosis?) Do I have a fever? I mean, I was just riding my bike and I took Tylenol this morning, so that might confuse the thermometer.

Her: No, you're perfectly normal! Are you dizzy when you get up?

Me: YES. My head feels all cloudy and I have a terrible headache whenever I get up from lying down for a bit.

Her: You have a sinus infection, my dear. Your right ear also has a lot of wax in it and I think you should return after taking antibiotics so that I may clean out your ears.

Me: Whew! Hah, ew.

2005-08-15T11:27:00.000-04:00

I am aware that I have neglected my blog, but I've been very occupied living. I've also been sick and engaging in self-delusion, I mean, convincing myself that I am not. My symptoms:

I was feverish and felt psychadelic on Thursday. I haven't had a solid night's sleep in four days, because of night sweats and restlessness. I attempted to will away the sickness by meditating. Then my lymph node swelled and won't go down. Awesome. I guess that New Age shit only works if your body is fighting the common cold, rather than a virus.

I researched the causes of swollen lymph nodes because I do not have health insurance (thank you, America, for always being there for me):

1. Infections that commonly cause swollen lymph nodes include mononucleosis, German measles, tuberculosis, mumps, ear infection, tonsillitis, abscessed or impacted tooth, gingivitis (swelling of the gums), mouth sores, and sexually transmitted diseases.

2. Immune or autoimmune disorders that can cause swollen lymph nodes include rheumatoid arthritis and HIV. Cancers that can cause swollen glands include leukemia, Hodgkin's disease, or non-Hodgkin's lymphoma.

AWEESOMEEEEEE.

Je suis revenu!

2005-08-02T00:20:00.000-04:00

I hath returned from the south of France, where the yoghurt flows like rivers and the men proudly sport sexy black purses. Some of them even have the confidence to ask you for a light, which is the most widely-used (and successful) pick up line in France. Believe me, the stereotype is true.

My trip was unbelievable. The only way I can share my experiences with you is by appealing to your knowledge of French culture...and then telling you that whatever you learned is wrong:

1. French people smell. Most people are really clean and well put-together. Almost everyone was fit and looked quite healthy. Maybe it's because there were four fresh markets in Toulouse which sold fresh, ripe farm produce and free-range meats. No one buys Organic in France because everything is just so ridiculously fresh. They scoff at the idea of Organic, because "c'est trop cher!" (it's too expensive!) and illogical.

2. French women don't shave their nasty natural armpits. Ewww! False. Everyone shaves and even I began to because it is goddamn hot and air conditioning does not exist in France.

3. French people hate Americans. Almost every French person I encountered was incredibly polite, even more so than Americans. It is a very respectful culture. For example, it is considered EXTREMELY RUDE to enter a store without saying bonjour or bonsoir as well as au revoir. Most of the time, you can slip in and out of stores in America without even making eye contact. Consumer culture is extremely alienating in America, but it is a very socially important practice in France. They really take shopping seriously, which is somewhat silly, but interesting. Le boulanger (baker) often makes small talk with you. Imagine that, the shopkeepers actually want you to become a loyal customer and connect with you!

4. French people eat tons of bread. They eat one slice for breakfast with jam, one slice with their lunch, as well as one with dinner. In fact, I'd say they eat less than Americans.

5. Paris is the capital of France. Okay, so that isn't a stereotype, but it's a fact that must be changed! Paris is absolutely wretched. Dirty, massive, and global, it was the worst of my stay in France. Although I was only there for 15 hours, I knew that it contained no charm and did not represent France for me or most people. France for me is embodied in the smaller cities and towns where no one spoke English.

6. French men are aggressive, but they are also great lovers. No way, man. First of all, Spaniards were more aggressive towards me. Secondly, the French were definitely not the best lovers I've ever had. They are master seducers, but definitely could not close the deal. All in all, I fell for a British boy. We spent five days straight together and it was bloody magical.

Reality is sinking in, but I am not quite ready to submit. I am content to replay my life in Toulouse over and over again in my mind while the moments are still fresh...and just smile.

Toulouse

2005-07-22T07:44:00.000-04:00

Two young girls walk through a tunnel of breeze and brick. Exhaust and soot rest in a demarcated glass, but I'm distracted because they are holding hands.

Bruit partout!

Options, prices, and wrong choices. New blood, warm blood: it's all a matter of taste. You are sensational! Let me savour this visual overload for just a little longer.

But these were just moments. The story really began here:

She was disappointed. Not because she missed anything. She fell asleep unintentionally...again. The difference in time zones was unbearable. The sun rarely sets before midnight in this part of the world. She dreamt of pain aux amandes and a silent man. He accompanied her when she desired and never intruded in her thoughts and experiences. So what good was he? Well, he was just by her side.

The sad part is that she left him for a Belgian bar. She needed him except when she wanted to meet others. She met someone who drew her a map:

The two men walked her home after many outstanding Belgian beers. The French man loves the movie Wayne's World. They sang Queen while he reenacted the street hockey scene over and over and over, but in French because he only watches it dubbed.

We will meet this evening to dance to Belle and Sebastian in a bar.

2005-07-01T09:04:00.000-04:00

As some of you recall, I was a hair model in May for Angela. The photographs were taken to build her resume as a grand master flash stylist.

And now, brace yourselves for my amazing solipsistic laser light show:

I am on my way out the door for my flight to France. I return July 30. I am so excited that I just might barf.

Laughing all the way to the World Bank

2005-06-26T01:43:00.000-04:00

A woman complained to my co-worker (and not me) that my laugh could burn down the world trade center.

I'm not sure if she was attempting to be clever or (un)patriotic, but she most clearly succeeded at being nonsensical.

Fact number one: No matter how long it exists in your heart, it no longer exists in reality, honey glaze.

Fact number two: You couldn't even burn it down even if it did still stand. It was constructed of crazy glass and metal.

