School School School

Yesterday was my first day of real college classes. I'm not sure how I feel about them as of yet. I think I'll love them, once I've stopped being terrified of them. It's a wee bit intimidating to work with upperclassman whom you had admired (read: stalked on Facebook) last year. It's also intimidating to take a Political Satire Course wherein you are required to sing. Every Tuesday and Thursday. In front of said Facebook stalkees. When you are not a singer.

The class itself is quite fun already though. At the end of the term, we'll be putting on a Political Satire cabaret, which would look quite nice ensconced on my résumé so maybe that'll make up for shitting my pants on a Tues/Thurs basis.

I'm also taking Theatre in Indonesia and (hopefully; I'm still waitlisted at this point) Gay and Lesbian Performance Studies. I feel I'm maybe just a bit predictable. But that's all right; this course load will be great.

Studio starts today. Like in an hour. I'm so ready to be back in it. I don't know, it's such an indescribable feeling, being there. Which would make sense, because so much of what we learn comes from a nonverbal place.

Also, I apologize for my lack of photos this post. Bennie runs on double-A batteries and I was too lazy and poor to go out and buy a new pair.

Okay, I should get ready. I would say wish me luck, but failing is just as good as succeeding.

!!!

So I bought a camera today. His name is Benicio Del Toro (I don't particularly like the actor, the name just felt right) and he is beautiful. He's a Canon Powershot SX120 and my sister recommended him to me. What a beaut.

Anyway, he's totally handy - now I can actually photo-document my life. So you can see how boring it is on celluloid as well as words (actually, it's digital, so I guess you're witnessing it through the magic of fiber optics and other scientific what-have-you nonsense).

So I started by taking a picture of him (with me in the background). He's pretty, no? And he takes such good photos. I'm technologically inept (this blog is quite a feat to me), but like foundation on acne-scarred skin, he hides all of my blemishes. God bless his little electronic heart.

Anyway, I have much to show you. My room is almost as beautiful as The Bull (that's Benicio's nickname, as is Bennie) and I have proof. PHOTOGRAPHIC PROOF WHAT? Behold its roomy glory:

It's pretty great, as you can see (ha!). I shouldn't be this proud, but it's such an accomplishment for me.

Anyway, I'm making new friends, which is great, because as some of you know, I had some problems with a few of my older friends being unreliable and whatnot. It seems that these new folk are bit more dependable, which is completely welcomed.

I can't think of anything particularly profound to say, so I'll leave it at this: I am happy (for now? forever, hopefully) and that is what counts.

Oh, and here is an obligatory IHAVEACAMERANOWI'LLTAKEAPHOTOOFMYSELFINTHEMIRROR photo:

Post-Script: Please join blogspot so you can comment. They'll keep me going when I think no one is reading.

Post-Post-Script: Since I am technologically inept (as mentioned above), this post is ugly and the photos are not in a horizontal row. But I'm proud that there are any photos. :)

So after that melodramatic last post, I'm already settled in. The new room isn't quite home yet, but it's certainly on its way.

I'm excited to be back, thrilled even. Soho is so beautiful, and I'm right on the edge of China Town and Little Italy, too (perfect, right?). There's so much to do, it's almost overwhelming. Last night, while with some friends in a different dorm, I met four foreign exchange students and we had an accidental cookie party. It was quite nice, really.

I can't exactly recall what I've done in the past few days though ... A day here lasts for three elsewhere. It's crazy what can be accomplished, or not accomplished, for that matter. I'm trying to start a regular exercise regimen as well as eating healthfully, not because I feel fat, but because I want to be in shape.

I think this always happens with the advent of the new school year. It's like I feel some obligation to better myself, like it's necessitated by my circumstances. But this time, I want to make it stick. And I can; I have everything I need to do it within my reach, so why not?

Plus, when I'm all taut skin and toned muscle, the boys will practically be throwing themselves at my feet. Okay, so that's another thing about New York. We have no lack of good-looking men. Or women, but men are the ones that matter.

One thing should really be mentioned. It's hard to verbalize this, so bear with me. Over the summer, things (ahhh, to be young and vague in New York City) really crystallized for me. I found myself understanding my wants and my needs. It wasn't like a lightbulb moment, where everything became clear; rather, it was gradual, and unconscious. I wasn't actively sorting things out so much as letting it happen and not resisting.

