rant time, stream of consciousness style.

photos. i have some, i want to show them because they are of dust. i want people to like them too, but i have to write this paper on mail order brides, a subject i know nothing about and don't want to essentialize, but probably will anyway.

then there is food. i have been trying to eat more healthy. this week i bought chard from the co-op at school. it tasted kinda sweet like they said it would.

i added chick peas, avocado, tomato, red onion, lemon, ginger and tonight, some chicken. as he made his food, different than mine, we watched Freaks and Geeks, the one where Sam loses his towel and streaks through the halls. then Cindy Sanders (that bitch) cheers him on, while Bill and Neil get jealous.

am I ever going to finish school? one of my faithful readers is almost done her fuckin' masters. HER MASTERS! I'm in my third year of my undergrad. what a joke.

at least i declared my major.

i now have a heart shaped glass hanging in my window. it constantly as a rainbow in it. although it's super new-age, it is well intentioned, so it shall stay.

tonight Johannes told me that he can't wait to see me being a mom. I told him i can't wait to see him kiss little Seymour's cheeks, cause they'll likely be a little like mine, except smaller. he'll love that. things have been more than great lately, especially when he took care of me last night, made me eggs and popcorn while i laid on the couch, recovering.

we took a walk in the rain today as well. pesto croissant for me, sticky bun for he.

then we filled our bag with vegetables and milk, and came home to sit in the warm sun.

i almost fell asleep from the warmth.

now it is windy windy and rainy. and beautiful. but vicious.

Johannes is in bed. i want to be there too.

fuck fuck fucking shit. i hate school today.

and yesterday.

and the day before.

and tomorrow.

i just needed the internet world to know since I'm all alone, wrapped tightly in a wolf blanket wanting to eat grilled cheese sandwiches.

oooooooooh the anticipation is growing.

it is time for a CP wedding.

to my despise, i missed Mel's.

so this will be my first.

Bonnie and Caleb. it's time.

the cpcd is finished and lying in my packed red suitcase.

my wool socks are in there too, along with my pearl necklace and black dress.

not only is it a reunion of old pals, it's the joining of two good friends.

what will be said? where will conversation go?

my hopes are high.

Fuck You Dov Charney. Fuck You.

“Women initiate most domestic violence, yet out of a thousand cases of domestic violence, maybe one is involving a man. And this has made a victim culture out of women.” - Dov Charney

Here are the facts:

1 in 4: The number of women raped and/or physically assaulted by a current or former spouse, cohabiting partner, or dating partner/acquaintance at some time in their lifetime. (for men: 7.6 out of 100)
1.3 Million: The number of women physically assaulted by an intimate partner annually in the United States. (for men: 835,000)
20: The percentage of nonfatal violence against women committed by an intimate partner. (for men: 3)
33: The percentage of female murder victims who were killed by an intimate. (for male murder victims: 4%)
1,247: The number of women killed by an intimate partner in 2000. (for men: 440)
2/3rds: The percentage of women killed by firearms who were killed by an intimate partner.
1,006,970: The number of women stalked annually in the United States.
84: The percent of spouse abuse victims who are female.

I’m not trying to downplay the plight of male victims of domestic violence, or suggest that becase men are victimized less often that their victimization isn’t just as wrong. There is a cultural silence and erasure of male victimization, and that’s a huge problem. But addressing that doesn’t require ignoring — or spitting at — the fact that women experience the vast majority of intimate partner violence, and that we often pay for it with our lives. It doesn’t require implying that women bring domestic violence upon themselves by saying that women “initiate” most of it (What does that even mean? She talked back?).
I wish I could come up with something more adult and biting than “Fuck you, Dov Charney,” but it’s about all I can muster.

-Jill (from Feministe.com)

i still listen to the cure.

smoke cigarettes.

drink wine.

eat meat.

eat foreign vegetables.

eat Second Slice pizza.

stay up late.

never finish books.

obsess about apologizing and loneliness.

somehow I think i should know better by now.

and part of me cares deeply about altering my choices.

part of me can not be bothered.

there is another part of me, a greater part, however, that aches knowing that i'm not a better person.

a better writer.

activist.

thinker.

reader.

cook.

friend.

organizer.

lover.

photographer.

so i sit. here. in victoria. thinking about what city is next.

some people know what i have in mind.

most do not.

i plan to keep it that way for a bit.

until i am a little more settled in my head.

i have hardly written this year.

that pains me.

looking back always does.

but this is just it.

ihave a bed partner. a friend. a feminist. a book finisher. a cook. a collector.