I just really wish my inappropriately loud for a proper lady laughter could IGNITE PEOPLE.

Atlas

2005-06-22T12:58:00.000-04:00

If you told me to pinpoint the moment when I became responsible, I'd chuckle and shift my eyes to the right. Even I suckled my mother's breasts. Now I take care of others. They speak to me and I listen, because that's all you really can do for anyone now. Advice is a deception. To give someone advice implies that you don't believe in their ability to make mistakes. Mistakes are horrible and beautiful and you would be meaningless without them. To take advice is even worse, because one accepts his self as insecure and directionless.

Difficulties arise for me as a listener because I sometimes feel that I cannot carry the weight of your words. It is difficult to be me (as it is for almost everyone else), because I might care too much for human interaction. I'm still searching for a pure, unmediated connection between myself and another, but I would never dare to superimpose this idealized model upon my current connections.

What I'm really getting at in my directionless narrative is that I want to find a happy medium between interaction and solitude. I know I won't discover it anytime soon, but right now they are greatly disproportionate.

The Doctor has no cure, but it doesn't matter. She's not truly sick, only ruminative.

Why is Korean food so good? Cause it's got a lot of Seoul.

2005-06-16T11:37:00.000-04:00

So I dragged five of my grand pals to Tampa with me to feast at Han Il Kwon, the first Korean restaurant in Tampa. It was unbloodybelievable. We spent around $200 because we are stupid American kids who couldn't gauge how much to order. But for some reason the gluttony was half of the fun. We ordered two Traditional Korean Dinners, an awesome cold, spicy buckwheat noodle dish, and a huge hot pot of dumplings. It doesn't sound like a lot for six people, but we seriously couldn't finish it all...and ugh, we had to ride our bikes soon after. I don't have a stinking camera, but I found this picture on the l'internet to give you a visual taste of a Korean dining experience:

They serve all of these tiny side dishes of different vegetables, wheat gluten, fish, noodles, kimchi!, etc. Oh yeah, Claire and I also ate the eye of a cooked fish. It was incredibly salty and it had something HARD AND CRUNCHY IN THE MIDDLE OF IT. EW NEVER AGAIN!

2005-06-14T21:19:00.000-04:00

If we haven't been speaking lately it's because I have been researching.

No, I am not researching for my thesis or any other worthwhile endeavor. I have been obsessively attempting to purchase a bicycle online. Oh, and planning a trip to Tampa to eat at the best Korean restaurant in Florida. But that's only because I'm crazy and plan adventures with my friends because Dr. Gina will win in the fight against summertime Florida.

Behold, my latest obsession:

After tricking out a shitty 80s road bike purchased for 30 bones from Salvation Army, I decided to give road bicycling a serious chance. A year later, I knew that I loved bicycling, mainly because I made this bike my own. But damn, I have poured too much cash into such a worthless machine. I love my bike, but it's time to move on. I need this lightweight folding bike because I am an insatiable materialist fueled by endorphines.

The most ridiculous part about the entire deal is that it is only sold in Japan. I contacted my friend Kaz, a Japanese exchange student who only lives in Tokyo during summer. Even though it's only been one day since he hasn't responded, I'm still FREAKIN' OUT. Even though it is a French name, I think that the bike is actually made by a German company. Cycleurope owns the rights to the name Peugeot, and exports the German model to Japan, who then tricks it out and sells it under Peugeot.

Can you tell I've been OBSESSIVELY RESEARCHING?

GIMME GIMME GIMME.

Living with Jeremy Piven

2005-06-09T11:41:00.000-04:00

I recently moved into a house with three (soon to be four) other New College scholars. Think: a far less racy version of The Real World circa 1995 crossed with PCU. NO ONE IN THIS HOUSE UNDERSTANDS ONE ANOTHER.

Let's meet the characters:

Stanislov: Also known as Stan, Stanny, and Matzah P, this character just finished his first year of college (I believe Jewish studies?). Although he is an employee of Whole Foods, he mocks vegetarian (w)holier-than-thou attitudes and stocks a year's supply of pratts in oil. He used to "mix his beats" full-blast until I gave him my headphones. He plays video games, unconvincingly calls women "bitches," and cringed profusely at my armpit hair. HE DOESN'T CLEAN, yet somehow we love him, because...he's Stan.

Brian: This freshly-graduated and unemployed soon-to-be law student is a looker, ladies! Except his oh-so New College ironic attitude ruins it all. This character watches television constantly and mooches off of the great food on which Chantal and I spend our wages. His constant buffer of "I'll replace it," is now meaningless. (Sigh) Doesn't clean either, but Chantal and I had a most righteous bonding experience watching Rocky IV with him. I guess he's not that bad.

Chantal: One of my best friends. We cook and laugh like banshees together. Clean and respectful, this lil' lady holds three separate summer positions as a law firm intern, professor's assistant and as an Express sales associate. Her interactions with Stan and Brian perfectly mirror those between sister and brothers. It's funny, but the line is blurring between love and hate and frankly, I'm almost scared.

The Cryptozoologist lives in an alcove for the summer. Her room is demarcated from the rooms of Stan and Chantal by a wicker screen partition. She covered the extremely limited wall space with art made by her and her friends. She adores retreating into her tiny world to read Le Petit Prince and enjoy the view from her windows. The boys leave her alone because she refuses to bond through derision. She cooks and fixes her bike a great deal. She hates television, but is already being sucked into Food Network. Damn you, evil seductress!

The other roommate comes home quite soon and then the boys move out in August to be replaced by my bestest friend. I predict that living with women will be far superior. Stay tuned for further developments on my shocking new living situtation. The transition from living solo for a year and a half to living in a commune has been surprisingly easy. The hardest part is determining where and when I will masturbate. Oh yeah, like that's every gonna happen again.

