full of moxie and viscosity

This is not meant to sound dramatical (thanks Vicki!) or whiny, even though I know so many of my blogs these days are pretty darn whiny, but I think I might have a slight case of manic-depression, if you can noun-ize it in that way. I did a little bit of research and though I know I'm not a serious case, I definitely have many of the symptoms. Want to see which ones? I thought you might....

depression:

feeling sad, low, blue, hopeless, helpless, useless, guilty, ashamed, remorseful

preoccupation with failures, loss of self-esteem, obsession with certain thoughts that one cannot seem to turn off

sleep problems

agitation or restlessness

withdrawal from social contacts

crying easily or not at all even though one might like to


And the MANIA!!!

elevated mood, feeling high, elated, euphoric, ecstatic

irritability, excessive anger over trivial things, overreacting to stimuli

labile, rapid emotional changes: feeling happy one minute and then angry the next for no apparent reason

distractibility

a heightening of all the senses, especially in the perception of colours and light

talking more than usual, sometimes loudly and quickly

...may pick up partners indiscriminately



I dunno. Seems like an awful lot of symptoms to be having. I've never been one to self-diagnose, but I've never been one to be a hypochondriac, either. At least I have the manic part, right? If nothing else, I can at least be ecstatic for part of my day. Okay, off to play with kindergarteners. More later.

Emily just called and had me listen while Voicemale sang at Bovard. She had me listen to the Sirens singing High and Dry. I told SH today- "I haven't missed you this much in forever." What I meant was, I haven't missed singing in an a cappella group in forever. I really do miss it. Just like I miss Campus Cruiser and the Jazz Boys and Number Nine and Ground Zero and mother fucking Gabriel Mann. Can I just go back, for a little while? Just to remember it in the most visceral way possible? For once? Fuck.

I've really got to get to Los Angeles.

Why can't I be in Barcelona, under a shady cove, with a lover:



instead of in my house in a stained wifebeater, waiting, waiting, waiting?

It's because of karma. I've done horrible things. I must pay.

In discussion with an old flame in regard to his now-tiny part in my novel, this conversation ensued:

Male: i mean i think you could write a whole chapter on it
Male: maybe even a series of books
LaRareza: [my time with you] was intense.
LaRareza: but it doesn't really fit inside this story, not as much as it could.
Male: that's fair
LaRareza: i have a ton of writing on it. probably 20 pages.
Male: you wanna hear my favorite biggie line of all time?
Male: kinda appropriate
LaRareza: yes please.
Male: "I like my girls thick, round hips and fat asses... educated, so i can bust off on they glasses"

That is SO appropriate.

Last night, a swollen black heart showed a tiny circle of pink to me. Surrounded by barbed wire, of course. I looked at it carefully, and when I asked it what it was, it said, quite loudly, "you are still in love with him." I argued for a little while, but then realized it was probably true. And that's alright.

I don't mean to, but I get insanely jealous about silly things all the time. Regardless of the person, or the context, I just find myself wanting to be THE ONE all the time. Boy, girl, professor, mom, dad, DJ... you name it, I want to be the center of your attention. Fuck those people who have other priorities. Don't you see how talented and lovely I am? Also, intoxicated? Sigh... time for bed....

I am trying so, so hard to not pick. It's getting old, this mantra of mine. My fingernails are long but still slightly pink. I go to bed, tell myself not to. Lift up the shirt anyway...

Escape, that's really how I convince myself it's okay. I'm just escaping.

Some people have this particular... resonance about them. I've been in contact with Lauren Choplin so much these last couple months and it has more of an effect on me than I really choose to acknowledge. We don't speak on the phone. We email and she writes me letters. I write her letters, too, but I forget to send them. We both try to express how we feel about the other but it's harder than apologizing... so messy and fucked up. "You're beautiful, you're lovely, you're honest..." : the words sound so... trite. Curse of the poet tenfold. Try and think about it. You can find silly and cliche words to describe your best friend, but can you come up with true, steadfast descriptions of them to SAY TO THEM? Telling someone they're beautiful is a lot different than telling someone else the same thing. "She's like the wind" vs. "You're like the wind." Doesn't sound quite right, does it? We understand better now Gabriel Mann's need for "she's" and "his" etc. in his songs. Perhaps our lives are better spent describing each other in the third person.

