"there's even a moment when it becomes exhilarating to realize just how little needs to stay the same for you to continue the effort they call, for lack of a better word, being human."

-nicole krauss, the history of love

[ny fall vs. la fall]

november again.

away from poughkeepsie for my first post-graduate fall. california's seasons pass with more subtlety than in the hudson river valley, where colors flare up and wardrobes are unpacked from boxes.

california hillsides are golden with tall grasses year round. the coastline roads smell like licorice and eucalyptus, brought out by the year's ending rain.

which to prefer? in new york, fall comes as a final comfort, preparing us for the impending months of snow and barren grounds. it's a time for reflection, for gathering at harvest, reaping fruits and wearing sweaters. in california, fall is not much different from summer, save a few rainy weeks. attitudes don't shift much and there's no need for major adjustments.

when it comes to fall, the hudson river valley has my heart.

[new beginnings, my attempts at fine art.]

people often ask me what my art is about--particularly, the self-portrait series. my mom would say, with regards to self-portrait as frida kahlo, "why are there tears coming out of her eye?"--i, then, converted the tears into a single stream of water, in hopes of masking the sadness of it. the truth is that i put my soul into every painting i make. art is my passion and the greatest source of my vulnerability. i cannot help it--it's the requisite process of creativity.

the reason why i abandoned my fine-art pursuits at vassar is because i felt too exposed at the critiques (i was insecurely fraught, a victim of self-doubt). now that i've been painting as a hobby again, without the pressures of my professors approval and with new faith in myself, my creativity has flourished. i do not fear failure because it cannot affect me with the same salience as grades can.

the scary truth is that when i paint, i pour my heart onto the canvas (cheesy?), it's true and unavoidable. i paint self-portraits because my face is the one i have the most access to and have practiced with the most. it's the rembrandt/frida kahlo thing.

the result is that i paint myself how i see myself---which is always more revealing than i sincerely hope. when looking at my finished self-portraits (of which there are only two), i've found eery symbolism that displays some of my darkest insecurities. my hope is that my viewers won't realize the meaning behind the symbols---they'll be too distracted by the colors or the form to see the message behind them.

maybe i shouldn't be afraid of the dark elements. one of my professors at vassar told me (after she saw me crying in the hallway outside of the classroom), "deep angst is the heart of great art". the more commissions i secure and the more responses i get, the more i realize that she must be right.

insecurely yours,

favorite fish

[post-LV.]

in the way of huntings and gatherings, my trips to las vegas with my lovely lady friends (for whom i have much unadulterated affection) yield many memories. and memories are one of my favorite things to seek out and gather in the expanse of this joyful earth.

kk (the birthday princess) was beautiful, as always. a blonde bundle of unbridled joy (oxymoronic?--i believe so). her dress took the cake (left):

melissa kept everyone feeling entertained, as is the case with melissa on all occasions.

leah, with artfully crafted hair and dressed in a silk romper, was a vision for me to behold. (did i mention that i love admiring beautiful women?)

and ian held down the fort for men everywhere in the midst of our translucent, sparkle-filled girl explosion. donning skinny jeans and a blazer.

las vegas did not disappoint---the night was ushered in with glee on all accounts.

reflections on the strip:

it was interesting to see the rituals of courtship and their subsequent behaviors. it was even more interesting, perhaps, to see the generous supply of good conversation that could be had when said rituals were abandoned in favor of honesty and, most of all, a willingness to pay attention.

an older gentleman (in his thirties) came up to melissa and i and told us that we are beautiful, but that his friend (tall, awkward man) isn't attracted to asians. well there's one less white boy with yellow-fever i've got to avoid, i thought.

i smiled at a bright-eyed birthday boy (freshly 21) who walked past me and soon-after returned to say shyly, "i had to ask you to dance, because you are gorgeous." his humble approach, rooted in a vegas-induced euphoria, was endlessly endearing.

on another occasion, a 28 year old mechanical engineer from hermosa beach and i struck up a good conversation about the importance of music taste in assessing depth of character.

all three instances of point-blank honesty led to engaging, sustained rapport. there were no established expectations, no "hey what's your sign?" considerations, nor was there the pressure of flirtation. granted, my friends and i had to dodge many other questionable techniques:

one intoxicated youth used the "smart ass" approach, joking---in enthusiastic, unreadable tones---that he'd never heard of "california" or "orange county" before. i wondered if he knew how sadly desperate he came off, and considered telling him to tone it down as an act of good will, to prevent him from future embarrassment.