Dance for the masses, Red Panda

2005-06-03T14:44:00.000-04:00

Good day to you! I simply must tell you of my latest Cryptozoological discovery which occured during my visit to Japan earlier this week. The Standing Red Bear of Chiba Zoological Park has been photographed approximately thirty percent as often as Sasquatch. I flew to Japan to photograph the specimen myself, and was silenced by its adorable performance. I have yet to discover whether the creature is to be trusted and is emotionally and intellectually stimulated as Sasquatch. Regardless, he is remarkable because he bears a likeness to something Westerners enjoy to call...a certain je ne sais quoi: "a freak of nature."

2005-06-02T17:19:00.000-04:00

Ah! Je suis très contente avec ma vie parce que je le sois...

mais je ne connais pas le Dieu. C'est un problème? Bof, personne ne sais rien.

Acquaintance Scarfed

2005-06-01T01:23:00.000-04:00

Attention readers and other prominent American moral advocates:

On the evening of May 30, my comrade experienced a most grave injustice. She woke up in horror to discover that her neck was covered in black and blue bruises. Authorities are still investigating the motive of the crime and possible suspects. One leading argument is that she was attacked by a toothless vampire. The counter argument claims that she was sexually assaulted by a Russian circus bear set loose and drunk from high-quality potato vodka. Some claim that a specimen from the male species perpetrated the victim, but this theory was discredited upon close examination of her bruises. Smaller bruises form one large bruise which measures at approximately three inches in diameter. No human could have possibly committed such a foul act.

She has been spotted around town sporting scarves to warn fellow ladies. Although the case is not closed, she lucked out because she looks fabulous in scarves. It must be noted that her mysterious case is groundbreaking for the legal system and American culture. Her horrific experience will from now be referred to as "acquaintance scarfed."

Please. Do not let this happen to you.

2005-05-31T13:10:00.000-04:00

shhhuuuut up.

You can pick your friends.

2005-05-31T00:05:00.000-04:00

Please don't get all paranoid. This is not directed at anyone, but is an exploration to understand my most favorite thing in the whole wide decaying world: human interaction.

The formation of my relationships must not be constructed by shared interests. I must admit I do it; we all do it, but I am bewildered by our conscious decision to connect to one another through a cultural event outside of ourselves. We resort to interact through a product not created or directly experienced by us. The experience is mediated through a media, and we thus internalize the sitcom, commercial, band, whatever, and convince ourselves that we experienced what the characters did. Sorry, but you didn't. You are a reader, a viewer, a shopper. You are insatiable for love and wish to fulfill your creative processes. The only way you are satiated is not through your interactions with others, but through media products. I cannot stand to engage in these frail and forced interactions! Maybe the formation of relations through cultural products is a guise, or a first step to connect. Oh, but it's just an ice breaker! Try again. It's a crutch to connect. We "trust" the judgment of the Other, because you have the same tastes. If you share cultural products, then you must be one in the same, because you share an experience. Shared experiences thus necessitates personal connection.

No. All of this balderdash accomplishes nothing between people. To base your relations with others on interests encourages false consciousness, superficiality, and weak friendships. Even so, I must admit...it does make sense. There is nothing wrong with sharing an experience of a creative product with another, because it constitutes culture. There is something wrong with foregoing awkward, beautiful interactions for products. If we "pick and choose" our friends according to interests, we are in all actuality treating them as cultural products, rather than selves.

So if you pick me from the shelf, please don't be disappointed when I expire or go out of fashion. I'm sure I'll fit into a friendship repertoire in a different time and place. If not, I'm always down for some solitude.

Garage sale and a whistling musician

2005-05-26T20:45:00.000-04:00

Three of my friends and I are having a garage sale tomorrow from 7 am - 2ish at 2065 Grove Street in Sarasota. Take a left before Webber if you are travelling south on 41. It is by the hospital. There will be a large sign.

Expect an array of hip records, clothing, furniture, electronics, instruments. I urge you to take a gander at our material possessions and judge us accordingly, then reappropriate our objects and make them significant to your life. More importantly, I need to rid my life of all of these objects and ironically make the most powerful object of all: "bling bling," to quoth the kids.

In other meaningless events, I mean news, I have been enjoying Andrew Bird's new album The Mysterious Production of Eggs.

A Nervous Tic Motion of the Head to the Left is one of my favorite tracks.

If you're bored, then you must be boring too.

2005-05-25T21:22:00.000-04:00

Good evening.

I AM BORED.

I am never bored. I don't even subscribe to that emotion or state of being. I despise it and people who constantly proclaim their boredom. Me and Solitude are like this (crosses fingers) but for some reason or another, Boredom thinks he's being sexy by trying to make me cheat on my peaceful Mr. Solitude. Back away from my man, bitch!

Oh, but I am weak like the rest of you. Mr. B sleeps in my bed, infects my books, and my internet connection. He made me look at the Tampa Bay craigslist personals for twenty minutes. He thinks he is entitled to play matchmaker and hook me up with Mr. Boring, Looking for Miss Boring.

In order to dump Mr. Boredom for my true love, Mr. Solitude, I have decided to go cold turkey. I will walk the streets of Sarasota until fatigue encompasses my body. I will drink by myself until that is boring. I will listen to records until I hate them. I will people watch downtown. I will then throw myself into really uncomfortable situations (moreso than I already do) to induce trauma. If there's one thing that proves to never be boring, it's Trauma.

2005-05-24T23:16:00.000-04:00

And then there are moments when I soak all of you up. You are all so exquisite and strange that I forget my mistakes, such as falling off of the sidewalk during a walk in my neighborhood.

What I do strive to remember is all of you and the meal we created. The chilled avocado lime soup sprinkled with cilantro and tomatoes did not colonize my palette, but soothed my aching summer tension. It repaired the loss of my physical existence, just as the roasted beet salad with oranges and fennel induced a rush of color and flavor to my cheeks. I often blush for no reason and cannot account for it, because it is involuntary, but this exotic and remarkable salad excited me. Its sweet tartness was beautifully balanced by our most amazing handmade portabello, ricotta and goat cheese raviolis, which was served with a garlic and roasted red pepper olive oil sauce.