I have to purchase a new car. I went to Honda North today to speak with Phil, who had a lazy eyelid and three cute little kids. We looked at some inventory, got my credit report, and found that I'm an alright candidate for a lease. I don't think I want to lease, though, now that I found out how much it really costs to lease. I might as well get a new car.

Can I afford to pay all my bills, save for Los Angeles, AND have a car payment of somewhere around $300 plus a hike in insurance of probably another 75? This is something to pooooonder. I can't work without a car. I can't really do anything without a car. I hate borrowing. Do I make the investment? I think this is a question for...

TEAM LE POISSON!!!

In the weary, woeful sadness of the time that I never felt, his hand is always pushing me around. Here I stand, sad and free (thank you Ben Folds)...

What I've done... oh, God, what have I done?

There is GOOD NEWS from my end. EMILY ROELLKE has made it into the ever-fantastic, supremely hot, always on, the rockers of all mother loving rockers, REVERSE OSMOSIS. THE mixed a cappella group (sorry Stacy) at USC. Emily Roellke is a BONAFIDE ROCK STAR.

CONGRATULATIONS PARNTHA!!

We are all celebrating over here in Fresno, California.

Tonight is a night when I remind myself that music is really where I live. At the end of the day, I'm still humming a tune. I may not be thinking about writing, or reading, or even dreaming about the love I've never had. I'm always singing, somewhere. If not in any auditory manner, at least there are lyrics running through my head. I know Emily has that same affliction, the same wonderful curse. Bless us both for being so in love with nothing more than waves and words.

I learned how to use Dreamweaver today. You know, people have been telling me forever that it's insane that I don't use a coding program of some kind, or a design program. All along I've said, PSHAW! I don't need one. I'll just skirt around the tables issue and do things manually. In all honesty, at times I'm sure it WAS easier for me to do things manually (css layers? ouch!)... but goodNESS.

Dreamweaver really is the hottest thing I've ever used. I'm sure there are hotter programs out there, but for me, it's like heaven. I absolutely love it. I can't believe I made my tables manually all this time, when Dreamweaver was just waiting for me... waiting, waiting... sooo good.

I'm working on a website for a musician friend of mine (and Emily's) and though I'm not 100% sure about it yet, I know that my work will come about 20 times as quickly because of this beauteous program. My life as a webdesigner has truly begun. Shall we dance? Sigh, we shall.

I get so annoyed when people I don't like are really into music that I love. I want to say to them, hey, stop quoting that good music, because you are not cool enough to like that kind of stuff. I'm such a music snob in that way. It's so hypocritical because really, I should want everyone to like that kind of music: I should want everyone to know about the cool indie bands or the really interesting music that's not necessarily mainstream. I do the same for books. What a freaking smooth-tongued hypocrite I am. I want to be elite. But deep inside somewhere, I know that I really want these bands and books to be in the public eye and ear. I guess it just means that I'm shallow and really judge people for the wrong reasons.

Regardless. Unless you are deemed cool by me, STOP QUOTING GOOD MUSIC BECAUSE IT REALLY BUGS ME.

full of moxie and viscosity? let's count the ways I never felt the cut:

the one-eyed vibrato note didn't know what viscous was
thailand dreamer left me for his elbow couch and his dvd's
yuri showed me ultimate wrestling beneath black paintings
dimpled choir boy was insecure, turns out, looking for his mother
tom waits with a small mouth and small handwriting, he stayed too long
modal cowboy found his rainstorm in his pocket, took off for the south

I watched them all go, and then the other day realized that they didn't leave, not as much as I told them to go.