Among those things, and a particularly important one to me, is how I'm perceived by others. I've stopped (maybe not fully, but much more so than before) worrying about the image I outwardly project and am secure in it. This is of course quite helpful in talking to people, boys especially. But I've also come not to expect things from boys, or anyone for that matter - not to place preemptive expectations on others that could potentially let me down.

So for now, I'm enjoying my free time, with or without others, not expecting anything from anyone except only the best from myself. And I can honestly say that I'm happy, in a quiet sort of way.

I arrived in New York two days ago. I moved in yesterday. All around me are boxes, stacks of clothing, newspaper-wrapped ceramic. I have no intention of yet unpacking. It's too soon, the wound hasn't healed and the ripping the bandaid off would just allow for infection. All right, that was dramatic, but my point is honest. I love it here. But I'm already missing home. Friends, my house, my family (despite the fact that I will be seeing my parents in a matter of mere minutes).

Unpacking all my belongings in a place that is so far (and so far from being called) home seems wrong at this juncture. I'm waiting for things to settle in. So it's good my roommate (or, being that I live on Broome Street, my Broommate) doesn't move in until Saturday.

I will be certain to post pictures once I buy a camera. It's a beautiful room - hardwood floors, giant windows, tiled bathroom, walk-in closet. I'm excited to live here. But it'll take some getting used to, some familiarty before I'm ready to relinquish the name of home.

Right now, the subway is rumbling by underneath my feet. It's a Monday morning, so the trains come fast and frequent. I think I'm almost used to it now. There's something pleasant about it - it's very romantic, classic New York really.

I don't know what to say. I'm nervous and excited and sad, but most of all I am hopeful.

Three Things

1. I used to have this theory. You see, when I was younger, I was nice, caring, considerate and tender-hearted even. I cooed over stuffed animals, I cried when someone else was hurt, I was a sweet young whelp. And then somewhere along the lines, possibly middle school, I toughened up. I got mean and mean fast.

I tend to think that it's because I'm gay and felt the need to thicken my skin, not let anyone take me for an easy mark. So my tongue became a weapon, and anyone close to me my unfortunate target. I was a bitch, still am.

But I can't seem to reconcile myself to that fact. I hate that I'm mean. Really, I do, and I've been trying to be nicer. It may not seem like it at all, but I censor myself. There are horrible things in my head that will never see light of day because of common decency. I keep hoping that one day the thoughts will be gone and I can take the filter out of my mouth, but so far no such luck.

Now, in an effort to get packed and have my room generally presentable while I'm away, I've begun the disgusting and often shameful process of cleaning (up and out) my room. About half way through a box of old papers, I came across an essay I had written in sixth grade. We were working on comparing and contrasting two like subjects. My subjects were my sister and my neighbor.

The way I feel about Mik is well documented; I love her, think the world of her, wish her nothing but the best. This is the same sentiment I hold for Jillian, the neighbor. But reading back through this essay, some things about my presumed past were clarified, so to speak. The topic of my first body paragraph is how stupid the two of them can be. The second, how mean they are.

So maybe I wasn't so nice when I was younger. Maybe I wasn't this paragon of goodliness. Maybe I've always been a bitch. Maybe I'm gonna use this to justify future bitch-assness: "I can't help it, I was born this way."

It's nice to know, that with all this change going on around me, some things will always remain the same.

2. Because I'm both a bitch and vain, look at this picture Mikaela took of me!

I like it a) because of the composure - that orange against the blue ombre b) the jacket is Alexander McQueen and the shirt is a cheapie AmApp and they go so well together (not a fashion blog, I swear) c) my hair looks like Moz's.

3. Because I'm a bitch and vain but also have good taste, watch this video of Peej's new work:

Ignore the last post. It's a rather poor piece of writing. I'm leaving it up because I like the sentiment and the prose, but it's haphazard and not at all thought-out. In fact, it was mostly just an excuse to write about the purchases I made at the warehouse sale. So, please, discount it.

That segues nicely into my next point. I'm trying (desperately trying) not to let this become a fashion blog. Not because I dislike fashion blogs (in fact, some are quite good and I read them regularly), but because it would be a disservice to myself and to fashion blogs. I don't have the means to shop everyday, all the time. I don't run in the most fashionable circles, and I don't know those in the know. Also, I eat. Therefore, this can't be a fashion blog.

It's also not going to be an apologia. I mean, there are certain to be apologias and apologies within the blog, but it's not an excusal or a rationalization of anything that I may do.

Third, I just want to be able to write. Judge me at will, but this is as much for me as it is for my friends. I needed a way for my friends and me to keep tabs on myself. So while I certainly encourage feedback, thoughts, whatever, make it sincere, as I'm trying to be sincere.