We fed each other with words and smiles as we chopped, diced, minced. Matt asked me how I dealt with my Catholic guilt. I can't deal, I said. I want for something to come along to force a change and make me forget, since I cannot solve it alone. He told me that I hadn't met my match. "There's a different between guilt and shame, Gina." "Oh, there is?" He told me not to worry. Why does he know so very well? We have probably only hung out less than ten times.

I appreciate him and the others. They enhance me and draw me into emotions only felt to a lesser degree in solitude. One might say that they draw me out of my solitude, but they actually make my alone self more palpable, meaningful, and vice-versa. The question remains, can I draw Sasquatch out of his solitude? Do I even want to? Have I actually become him in my performance for you? No, we just want to be alone. Now can you please get your camera off of me? No, wait. Don't go, reader. Everything is meaningless without you!!!!!!!! *spirals into a black hole of emotive dead ends*

2005-05-23T11:49:00.000-04:00

Please listen to the twenty-two year old irreverent crooner Jens Lekman. He plays the ukulele and was voted to be the fifteenth sexiest man in Sweden.

2005-05-21T22:53:00.000-04:00

On May 14, a certain Cryptozoologist turned 21. She decided to be drunk almost every night for an entire week. After much soul searching, No, really, she physically searched for it in others since it is believed that she is soulless. If you happen to find her soul, please call me, er I mean her. she came to the doctorial decision to not party so hardy until France.

She compiled this top 10 list of why partying is sooo lame and gave it to me when she was wasted:

1. Partying is a major drag if condensed.
2. Too many empty calories. I'd rather be eating.
3. Dancing on platforms with beautiful, seventeen year old boys is so uncalled for!
4. $$$$$
5. Saying really idiotic college cliches which induce self-loathing, such as: "Where the fuck is the keg!?!?" and "Don't fuck him! He's on ecstasy!" while holding a 1960s-inspired teal mug filled with Kronenberg at your artsy-fartsy liberal arts college end of the year party.
6. Waving to your hot, twenty-something poetry professor while your friend DJs his downtempo/electronic music in a tiny dorm lounge with a handful of other students. This refers to other ridiculous social encounters.
7. Partying with your poetry professor. You know, the one ON YOUR THESIS COMMITTEE. AHHHHH!
8. Your friends hooking up with each other for no reason other than they are bored and hot.
9. Listening to your friends talk about making out with your friends. Weird.
10. Your body hates you because you hated it hard for 5 hours by feeding it fancy poison.

How I need you, Mr. Escapism.

2005-05-19T13:34:00.000-04:00

I am done with this semester and my third year of college! To celebrate, I am going to watch the film Nobody Knows by myself. If you know me in reality, you would be aware of how much of a square I truly am. All I ever do is read and ruminate (which apparently also means "to chew chud," according to Dictionary.com). Eff that! It's summer, which mean now I can be antisocial in a movie theater instead of my apartment.

This surfaced when I searched for "done" in Google images:

You always say it best, Google.

Moliere would be proud.

2005-05-17T22:47:00.000-04:00

Dear readers,

My twenty-first birthday was unparalled! I was a supreme glutton, and loved by many including an existentialist stranger whose phone number I forgot to ask for. I am slowly and unsurely readjusting to reality, but only so that I may recklessly execute final school duties.

I am currently writing the worst Final paper of my entire academic career for my 17th Century French Literature class: "Representations of Power, Power of Representations." I feel the need to share an excerpt, or as I like to call it: "literary burp vomit" (Reading and writing on the works didn't taste good goin' down, and taste nastier than leftover Labor Day hotdogs and warm beer coming up).

Louis revoked the ban five years later after Moliere heavily revised Tartuff, most notably changing the ending into a pandering deus ex machina in which the King saves the play. His changes to the play represent the power of performance of the French state. Contrary to our modern sensibilities, Literature as well as all arts functioned as representations of the state. If an author’s works did not praise the King or contained one ounce of perceivable slander against him, the author and his works were given the censorship guillotine.

I am ashamed and disgusted, but mostly because I murdered a cockroach with my sandal twenty minutes ago and am not morally prepared to clean up the evidence.

Lifted from the Morning News because the Internet encourages plagiarism

2005-05-13T09:36:00.000-04:00

Proust Cult Obsessed with Baking True Proustian Madeleine and Inducing Involuntary Memories/Orgasms

Whining and Fine Narrative Dining

2005-05-13T01:55:00.000-04:00

Confession time. I trash talked spending my 21st birthday with my parents, but only because I am missing

Despite my parent's fervent religiosity and dogmatic right wing ideologies, they're not so bad! I might even call them amazing. W(h)ining and dining with anyone else but them, especially for my bday at Zoe's would be downright blasphemous. They have impeccable taste and are the best dining companions you will ever have. If someone surpasses them, then we will instantly marry (fo' sho').

My family and I create a food narrative whenever we dine. We only talk about what we are eating and how it relates to what we have eaten before or what memories we associate with the meal. Approving "mmmm..."s and "ahhh"s ease any awkward silence. You do not talk about politics, religion, Kant's stinking Critique of Pure Reason or how your insignificant day went. If you want to discuss "real" issues, then you obviously wish to detract from the purity of the feeding ritual.

In conclusion, no matter how amazing Lightning Bolt might be, I will be dressed up all fancy-like, drinking champagne and eating Pan-Roasted Mediterranean Bronzini "Loup de Mer."

Second conclusion in the form of a maxim: There is a fine line between honorably calling oneself an old soul and admitting an essential snobbery. I'll get back to you when I figure it all out.