he has become my life. although i am aware of the kind of response i may receive in response to such a statement,

it. is. okay.

now what i deal with on a daily basis are questions of time, trust, space, response, observation, ability, compatibility, judgement, and peace.

lists kristina. always with the lists.

indeed.

life consists of these things:



open. count. sell. sample. eat. wait for change. listen. speak. smile. ride bike home. eat. watch. listen. love. sleep.


i just watched EWS by Kubrick and realized that the subject matter is delicate. frightening almost, although I'm interested. i was alone, that changed everything entirely. it's best not to do that, i figure. is the purpose of those temptations curiosity or fluidity?
i suppose i will learn all about it in my upcoming Monday and Thursday classes.

i get jealous a lot. and impatient. i need to work on these things. perhaps i should call it inspiration, rather than jealousy. but maybe that's what it is.

this is dinner.

I've been making up songs lately. they're not very good. this is probably due to them being stream of consciousness and not very well planned, but i don't think it even matters, because i do it mostly to make Johannes laugh. he almost always does. i like this part of him.

today i got reamed out while i was at work by the principle of a high school in the area in which i live. i took his order wrong and he made me cry.

my eyes got so red that i had to go outside and let the wind take away some of my body temperature. it wasn't a good day. but it's okay, because many reassuring words were spoken to me, plus, my dinner was steaming and ready when i got home from my long day.

(another part of Johannes that i like, he takes care of me. good care, too.)


another thing worth noting is this: i realize that I've changed.

i'm much less serious than i used to be. i like to laugh more now. i LOVE making people laugh, mostly Johannes though, because then he thinks i'm funny AND cute.
These days, i feel better about myself i think. i'm not so concerned with being mysterious, which was my insecurity speaking.
also, i listen to Peter Gabriel with much love in my heart for him.

and, finally, I don't worry about being so 'deep' and 'cool' anymore (well, not ALL the time), i'd rather just be nice.

pour example: this is me.....



but so is this.

I'm looking for an old camera.

yes, i used to want only the best kind of digital camera with as many unique lenses as possible.

this of course, is for the purpose of shooting crisp, sharp beautiful photos.

(by the way, i know nothing about photography).

now what I want is somehing old. something that can give me the look of an old photograph.

Darkened edges, only focused in the centre, bright, obtuse colors.

This is what the Russian made Lomo offers.

My desire has birthed from looking into Lomography online.

What I found (through blueandbrownbooks - photo credit) is this:

The 10 Golden Rules of Lomography:

1. Take your Lomo everywhere

2. Use it Day or Night

3. It's Part of your Life

4. Shoot from the Hip

5. Get as Close as Possible

6. Don't Think

7. Be Fast

8. Don't try to Control it

9. Be Suprised

10. Ignore all these Rules

I suppose it's the philosophy I like.

"When you buy a Lomo, you're not buying a camera, you're buying a lifelong membership into the Lomographic Society, and this is your tool of membership. When you die, you have to give it back."

The other day i was walking down Cook Street into the village where i work, and there was a brown cardboard box with the word "FREE" written on it with a black felt pen, in all capital letters...

i promptly crossed the street through the traffic (Johannes always hates it when I do such things) to get to this box, stuffed full of could-be treasures.

when I got to it, i saw that there were many things to be had, most, not so good. not worth crossing the street so dangerously for, anyway.

in the box were computer keyboards, an old mixing bowl, kids toys, and many, many celebrity biographies...from John Lennon to Barry Manilow. needless to say, i left those items in their rightful boxes. i found two items however, both which reminded me of you. one, was a yellow-ocre colored camera bag, broken zipper and strap aside, a great find. it's one of those old leather ones, rectangular in shape. i've been using it for my camera amongst other items people carry around, wallets, sunglasses, scarves, cigarettes. i like it.

next, i saw a book entitled "everything you need to know about Japan". i thought of you, as a new resident of Japan, and i thought to myself, how could this one book possibly tell a resident all they need to know? a book could never tell you all the great little alleyways to smoke in, or restaurants to chat with the owners in, or the videostore to find your favorite movie on vhs, with all the scratches and tracking problems that make for a classic memory?

i hope all is well for you in that new home of yours. i think of you in these little creative moments my mind sometimes conjurs up for me.

although it has been made in a place fraught with human rights disasters, i have grown to love and protect the new piece of orange fabric and lightweight posts we've recently acquired called the 'marmot limelight', likely due to it's name and intense glow. it will be our travelling companion this summer whilst traveling to Denmark to visit the Roskilde Music Festival, in the city of the same name.

the entire reason for mentioning all of this was to discuss how interesting it is, the idea of having this tiny piece of space that is private enough yet big enough to consider a home when in a foreign place.

that is what i love about het kamperen.

amongst a type-written letter to European relatives of another generation, and a listen of Cat Power's 'Jukebox', I am mindful of recent events to which deserve photographic documentation.



i've lost inspiration.
bail.

my first habit experience is greeted by brick walls, a magazine board, white chalk on green.
everything is a fit, aesthetically.