another man told me that i needed to stand close to him at the bar so that his friends wouldn't see that he was texting someone---apparently phones were off-limits for their bachelor party weekend...or so went his story.

the dance floor was worse yet...guys would dance in our immediate proximity, intermittently pressing themselves against us in hopes that we'd reciprocate despite our clear disinterest (it's remarkable how many men need lessons in body-language.)

as it were, only the brave prevailed, and we spent our evening accepting the company of only the most deserving---the ones who were satisfied with good conversation.

in all, our impromptu night in vegas highlighted my belief in the importance of sincerity in all things. say what you mean, it's good for you. and, to my male readers, it works better on the ladies with self-respect.

for the record, i don't think all men are clueless. just most of them.

love from me, a.f.f.

[tell me what you know about dreaming.]

have you ever noticed that your music taste changes based on who you spend the most time with? when i was spending time with javin, my spirits were uplifted by rock music--seriously considered indie rock, alternative rock, etc. he even reintroduced me to soul (sam cooke) and brought me more in touch with previously loved classic rock (the beatles, big star, the doors).

now with ben, hip hop is back in my life in a big way. for a while, i dismissed it as a cheap and tasteless genre--forgetting the genius of tupac and biggy (even jay z) in the color-grey swirl of popular, sell-out, "hip hop" artists. but ben reminds me that there are many who keep the true spirit of hip hop alive--those who respect the movement as one stemmed from intelligence. it's an infiltration of knowledge into the masses (and there are masses).

unlike tupac and b.i.g., artists like kid cudi, kanye, and drake deliver more concentrated messages. departing from the ways of their rhetoric-filled predecessors, modern hip hoppers dare to boil it down.

apart from loving kid cudi's song (feat. MGMT), Pursuit Of Happiness, i love the video.

here 'tis:

[yukon blonde. i wanna be a yukon brunette.]

this week has been beautiful and wonderful on every level.

for those of you who do not meditate, start now. it is a magical experience to calm the mind...awaken the soul.

the weather has been perfect. spiritual.

my days are filled with tiny miracles. i am grateful.

my grad school program started on monday and life has been busy, but in the best way. benjamin moved to california recently...he is the object of my most current and furious affection. he understands me, he appreciates me--he is good to and for me. ah, love love love.

in other news, my sisters have left for their respective coasts: tatiana in the bay area and krystal holdin' it down in bean town. as consequence, the house is quiet and significantly less enjoyable. but mommy dearest and tonton are still here to love and support me :) plus ben.

olivia (miss tiny kitten) is growing in strength and confidence. she is smart--i love watching her figure out how to do things. hard things, like climb the fence dividing our kitchen from the rest of the house, or retrieve her treats from places i store them.

otherwise, i'm listening to a lot of music and missing my volleyball girls as always.

oh, and painting. lots of that.

farewell, my loves.

yours,

f.f.

[treat parade.]

my mother's health improves.

the little sister is still around for a few more days--each is a blessing.

tomorrow is my birthday.

benjamin arrives in california the day after tomorrow.

perfect weather, as always in southern california.

sold 2 paintings yesterday.

and to soundtrack it all, yo la tengo:

[arrivederci, italia.]

finally home from italy.

we went from vatican city, pictured above, to downtown florence, chianti, then venice. rome was magnificence in absolution--an entire city in accordance with a passionate frequency. florence was the source of the most artistic inspiration for me--a place whose charm rested comfortable in subtlety rather than spectacle...and, of course, her hilltop tuscan vistas. venice was fully unique, providing us with several fresh horizons.

of the three, i cannot decide which i prefer. italy proved to be as various as it was beautiful. despite its age and repertoire of established trades, it was fresh to the core. new in an elevated way, above the realm of time.

having read three books this summer, i'm going to endeavor to transcribe all of my favorite quotes from each into separate blog posts. my hope is that you'll get some of what i did from each word.

with love,

your favorite fish

photo credit: tatiana michelle iskandar

[yummy.]

a song from broken social scene's 2010 album, forgiveness rock record,

Sentimental X's:

[clock radio.]

my younger sister took this photo of the clock radio in my bedroom, above the white, wooden dresser with goldensilver hardware.

i decided to write a haiku about it, because i've randomly been into haikus lately.