Third startling conclusion! Apparently you can order a Colorado Wapiti Elk Rack for $33 or King Canyon Buffalo Filet for $42 at Zoe's. (All steaks served ala carte with maitred butter and your choice of béarnaise or roasted shallot cabernet glace).

What's that all about?!?

The Civil War

2005-05-12T07:48:00.000-04:00

I kept telling myself that I wasn't tired and stressed out about the end of the semester, but apparently my mind is waging a civil war with my body. Casualties: one as of this morning.

I called Chantal at 7:45 AM to apologize for being late to pick her up for our puppet show for our 9 AM class. I was also rubbing my teeth with toothpaste smeared on my finger and choking. I had just woken up, but resolutely informed her that I would be there in ten minutes. Why I had decided that toothbrushes were out of the question blows my mind. When she told me that it was 7:45, I agreed, and insisted that class started in 15 minutes. She said, "Hah, um...Gina...class is at 9!

"Uh. Oh. Hah. Sorry."

The Misadventures of a Model and her Marionettes

2005-05-09T20:22:00.000-04:00

Apropos the cliche, modeling is ridiculously difficult. I've never even had someone apply mascara to my eyelashes before. The whole production was enjoyable, save for my eyes leaking from said application of mascara.

I now present to you a brief personal narrative of the misadventures of an amateur hair model.

Upon walking into the studio carrying three Mod dresses and my ugly brown travel bag filled with decaying vintage shoes and Tom's Natural deodorant, I enthusiastically yelled "HELLO!" I was so stoked to be helping Angela. Not only was the photographer nor Heidi nor Angela present [all known persons at this event], but my uninhibited humanity somehow disturbed three female specimens and their application of makeup. Apparently I ruined their "game faces."

Before arriving at the studio, I frantically rode my bike downtown in search of marionettes. Chantal and I are adapting the tragedy Horace by Corneille into a puppet show for our 17th Century French Literature class. I am going to wear a shirt that says "Ideology" and she shall wear one labeled "Corneille." This is completely unrelated to modeling, but nevertheless, I am completely obsessed.

Errmm...where was I? Yes, modeling. Very hard. Even though ones sits around posing and getting primped, it's absurdly tiring. I have a new found respect for those genetic freaks. I don't know how I could have done it if I hadn't consumed a leftover omelet, coffee, and carrot orange juice for breakfast. To beef up for the shoot, I ate a slice of homemade pizza à la slab of goat cheese, strawberries, black licorice, and water.

In conclusion, I loved assisting a friend, but derive more pleasure from stuffing my face and planning a puppet show adaptation of a Neo-Classical French Tragedy in front of five unsuspecting colleagues.

Think: Aristotle, Terry Eagleton, and Punch and Judy.

Hair Elegy

2005-05-09T00:22:00.000-04:00

As a famous Cryptozoologist, I am often behind the camera, rather than in front. Such is not the case tomorrow. I have been asked by the lovely, talented, life-affirming, kareoke champ and kabbalist Angela D. to pose as a hair model for her portfolio. She cut my hairs today and I adore its angles, nuances, and texture. Props to ma hairdresser 4 life ya heard word.

My only gripe with the entire procedure is that, naturally, I should shave my armpits. Argh, they are my myth magnets! Every mythological creature I study is attracted to their supernatural scent. My studies may suffer now because of my culturally constructed armpits. I know that I will adapt and attract them otherwise, but zdounds [my favorite interjection]! If I believed in principles, it would surely count!

I don't even own a damn razor, or should I say "follicle decapitator." (Shudder) I had to perform an archeological dig in my bathroom for one and scrape the artifact across my skinscape. I sincerely forgot how horrible and bazaar shaving is.

My questions to you, readers, are as follows:

(1) How did shaving become sexy?
(2) Why do I write nonsense?
(3) Why does my family say grace in restaurants?
(4) TWO PART QUESTION: Why did I not call the cops after hearing a horrible domestic dispute outside of my apartment for twenty minutes? Am I a bad person?
(5) Will I be able to enjoy my twenty-first birthday on Saturday despite wretched final exams?
(6) Is this post even about arm pits anymore? No, because I no longer care.

Runner's Ideology

2005-05-04T23:25:00.000-04:00

Hey folks! [Read in the voice of a "wacky and wild" radio jockey or nerdy Jewish Weird Al type.]

Guess what time it is? Time to prescribe to this week's Ideology!

What's your favorite Ideology, kids? Religion? Sex? Drinking? Pedophilia?!

BOOOORRRRRRINGGGG!

Mine is...RUNNING. Uh-huh, forget Mr. Corey Hart; I wear white when I run at night! It's best that way because cars won't run you over and your neighbors won't see a haggardly, struggling mcfatty jogging in white shorts sans undies because you haven't done laundry in 30 years!!! Unless of course they be chillin' on their front porch with a flash light and a shotgun, SEARCHIN' FOR SOME OF THEM TERRORISTAS.

So who wants to be my running partner? My only stipulation is that you not talk to me when we run because I am thinking too hard about my breathing.

In the nose, out the mouth, and don't fuck it up!

Your grey layer

2005-05-01T18:20:00.000-04:00

"I ate duck this weekend. I could see the fat in it, but I ate it anyway. It was so good!"

"You need the fat," I say. "You never cut it off. You slice the fat and render it."

I am a liar. I claim to need the fat, to love its taste, but never indulge. But should one eat the fat? Rendering does not visibly extinguish it; a thick, gelatinous layer of temptation remains. And when I look at you and our duck, I cannot help but look at your fat, at your evil. I need to taste you. Yet I recoil for you shall clog the arteries of my heart.

I have lost count of these cold moments. I always look at your delicious skin and know it will taste heavenly, but could never tranche or render your grey layer.

I am forever rendered useless! I refuse to believe that your bad is part of your good, and is tasteless without it.

And so I starve.