I'm somewhat relieved to not go to Los Angeles tonight. I was going to go see my Dalai Lama, but it just ended up not working out. Probably for the best. Spontaneous trips to Los Angeles are only successful if I'm going to see Gabriel Mann. Otherwise, I always end up with my foot in my eye and Dirty Jeans (once, a friend of mine wrote a poem that had the line "hot jean dry pants" and it was amazing).

That line from a Patty Griffin song:
"It gets harder and harder, Lorraine, to believe in magic
Oh, when what came before you was so very tragic."

really doesn't hit home for me at all. I blogged it the other day because I had it in my head and it's a beautiful song, but I feel like I've come from some pretty tragic situations (the only time I fibbed in the novel was to make certain scenes smash up against other ones, or to make a certain period of time seem longer or shorter than it actually was. The facts? Pretty tragic.) and I believe in magic even more than I did before (not to sound ridiculous and sappy and drippy). Hey, I almost went to LA, right? To see the dark-haired breeze maker? To find the heart of Saturday Night?

Ah, but now I read the line again and realize that it says "when what came BEFORE YOU" which makes a lot more sense. I haven't come from any real tragedy, not historically, or familially speaking. There's hard times, but our family is a rock.

So are my children destined to have a difficult time believing in magic? Is my life tragic? Oh, poisson, it is not true. (Le Poisson, Team Le Poisson!) My life is far enough from tragic for creation's sake. And hey, if I was truly tragic, I might be on a train right now, looking for love in all the wrong places.

I'm spending today thinking about He Who Drank Citron With Me. Upon completion of that dang work of creative non-fiction, it becomes prevalent again that the way I feel for this incendiary man is not just... history anymore, I guess. I have these deep seated pangs, sort of indescribable pangs. I know I loved him, in the wrong way, but I did love him (still do, let's be honest): am I capable of loving him in a different way, ever? Can old feelings translate into different ones?

I have to ask the question again, are extreme emotions really different from one another? Or are they all pretty much the same, all residing on a particular shelf in my emotional pantry, just different contexts? Perhaps love, hate, angst, guilt, sorrow, elation, inspiration, adoration... are all the same, really. They all come from the same spot. That low, deep spot. The one that truly spreads into your nerve endings and cell structure. The one that resonates, echoes. That spot. They're just different stimulus.

Can I allow myself to explore different stimulus to an old experiment? Get on a plane to discover the truth about myself and the dalai lama (my personal buddha, my inspiration, the brain, the heart)?

Or upon arrival, will I find, instead, that the old experiment has left me in the laboratory years ago? The bitter root, the revengeful radish? Will I leave knowing I lost my chance in the winter?

It gets harder and harder Lorraine, to believe in magic
Oh, when what came before you was
so very tragic



To Emily Roellke:
Pray to the wooden tree, and know that everything is going to be alright.

Did I say I would finish the novella by the 5th? Or the 6th? I don't know, but the preliminary edits are completely complete. I've sent it off to the army. See what they have to say about it. Honestly, and I do LOVE being honest, it feels good to look at the 101 pages I've written and know that it means something. Wow.

"Hello?"
"Rachel, it's Kevin from Portland."
"Hello, Kevin from Portland."
"So, when are you moving back up here?"
"I don't know. I'm very... undecided."
"I thought you said March."
"Why are you so anxious to have me up there?"
"Because it was something to look forward to."
"Well, I can't leave yet, I still owe too much money. It's free to live here."
"You can live with me. It'd be nice to have some company at night. When did you become so wishy washy and transient and migratory?"
"I've always been that way. I just had more money before."
"I'll be your sugar daddy. How much do you owe?"
"$xx,xxx."
"Are you kidding me?"
"Student loans included."
"Well, that's not that bad. So, how much should I pay you to be a sufficient Sugar Daddy?"
"I dunno, how about a thousand a month?"
"That's sort of steep."
"Wait, are you serious?"
"Well, why not?"
"You're going to pay me a thousand dollars to come live with you in Portland? What would people think?"
"I don't care."
"Yes you do, remember, you got all mad when I called your name out in your hallway?"
"Yes, because you said, Kevin Pxxxx, stop looking up my skirt!"
"I'm not moving to Portland so you can pay me to be around."
"I can handle a thousand a month."
"Hell, that's cheap."
"How much does a wife cost?"
"I dunno, probably three thousand a month. They require cars and clothes and stuff. I'd just want to pay my bills off. I'd work, too."
"Okay, so when are you moving back?"
"Kevin, I'm not moving back to Portland so you can pay me to be around."
"Hmm."
" ."
"A thousand dollars a month, though."
"Okay. I get it."
"Hmm."
"Well, I don't know. Maybe it's not that bad of an idea."
"When can you come?"