(plus i recently got one in the mail from a dearly beloved friend, sarah giselle mapiya potts.)

here 'tis:

hats balanced upon,

the clock that ticks quite sprightly,

between them, a book.

you might think i'm silly for writing haikus, but benjamin began texting me in haiku and i was the first to text him back in haiku. and since then, we've written many an enjoyable haiku back and forth to each other, ranging from the deeply complex to the humorously mundane. an example of a haiku i might send to/receive from ben is this:

many lives and what?

what is this life's true purpose?

the wind asks also.

or (lol)

grocery shopping,

old lady smell is weird, no?

gunna buy carrotz

it's a delightful form of correspondence, and i highly recommend it :)

otherwise, i'm missing my beloved volleyball team. they have begun pre-season, and alas--my heart and soul go out to them across the central plains and mighty hudson. (never thought i'd long for pre-season workouts so much.)

xo,

the f.f.

[yeah yeah.]

[meditation. manipulation.]

the first time i sat down to wonder about the wind was during a picnic i had at puddingstone lake. at the beginning of summer, in loving company, i sprawled underneath a couple of oaks; my eyes followed the knotted course of the branches, untangling them in my mind, spreading them across the sky.

sometime after unpacking the strawberries, i felt--for an instant--calm. it either rose to meet me or descended around my body; it matters little how it happened. then, before i could fully acknowledge the feeling, it left me.

to fill the voided atmosphere, the breeze became a wind that brushed against my back, lifting up my hair. it felt like someone had put their arms around my waist, fanned their hands across my belly, and pulled me towards them.

as all events in my life seem to do, this brief story might appear to be nothing more than a coincidence to anyone who isn't me. in fact, most people will suggest that i'm crazy for reading into this. well, you can call me crazy, i don't mind. but i do believe there's something to this wind theory. because since that day, i have paid attention to it.

this discussion is not for the faint of heart.

i've been meditating a lot recently. on good days, i can meditate while i walk, eat, sometimes even speak. because of my new habit, i am aware of my surroundings. i trip less, remember more...the like. in particular, i've become more aware of the earth and her elements (the wind is the most distinct of these).

i started to experience the feeling of calm more often. i rejoiced in its comfort and the hope it gave me. it was peace in absolution. and peace is like love, as most things are. it is more welcome when unexpected, more cherished when needed, and more enduring when tended to with diligence.

the wind seemed to respond to me in these peaceful moments. without fail, each feeling of calm would be answered with a swelling breeze (granted i was outside to feel it). this happened with such unrelenting regularity that i became frightened. what of this wind? i thought.

after a while, i realized that it was silly to be scared of the wind. after all, it only seemed to agree with me.

sometimes i move my hands in circles at my sides while i breathe...it seems to coax the wind out of its shy casings. sometimes i can conjure up a strange breeze that responds only to my breath. it is strange because it has a pulse and seems to tug my body like a fishing line.

...

maybe i'm alone in these sensations. maybe others can feel the same rapport with the earth. in any case, i like imagining that i have some effect over this planet, no matter the scale.

with love,

your crazycrazy,

favorite fish

[as it was.]

in the way of love, i am well practiced in habits of vulnerability. i have never approached love carefully, only thrusting myself at it eagerly and without regret.

a short while ago, i started to ask myself why. i suppose it started with the hope that self-definition was something i could bypass, leaving it to my surroundings, fearing what would come if the endeavor was left to my own devices. (insecurely fraught as i was, i did not have much faith in them.) the fear of failing to love myself was more affecting than the fear of failing to love another. and to me, the inconsequential factor in the equation was that of love's ultimate consequence: heartbreak.

that is to say that despite having cried rivers while mourning the loss of love, i still continued to pursue it.

and i still continue to pursue it with faith in my efforts to find it.

hark, there's hope...

i just returned home from a trip to colorado. the air was thin from the elevation and the nearness of a closer sky.

we took three buses to boulder then hiked into the green belt mountains. at night, we slept under the stars. "arc to arcturis," he said, "along the big dipper."

he taught me how to hold a whittling knife and how to press its blade sideways into the woodgrain.

when my feet became blistered after four miles of walking, he lifted me high across the railroad tracks.

blue car, red car. we played games to pass the time.

in parks with picnic blankets; i, his wandering squaw, rolled sideways in the grass.

i had a good time in colorado :) but now i'm back here in california to catch hold of my upheaving adult responsibilities.