From my poetry professor

2005-04-30T13:12:00.000-04:00

Sounds like a great thesis, Gina, and I love your committee so far. I'd be happy to talk with you about the project and wouldn't hesitate to sign on in support.

Your thesis topic is making me hungry. I am going to eat a waffle.

Ben

A Study of My Baseness Versus European Basilicas

2005-04-27T21:45:00.000-04:00

Dear readers and/or ex-Catholics,

I call on you to direct your attention to the genus Parentus Most Insaneus. One subgenus specimen (mater Catholica) is a relentless creature. Her love spans many moons, but her world view stems from God; who is, as we all know, the greatest man-made myth, besides language.

Upon learning of my future travels to the exotic, untamed lands of southern France, my mater Catholica informed me of many basilicas and cathedrals which promise rediscovery of my Catholic heritage and salvation (for I am a soul soiled by baseness and depravity). This very morning, I received an "electronic mail" piece, also known as a postage simulacrum. Its contents are as follows:

Hi Gina, while you are in France can you please go to Lourdes for me? I went there when I was a little girl. I'll never forget it. It's just south of Toulouse. Here's a link. This is where the body of St. Bernadette lies in a glass coffin. Her body never decomposed and never had to be injected with anything to keep it from decomposing. This grotto is the site of many healing miracles. I'd like you to say a prayer for myself, Dad and our family there. Do you think you can make it? It's not far and is in the Pyrenees. MOM
http://www.lourdes-infotourisme.com/english/welcome.htm
http://www.sacredsites.com/europe/france/lourdes.html

As a Cryptozoologist, I am extremely weary of stepping inside churches. In 1972, I burst into flames and frightened twenty Korean tourists upon walking into St. Peter's Cathedral. Thankfully a priest acted quickly by extinguishing me with the body of Christ (approximately 103.5 wafers). I feel that this event ranks closest to either (a) the fiery depths of hell, or (b) the only religious fervor I will ever experience.

If I am to visit this holy site, it shall be for a scientific inquiry into this supposed immaculately preserved Bernadette. She may serve to illuminate the immortality of the Sasquatch.

Say yes to Bologna

2005-04-18T18:58:00.000-04:00

"Bologna was the first city in Italy to elect a Communist town council and is the headquarters of the National Gay Alliance. What more can you say about a city that has cathedrals, communists, discos and the best tortellini?" (Lonely Planet)

Postscript: I inadvertently chose to visit pink and red European cities. While Toulouse is called "la ville rose," Bologna is often referred to as "Red" Bologna because of its dusky red-colored buildings and Commies.

If my Cryptozoologist studies fail me, I plan to become a travel agent. The only package I will offer will be called "The Red Scare." For only $5,000 you can visit Europe's most sexy Communist hot spots*. You and your friends can swim in the Red Sea, admire renaissance architecture, and attend the annual "La Tomatina" festival where 20 or 30 thousand of your closest friends violently throw tomatoes at you. "The Red Scare" also includes unlimited red wine in each country!

*Russia not included.

2005-04-18T17:50:00.000-04:00

I just fabricated the most amazing meal in 15 minutes:

Spicy cabbage with cumin seeds and tomatoes (A modern spin on a traditional indian cabbage recipe)

2 tbs butter
2 tps cumin seeds
2 shallots, thinly sliced
1 tsp crushed red pepper flakes (I also used a cayenne from my dad's garden)
3 cups of cabbage (Anecdote: My father lives almost two hours south. He met me off of the highway at nine this morning to give me fresh green cabbage, basil, tomato, rosemary, peppers, etc. from his garden. Yes, we are that weird.)
1 can whole or diced tomatoes with their juice
1/3 cup raisins (OMG RAISINS 4 DINNER YUM)
1/2 tsp salt
Juice of 1 lemon (This I skipped because I ain't keep no stinkin' lemons in my abode.)
1/2 cup chopped fresh cilantro (Party in your mouth!!)

1. Sauté the butter with cumin seeds for 1 minute. Add shallots and red pepper(s), sauté for 2 minutes, stirring frequently.

2. Add the cabbage, tomatoes, and raisins. Raise the heat and bring the mixture to a boil. Add the salt, reduce the heat to low, and simmer, covered, until the cabbage is tender, 8 to 10 minutes. Stir in lemon juice and cilantro. Season with additional salt if desired, and serve.

I made rice, but it took forever to cook, so I ate a ton of the cabbage dish by itself. It's crunchy, tangy, spicy, aromatic, earthy, and vegan, if you deny the butter (which you should never do).

Je vais au Toulouse!

2005-04-13T23:56:00.000-04:00

Friday - July 1
Depart 05:45 pm Tampa, FL - U.S. - Tampa Intl
Arrive 07:00 am London, United Kingdom - Gatwick Arpt

Saturday - July 30
Depart 11:25 am London, United Kingdom - Gatwick Arpt
Arrive 03:45 pm Tampa, FL - U.S. - Tampa Intl

$645. Every ticket from America to France was $1,000 and up. Insane in the membranes. If you need cheap tickets, I highly recommend www.mobissimo.com

Now all I have to do is buy a plane ticket from London to Paris and then a train ticket from Paris to Toulouse. I've already reserved a spot in the language program. I can't believe this is real. I even bought the plane ticket with my debit card, rather than credit. You know, with REAL money. Je suis tres nerveuse.

Puma's postmodern economic wit

2005-04-13T01:53:00.000-04:00

On the Immorality of the Whirligig

2005-04-12T19:36:00.000-04:00

"On the Immorality of the Whirligig" A Treatise by Dr. Gina Crypto

Ladies, gentlemen, les bouffeurs, and the occasional nincompoop:
I address thee on this glorious spring day of April the twelfth in the year of our fallen lord, two thousand and five to discuss the profundity of the Whirligig. It is a most curious invention of Modern science. Less useful than the Microscope, more influential than the Bunsen Burner, the Whirligig is an evil vehicle of acceleration.