I am wearing Huntington Bay, and a reference to Rocky Horror Picture Show is made. we do not know it, and subsequently, the reference is lost on us.
The most beautiful London Fogs we have ever had are being made and presented to us with pictures in the foam. the creamiest. we agree on this.

it all sounds and looks good until i realize that this place makes me realize that i don't know what i want. with an obelisk tattooed on the neck of a mutely dressed man and a yellow flower in my pocket, I recognize that although this place is everything that i want and think looks good, it's alienating and significantly intimidating.

but the record spinning and the low buzz of conversation allows me to somehow, find comfort.

tears for fears.

there was this one night that i couldn't sleep.

it happens a lot i think. but just when you think you can't stand it anymore, you're gone.

music music.

Besides my lovers new mixes...I've been listening to the crusades of Longshanks. he spun for four hours that i wished to hear the other night. we couldn't find him. he was on the balcony but there were no stairs.

instead we were waited on at an exclusive event. mandatory dress code. the guest list. our friends took care of us. gave us their whiskey and ice cold water bottles. we spoke of children, family fights, and outfit choices. hers had to be stichted together last minute...but she looked good.

.. ..... . . ................ . . ...

what I really wanted to write was about my night: late and conscious.

rejection and praise. comfort and a series of bad dreams. missing the old touch. falling asleep at peace. no more thinking about laundry and poor listening skills. (i don't always listen either.) lights. lamps. the night falling too late these days. more dinner ideas. more, and better music, or more of the music i love.

more creativity and a space for it. no more fucking comparisons and judgement. counting more minutes on the machine. or stop counting altogether. better handwriting. more money. (or just less worry.) the desire for good things, not harm. having friends around. more laughter.

all of him, all the time.

no more television, less internet. more people in my life to give me compassion, no more guilt. happy parents. no more misunderstandings. dirt. cleanliness. equal standards.

more conversation, less self-loathing. more black and white. new colours. more patience. more true love for myself. for G-d. black. green. gold. the good things. more of them.

barbeques and wine. less summer and shame. more autumn and comfort.

more surprises. no more ruining the earth. more idealism. making it work. less models and more reality. chipped fingernails and dry skin. oily faces and cellulite.

better, purer, more consistency in relationships. more music. for free. more resources that will not run out. better cooking skills and foot that won't expire.

fairness. mutual love. faith in more than myself and him. reading faster and more. safer cities.

have you ever gotten sex advice from your parents?

preeeeeeeety funny.

i've turned another year over.

most memorable gifts:

the cure. disintegration

hipster haiku. siobhan adcock

a new bicycle. purple

simone de Beauvoir. les belles images

treasure map. ditch money

a few haiku's are necessary at this point:

...

i only kissed you

because i saw the playlists

on your damn iPod

.....

extra-small sweater

reveals a complete lack of

muscle tone, or fat

.......

when i said i've 'shown'

at that gallery, i meant

'shown up for work there'

...

fuck your SUV

my vespa gets good mileage

you're a dinosaur!

.....

write on my tombstone:

'never bought a greatest hits

compilation disc'

....

chan marshall, you fox

where do you get your lip gloss?

you're always glinty

..

gone, gone are the days

when we spoke derisively

of nine-to-five jobs

.....

my fantasy bar:

the jukebox is all b-sides

all emo, all night

..

wait, it's four a.m.

is that too late for me to

get into your pants?

.....

sometimes i worry

i'll be the only grandma

with no bicep tat

..

the end.

.....................................................

the rain poured against our windows today.

he's eating his hockey stick chocolate while playing, i sit in his leopard blue pants and grey vest while we comment on the Talking Heads playing behind us.

.

Lucky Bar, you're so cool and friendly. why can't i enjoy you for more than twenty minutes?

........

the lastest issue of Sports Illustrated is out.

competition ensues everytime we go to buy our vegetables.

look another way.

...

write. write more. smoke, no. don't.

the ymca lives closeby.

maarten registered us, and now we're headed to Bommel to find his roots.

that and visit Roskilde. i can't even pronounce it.

at least it's not Norsk.