Okay, so maybe age is just a number and I'm the one with the issues. I just feel so lost again, and I don't know how I got here. I'm broke, I'm inspired, I'm tired, I'm happy, I'm confused, I'm bruised. I don't know. None of it makes sense. I wish I weren't so sensitive. I wish I could be colder. Maybe someone would mistake it for sophistication.

And who said age was just a number?

UNCONTROLLABLE LAUGHTER DAY!
indeed, today was one.
also, just wanted to vent a little something, since this is my blog and i get to say whatever the hell i want to on it:

I do not like people who say that they are a certain way when really, they are just that way towards two or three people in their lives. If you think you're hyper aware, or that you really listen to people, or that you truly think of others' well beings, and want to tell me about it, STOP FOR A MINUTE.

Are you that way towards everyone? Or just towards people you like? Or just towards people you're dating? Because I am so annoyed with that dichotomous expression of ones social genius.

First of all, have a little modesty.
Secondly, if you are GOING to toot your own horn, make sure you have reason.

I'm a huge fan of toot-tooting my way around. I do it all the time. But I do it because I'm pumped about something, or so sure of myself that it's almost making fun of it by mentioning it.

So let's go over this one more time: If you are good at something, or have a good quality, relish it, love it, KEEP IT TO YOURSELF. It's so much more effective that way. If you absolutely MUST mention it, please make sure that it is truly a characteristic of yours and not just something you SOOOOMETIMES do. Thank you.

tantrum
tantrum
tantrum
tantrum
tantrum
tantrum
tantrum

Swiper, nooooo swiping!
I am officially a Dora the Explorer fan. If I had to choose between Thomas the Tank Engine, the Wiggles, Barney or Dora, it would be Dora, Dora, Dora all the way. She's just so cool and adventurous and she has funny friends. She's just not... annoying.

Swiper, NO SWIPING!

I'm having this whole "I'm acting my age" thing happen to me. I don't know when it hit, exactly, though my guess is Barcelona. I don't feel particularly OLD, just... my age. I don't feel 22 anymore, and I certainly don't feel like I'm in college anymore. I feel like when I WAS in college, I did have a mature perspective on things, or at least thought that I did, but I have experience now to back up the things I always knew were true. And I act my age, for the most part. I don't do things with that sense of reckless abandon that I once did. Oh, quit your whining, you know I'll always have a ridiculous spontenaeity and I can't imagine living my life outside my overwhelming impulsiveness. It's just that I'm not putting myself in danger anymore, not the way I did. I don't have the desire to "have good stories to tell." I have interesting things to say as it is. I don't need to spice up my conversational skills with outrageous tall tales. I'm tall enough as it is. And consequently, I feel very aware of other people's ages, all the time. I can see what years have done to people, and I can definitely see what a little aging could do to others. Now, back to the writing.

Novella update: I've edited 40 of 46 single spaced pages as of now, but I feel that there is still a lot of rearranging to do after the voice has been altered. I'm still shooting for the end of this week.

I found this just now in regard to length of fictional works... pretty interesting, I thought...


Micro-Fiction

~ up to 100 words

This very abbreviated story is often difficult to write, and even harder to write well, but the markets for micro fiction are becoming increasingly popular in recent times. Publishers love them, as they take up almost no room and don't cost them their budgets. Pay rates are often low, but for so few words, the rate per word averages quite high.