I strapped myself into this contraption on a most injurious evening and whirled ten times towards and against the rotation of the Sun. This bewitching mechanism distressed me to nausea and shortness of breath. A most evil consequence of the Whirligig is the divine pleasure one receives. "Oh to surreptitiously tumble in defiance of gravity!" one often yells orgasmically. Such is the ungodliness of the Whirligig. It instructs our children to worship the cosmos and the supernatural. It disrupts our humours and defies proper equilibrious velocity.

To enjoy the Whirligig is to defy Nature.

Aliens don't believe in Satan.

2005-04-10T20:22:00.000-04:00

These conversations occured on the eleventh of April at approximately 8:30 pm. They have been lightly edited for length, but not content. Please read if you wish to gain insight into the battle between good and evil, or the truth behind the human psyche and the dream-work.

Brother: you've been in some dreams of mine yoooo
Sister: really?
B: I saved you from this UFO one night dude!!!!
S: really???
B: I saw it coming and I knew that it was "time " or something. It was like I cant believe this is about to happen
S: so wait, it was bad?
B: it tried to suck you into the ship
S: hahaha
B: but I held on to you dude and wouldnt let go. you were like flying in the air. so I saved you right. then I was like talking to the aliensbut they looked like humans, man and they wanted to do experiements or something
S: weird. they always do.
B: lol word so it was weird then hte next scene is that this "alien " and I were viban ddude!!
this female alien we were having good convo lol
S: haha
B: in a mall or something and I was saying how there is a war going on of good vs evil and that the Deceptive One "Satan" is for real and she didntbelieve me so then I saw this person in between clothing aisles and it had a tail
S: whaaaat!
B: yea dude It was like SERPENT!
S: this is scary
B: and the tail was shown then it went back inside of this person
S: ewww
B: I was like YO alien lady thats Satan right there she looked @ it and said naaaaaa b/c the alien didnt believe then I saw the tail unfold again dudde then she saw its crazy yo lol but then the Serpent grabbed me with its tail and tried to take me
S: WHAT THE HECK
B: but I got a way mann!!
S: ahhhhhhh
B: so anyways lol the aliens tried to get you but no worries I saved you :)

Second Conversation

B: but I had this reallly weird dream where we were @ Crescent Gardens dude (our old apartment) and I walked by your rooom and there was this Demonic voice in your room dude
S: haha i am laughing and yet am scared
B: I remember how I went into your room to sleep and I could feel its presence all over me in your room.
S: I'm confused.
B: So I walked by and I heard all this stuff and I was like Gina what are you llistenign to
who is that thats what I said you know and you were like "its nothing!" and I was scared yo
b/c I knew it was evilness lurking
S: eww then what
B: it was like you were hanging out listening to the wrong people or something in reality and then you were in the shower and you were listening to this demonic voice agian man
S: hmm i don't know, because i've been alone a lot recently
B: that voice could be the Ego. The Ego is the culprit of deception
S: umm i mean i haven't been feeling morally bad or anything. i get lonely sometimes but i deal with it
B: word... but remember the Ego hides our morals it tells us things we do that are wrong are okay. weee gotttta aflooww on some next level vibes duddudeee
S: the Ego represses your natural urges, which is the Id
B: Id?
S: the Id = your base desires
B: scando dude think about this: everything we see in the material world is an illusion this computer you are looking @ isnt a computer. its energy. that wall you are looking at isnts a wall its energy yo
S: i'm not sure how you define energy
B: it is all matter. quantum particles
S: i'm pretty sure these are materials constructed in the real world and the names we assign to them are imaginary, but not the objects themselves
B: the names are imaginary... but chemistry prooves that EVERYTHING is energy

Fine crafted pins and beans

2005-04-04T23:47:00.000-04:00

The excitable young lady lunged towards me. Five feet of marble slab separated us, yet she managed to tactfully fondle my pin.

"It's lovely! Is it a real leaf? How in the world did they do that?"

"Yes! You won't believe what you'll find around town. Single espresso, please."

She staggers to and fro with frivolity and ease. Does she read all of those Italian newspapers? Or is she made to purchase them for ses chefs chauvins?

She fails to ask me if it is for here or to go. I do not dare complain; to disturb her ritual would cause offense.

"I have heard great things about Illy. It's my first time actually trying it," I offer.

"Yes. People really seem to love it. Do you drink the espresso at your work?"

"No." I lie to heighten the beauty of my consumption.

She offers her name to me. I awkwardly ingest and spit out its contents into a slurred jumble during our farewell speech. She smiles. I look down into the swirly, concentrated tar pit and forget her name.

I decide to make her a ritual.

2005-04-03T19:05:00.000-04:00

I am reading Crime and Punishment. I am infatuated with Roskolnikov and the mind of Dostoevsky. His narrative synthesizes the beauty of Nabokov and the nightmares of Kafka.

Mihail Chemiakin. "Le rêve de Raskolnikov," 1964.

Mes pensées

2005-03-29T20:22:00.000-05:00

To be called beautiful by a respectable acquaintance of the older generation reminds me of a stranger walking in on me in the bathroom. Oddly enough, both incidents have occured equally throughout my life.

They're not suppossed to go there, but they did it anyways. You quickly pull up your trousers and pretend it wasn't said, but it's out there. You can never go back to normal interactions. This person saw you on the pot.

It's embarassing because you aren't beautiful. You are just someone doing your business. To assume that it is complimentary to be called "beautiful" is a massive fallacy. Stop looking at me with your eyes and start considering all of me. You may say that I am too harsh and unfeeling, but that is irrelevant. My contention lies with the social practice of valorizing the exterior over the interior. I need to connect with you, not be gazed at adoringly.

It sickens me to no end. Please do not assume that I am angry. I am happier now than I have been in months. The only despicable part about my happiness is that it results from 80% solitude and 15% meaningful human interaction. It is selfish, but it is also very beautiful.