Anyway. Down to business. In order to stay in the habit of writing ... or blogging ... I'm going to update with frequent, sometimes unimportant posts. Today's topic will be Julie & Julia.

It was a good film, a cute film, a feel-good love story. But if I were here to critique the film, I'd say things other than "it was a good film." It more or less served as a magnifying glass. I can't say that I'm a true blogger. I have two posts prior to this. But I want to be one, and Julie Powell is one, and I'm interested to see what occurs for me further down the blog-gle brick road.

In the movie, Julie documents a year in her life, using the motif of attempting (and succeeding) to cook all of the first volume of Julia Child's Mastering the Art of French Cooking in a year. Along the way, she finds that success within the blogosphere (yuck, what a horrible word) creates problems within her relationships. And being that this is a way to maintain oft-neglected relationships, it made me wonder. Is what I'm doing selfish? Obviously yes, if you go by what I say above.

But is it so bad to be selfish? This idea has come up in so many discussions over the past year and the answer I always come away with is a stentorian, forceful "NO!" And I'm inclined to agree. I think to fully realize and understand one's self, one needs to fully inhabit and explore themself. And that, I think, is a selfish thing. It's not necessarily putting yourself first, but it is seeing the importance in yourself.

I really don't know what else to put down for the time being, but rest assured that I'll return to this idea time and titme and time again.

Why I Can Truly Consider Myself a Real Person with Real Feelings

I haven't been on my usual computer as of late, due to some motherboard issues, but the good folks at Dell took their sweet, let's-schedule-two-appointments-instead-of-one-even-though-both-appointments-took-less-than-fifteen-minutes-apiece time and got it fixed. So this is from my journal (with a few portions rewritten, or otherwise revised), but seems pertinent to my overall person and development as one.

I went to the Barneys Warehouse Sale today. In Fort Mason. I walked from the Embarcadero to Fort Mason. Which wasn't so awful. What was awful was walking from Fort Mason to AT&T Park. That took a fucking hour of skin burning, melanoma creating walking. But it's my fault for not wearing sunscreen and choosing to walk along the Embarcadero, instead of cutting through the city. My genius will be well-documented for future generations.

In any case, I made it to the Barneys Warehouse Sale, which is to say I made it to discount retail heaven. At some point in this blog, I’m going to need a camera, but I’d much rather spend my money on these.

This poses a wee conundrum, as I can’t properly document all I do (and eat and buy) without a camera, but for now, maybe it’s for the best that you don’t see all that I eat. Because it’s a lot.

I keep straying. BACK AT THE SALE , it’s in a warehouse, as the name would suggest. Which means: No dressing rooms, ergo, lots of people in their skivvies. As I doffed my pants in favor of a pair of Balenciaga red resin-coated jeans, a man offered up his blue nylon coat and asked if he should buy it. This began a three minute conversation, wherein I, the Good Samaritan, kindly advised him, the Pathetic Sloven, that he shouldn’t buy anything he isn’t going to wear. Just an almost-adult talking to a slightly eccentric middle aged man. It’s San Francisco, the rich eccentric are everywhere.

Well, as you may have guessed, this short, bald, middle aged doof wasn’t so much eccentric as wanting to cornhole me. I didn’t catch on until maybe twenty minutes later, just when I had reached the cashier, just when he hunted me down and gave me his card, just when he told me to call him, since I had such a nice smile.

I immediately wretched. My stomach turned inside-out on itself. My hands shook and I knew that if I didn’t bite my lip, I’d have the San Francisco Barneys Warehouse Sale to add my list of public emotional breakdown locales. So I promptly paid for my goods and hightailed it out of the warehouse, out of Fort Mason, trying in vain to escape any shame and disgust I felt.

I had never before felt so objectified. It wasn’t so much outraging as degrading. And I can’t say that this man is a particularly bad person. He saw what he wanted and went after it. But did that something have to be me, pantsless?

As I shivered my way through the myriad tourists, I realized something about the whole ordeal. It made me human. It me real. And it made me thankful. Thankful that I am not, in fact, a gold digger. That much of a gold digger. Not enough of a gold digger to lower my standards just for money (which I guess is what a gold digger is, in essence). I came out of the Barneys Warehouse Sale with a pair of silver Pierre Hardy desert boots, Lanvin shorts and a shirt, Balenciaga jeans, and maybe a little bit of reassurance.