Flash Fiction

~ 100 - 1,000 words

This is the type of short-short story you would expect to find in a glossy magazine, often used to fill one page of quick romance (or quick humor, in men's mags) Very popular, quick and easy to write, and easier to sell!

Short Story

~ 1,000 - 7,500 words

The 'regular' short story, usually found in periodicals or anthology collections. Most 'genre' zines will feature works at this length.

Novellette

~ 7,500 - 20,000 words

Often a novellette-length work is difficult to sell to a publisher. It is considered too long for most publishers to insert comfortably into a magazine, yet too short for a novel. Generally, authors will piece together three or four novellette-length works into a compilation novel.

Novella

~ 20,000 - 50,000 words

Although most print publishers will balk at printing a novel this short, this is almost perfect for the electronic publishing market length. The online audience doesn't always have the time or the patience to sit through a 100,000 word novel. Alternatively, this is an acceptable length for a short work of non-fiction.

Novel

~ 50,000 -110,000

Most print publishers prefer a minimum word count of around 70,000 words for a first novel, and some even hesitate for any work shorter than 80,000. Yet any piece of fiction climbing over the 110,000 word mark also tends to give editors some pause. They need to be sure they can produce a product that won't over-extend their budget, but still be enticing enough to readers to be saleable. Imagine paying good money for a book less than a quarter-inch thick?

Epics and Sequels

~ Over 110,000 words


Copyright 2002 Lee Masterson

Funny thing about me and phone calls. I have to assign them some kind of personality (the way I also assign numbers personalities... when I find this writing I did on that particular subject I'll post it). I like to personify things because then I can deal with them. I had two really interesting conversations today, one with the ol' TA and one with Vicki... both were fantastic and cleansing, if you can believe it.

The first one was really complex but pretty intelligent. She was only partially libidinous and wore her hair in dreads. She's not white, though. She was ethnic, foreign. She loved to talk about relationships and broken hearts but not in any kind of sappy, sloopy way.

The second one was young and sort of scrubbed. He was a He, for sure. He required a follow up text message to describe himself.

This is so confusing, but I am confused, so there it goes. Confusion.
(IM update: I'm loving not being online. I feel so... detached and busy and productive... like I have other things to do, or something. I like it a lot. I may never go back. I love it that I have no way to infer anything about anyone's lives except for what they bring to me or what I ask them directly. It's really lovely)

Many thanks to Lauren Choplin for everything, but namely Dawson.

Her name was Michelle. She was four months old, with greasy black hair and dry skin along her chin. Her eyes, inkwells. Her mother was fourteen years old, with a dumpy body already and traditional Mexican headdress on. She spoke perfect English and called me by name. Michelle spent the day in my arms, smiling. She only cried when I had to put her on the blue pillow while I played with Luis. Deesha said to me, "Michelle is in heaven. She loves being held." Isn't that our most inherent, base desire? To be held?

That's the real question, and the one my logical and emotional sides fight over every single day. Is it most important to be held? Or to be appreciated? Or to experience both in the same moment? Who has it right?

Since when do I write like I used to write in the days when I wrote a story a day if I needed to? Since when do I sit down to write a scene and write a scene? Since when? I figured it out tonight, I just have to DO shit to get it done. It's really not that difficult. Just do it. I know these blogs have been boring recently, but it's hard to think about anything other than writing right now. It's becoming what I want it to become in my life. Something to look forward to, instead of something to use as an excuse. "Oh, I'm not going back to school yet. I'm still writing that novel, you know." No, not that bullshit. I'm writing because it makes sense.

Fuck it all, I'm a mother fucking writer. Pardon the cursing. But that's how it feels tonight. Like I know what the hell I'm doing.

Sacramento, QAR, Be Responsible, Oops, I picked, Find The Rebate Coupon, Get to Work on Time, Get Hot, Pink Tower, Do the Star... Finish the Novella. My bet is, done by February 5th.

Last thing: who the fuck made laptop batteries so damn expensive? Can't I just use Double A's? Fuck!