Spelt-struck

2005-03-28T22:37:00.000-05:00

Hark! I love thee, grain of Spelt. Thou art more temperate than your ugly sister Wheat.

Seriously, I am head-over-heels for spelt breads since I eliminated yeast from my diet. BEHOLD MY BEAUTY:

Ingredients: Olde World Spelt flour, well water, sea salt. You don't need yeast to grow this sourdough bread because of ancient breadmaking techniques. The process uses a natural leavening starter, which is time consuming, but produces a phenomenal sourdough taste.

Let me count the ways of my love:

1. You are old. I like old things cause they been around. People know how to handle old things. They don't get all freaked out. I like you because you precede the grains Emmer and Einkorn. You're also in the Bible (book of Exodus). That's, um, kind of noteworthy?

2. Pesticides are not required to grow you. You're not susceptible to fungi diseases, pollutants or insects due to your tight outer hull.

3. You're hot. And by hot, I mean you support good blood circulation. [Yes, I am a loser.]

4. "Spelt has a higher proportion of unsaturated fatty acids (mainly Linol acid and Linoleen acid) important for regeneration of nerve cells." I agree, whatever that means!

5. You are high in protein and amino acids, so you make me wanna work out. Your protein levels are 10-25% great then that found in wheat. WUT WUT, WHEAT?

6. The most sexiest thing about you is that you contain high levels of L-Tryptophan, which aid in serotonin production. That means I'm not sad or angry, but only silly. I also remember stuff and look good when I eat you, spelt, cause you're rich in B and E vitamins.

Oh, crap.

2005-03-24T12:35:00.000-05:00

Q. -- How do I know if I really have food allergies?

Try the Elimination diet -- eliminate all suspect foods for 5 days and see how you feel. (Also known as the “Cave Man” diet ). Eat meat, fish poultry, most beans and peas, nuts and seeds, vegetables and fruit. Avoid milk, grains, and refined sugars. Symptoms may improve, or even disappear.

Dear readers, is your skin terrible the morning after only two beers? Does your digestive system syntax error after ice cream and cheese? Do you sometimes break out in tiny hives or rashes on your face after eating chocolate chip cookies? Dr. Gina does and it worries her because her birth mother is allergic to yeast and is on a low fungi diet. She eats special bread, watches her vinegars, and skips dairy. The last bit won't be hard for me because I try my hardest to avoid the dairy devil, but beer and wine? What if I go to France? What about the delightful, moldy cheeeseeeee and breeead!? AHHHHHH.

Expect an update after I sadly stamp fungus out of my life.

When Dr. Gina Met Cupid

2005-03-23T01:35:00.000-05:00

I am done with cheap entertainment. I can't watch "bad" or action movies anymore. Hell, I can't watch any movies anymore. I used to be really into kitsch and shock value, but that passed when my friend died, or when I killed him. My memory fails me.

Anyways, I watched When Harry Met Sally in its entirety for the first time last night. The dialogue is quick and endearing. Basically, the movie was meaty. I'd even call it Carb-free: it didn't border on sentimentality. The only sentimental moment in the entire movie is the very end when they realize their love for each other. But even then Sally screams, "I hate you, Harry!" over and over and they kiss. Perfect! In fact, they actually hate and avoid each other for many years, but keep recountering one other in NYC. They are best friends first and lovers second, though apprehensively.

It is such a fantastic movie and I really think its premise appeals to my sense of an ideal love. As a cryptozoologist, I study many strange phenomenons, but love is by far is the most evil specimen. I'm so freaked out about this entire social practice of meeting strangers and entrusting them with your heart/life. I have observed many humans fall in love at first sight (In French, love at first sight translates to "la coup de foudre," or strike of lightning. This implies violence and blindness/foolishness).

All I'm saying is that I can only take so many hits of lightning. I'm burnt to a crisp. I'd rather hate someone at first sight and marry him after 15 years of failing to avoid him. Now that's what I call an ideal love.

Yes, I even had to grow bored of myths.

2005-03-21T00:13:00.000-05:00

The only myth I have been studying lately is myself. Guess what I discovered? That I had been here before and that I am tired. I am tired of myself and wondering how I am doing. Everytime someone asks me how I am, I just want to tell them: "I don't even care, so why should you? You and our interactions only matter to me."

This isn't about being some fucking martyr or helping the less self-aware fall in love with me. This is not subversive narcissism. I am not obsessed with myself. I constantly feed off of my surroundings and adapt myself to others. This does not mean that I lack a self, but my self is super-duper pliable. Being pliable doesn't make me better than you. It is my function.

It's disgusting, because maybe I do wish I did not have a self. Then I could be this medium of experiences and others. There would no longer be a filtering of events, but a direct pipeline. On the other hand, my mediation enhances experiences beyond your wildest conception.

I don't even know what the fuck I am talking about or what I want. Restlessness will be the death of me.

Here is a list of things I'd rather be doing right this second:

-writing a play in Montreal. or really anything, but only in Montreal
-walking down the streets of San Fransisco and Chicago
-watching some jazz musicians in a Chicago club
-cooking for a restaurant in New York City
-being a pastry chef
-lying on the aisle floor in a library, confusing others
-talking to strangers
-looking through a new friend's apartment in their absence
-cooking for my friends everynight
-petting my doggy pug face Lucy
-farting in my brother's face because he was evil and did so to me as a child/teen

2005-03-17T16:36:00.000-05:00

Chantal bought Felicity and we are obsessed. I also stumbled upon a new paradigm:

Felicity = the more hip college version of My So-Called Life!!

Felicity = Angela Chase
Ben = Jordan Catalano
Noel = Brian Krakow
Julie = Raynne Graffe

Don't you love that all of the characters in My So-Called have to be called their full name?

I adore awkward television.