i salute you all for your patience with me.

with love,

your favorite fish

[busy.]

i haven't written a post in a while...i've been very, very busy...only to get busier in the coming weeks. in short, graduate school begins in a month, my internship has reached the peak of activity, i've been traveling a bit, job-hunting, taking guitar lessons, and competing in volleyball tournaments. all the while attempting to have a social life.

i've been planning a few things to write about upon my return to sanity. i might get a window tomorrow...but otherwise, it will be a while.

in the meantime, here's some old school juanes/nelly furtado for you

[divisadero.]

behind steinbeck as most others are, michael ondaatje is an author whose body of work has changed me.

i first started reading ondaatje after taking a creative writing course at ucla a few summers ago. my professor was highly obsequious--whether earned by my own merit or not--telling me that, with more control and practice, my writing "could lend itself to comparison with ondaatje". not having read any of his work, i picked up a copy of the english patient in an attempt to dissect this comment. and so began my love affair.

i wanted to like ondaatje more than i did at first. i struggled through the pared down prose. granted, at the time, i had been reading such dynamic works as fight club and skinny dip (palahniuk and hiaasen respectively). in contrast to fight club's joyfully sadistic gewgaw of a story line and skinny dip's biting humor, ondaatje's careful style came as a change-up pitch.

truthfully, i gained more from the film version of the english patient. though to be fair, ralph fiennes with all his dreamy-dream-boat-ness is hard to beat. regardless of his role as a recovering burn victim for much of the story.

it wasn't until ondaatje came to speak at vassar that my opinion of him spun sharply out of the realm of respect to that of unconquerable obsession.

when his lecture began, i was showering in the volleyball locker room after a routine practice. after finishing, i sprinted from our gymnasium to main building, where a modest crowd of breathless devotees sat enraptured by ondaatje's sheer presence.

i walked through the double doors of the villard room--a high-ceilinged, rectangular hall--and realized that i had interrupted ondaatje's reading from his new novel, divisadero. with my entrance being less graceful than i had hoped, i found myself the subject of a few turned heads and whispers. perhaps it was that i had been inordinately rude, but michael ondaatje looked at me from his podium of high-dignity. i know this because i looked back...and for a moment, he held me.

forgive me. as always, i wax romantic. but let me be clear...there was eye-contact.

shaken as i was by the circumstances of my entrance, i quickly looked down to fumble with my things. sooner than i was prepared for, he began to read again. "as happens sometimes, the moment settled and hovered for much more than a moment." and i'll never forget the ensuing passage:

now and then our father embraced us as any father would. this happened only if you were able to catch him in that no-man's-land between tiredness and sleep, when he seemed wayward to himself. i joined him on the old covered sofa, and i would lie like a slim dog in his arms, imitating his state of weariness--too much sun perhaps, or too hard a day's work.

claire would also be there sometimes, if she did not want to be left out, or if there was a storm. but i simply wished to have my face against his checkered shirt and pretend to be asleep. as if inhaling the flesh of an adult was a sin and also a glory, a right in any case. to do such a thing during daylight would have been unthinkable, he'd have pushed us aside. he was not a modern parent, he had been raised with a few male rules, and he no longer had a wife to qualify or compromise his beliefs. so you had to catch him in that twilight state, when he had ceded control on the tartan sofa, his girls enclosed, one in each of his arms. i would watch the flicker under his eyelid, the tremble within that covering skin that signalled his tiredness, as if he were being tugged in mid-river by a rope to some other place. and then i too would sleep, descending into the layer that was closest to him. a father who allows you that should protect you all of your days, i think.

need i say a thing? not now. not ever.

but i will say this: that ucla professor was ridiculous to compare anyone to ondaatje. he is in the realm of the gods, lent to us for his lifetime--no matter the length, altogether too briefly.

with love,

your favorite fish

[with gratitude.]

for all of the support that i've been getting from my readers, thank you so much.

i've decided to go public with the blog since i feel that i'm starting to find my rhythm.

as always, i'm open to advice!--if anything seems difficult to navigate or if you have any suggestions, please send them my way :)

with love,

your favorite fish

[mmm.]

ladies and gentlemen, the most underrated rock band of the 60s/70s:

other recommended listening by Big Star:

I'm In Love With A Girl

Watch The Sunrise

My Life Is Right

Thirteen

with love,

your favorite fish

[frida/yo]

in my diary, i find that i write much like frida kahlo did in hers. it is a streaming record of random abstract theories, seemingly connected, though difficult to grasp or maintain. philosophies in symbolism. no word goes unchosen, nor any confession spared. riddled with sketches to either calm my burrowing mind or to better illustrate my thoughts, each page is scrawled upon with haste and determination in equal measure. the difference is that she is a genius while i humbly pad about.

an excerpt:

"agua desde el cielo. humedad de ti. ondas en tus manos.

materia en mis ojos. calma, violencia de ser. de uno,

que son dos, sin querer aislarse. planta. lago. ave.

rosa de cuatro vientos. sangre rio arma. sol canto beso. ruina."

(water through to the sky. your humidity. waves in your hands.

material in my eyes. calm, violence of being. of one,

that is two, without desiring to isolate oneself. plant. lake. bird.

rose of four winds. blood river arms. sun song kiss. ruin.)

without a word on the passage, i want to say that i feel my life has run parallel to frida's throughout its course. despite having been born in 1907, she claimed to have been born at the start of the mexican revolution in 1910, gaining life alongside her home country. i was born on september 16, 1988, mexican independence day--the official "birth" of mexico.

she is of mixed race like i am (though she is mexican and alemanian, while i am mexican and dutch-indonesian). her father emigrated from honduras at the age of 19 (my own father emigrated from his home country at the same age). she was a middle child, creatively inclined, spiritually curious, and self-conscious...as i am.

when i visited mexico city during my senior year of high school, my spanish teacher and dear friend, sra. dehbozorgi, brought me to frida's Blue House in coyoacan. i remember the house felt somehow familiar to me. i remember walking through the halls with my expectations being met along the way.

i suppose that i often fantasize about being the reincarnation of some romantic artist of generations past, such as frida kahlo, georgia o'keefe, or artemisia gentileschi.

...and being a mermaid. but such are stories for another day.

with love,

your favorite fish.

[palo alto/the once and future king.]

i spent the weekend traveling along the coast, exercising various favorable habits--shopping for jewelry and vintage knick-knacks, visiting my younger sister, and reading.

i purchased a tibetan prayer bracelet from a woman named norzin.

my time with the little one in northern california filled me to the brim. palo alto reminds me of all the good things.

i'm making my way through the once and future king, the story of king arthur and merlin, which has been an enthralling adventure truth be told. regardless of my familiarity with the story, by virtue of its retelling throughout human history, it comes to me somehow new and unadulterated.

t.h. white has a way of stringing together words and syllables:

"the passion of nocturnal secrecy was a wine in his blood."

or

"they went in a dream, unguided by owl's hoot or bat's squeak, but only kept together by the necessary pace which the sleeping forest imposed on them."

i'm hoping you're all well.

love,

your favorite fish

[via tatiana michelle.]

guten morgen, meine liebte followers.

a liam finn production:

[via the white buffalo spirit.]

i'm in palo alto for the weekend visiting my younger sister.

northern california fills me to the brim.

for your viewing pleasure, chloe posted this video on my facebook wall:

[bewitched, bothered, bewildered.]

tuesday morning, eastern sun.

it's 730 and i already feel my body's yearning for the day. i fell asleep earlier than usual last night. well rested, i am peaceful.

a song for you from miss ella:

[for chloe.]

in the wake of my hudson river valley love affair with vassar college, coming home to san dimas has allowed me the opportunity to revisit the relics of my past.

old diaries, paintings, stomping grounds, but especially--the books.

steinbeck bears the brunt of my attention with such masterworks as east of eden, grapes of wrath, and of mice and men. i sometimes open his books to a random page and read the first passage that my eyes fall on. with steinbeck, you can never go wrong.

i want to share my reflections on one of my favorite passages from east of eden with you:

adam said, 'i don't see how you could cook and raise the boys and take care of me and still do all this.'

'neither do i, said lee. 'but i take my two pipes in the afternoon, no more and no less, like the elders. and i feel that i am a man. and i feel that a man is a very important thing--maybe more important than a star. this is not theology. i have no bent toward gods. but i have a new love for that glittering instrument, the human soul. it is a lovely and unique thing in the universe. it is always attacked and never destroyed--because thou mayest.

this passage reminds me, first, that good dialogue is subtle (thanks steinbeck). second, it is a testament to the strength of human will. third, it reminds me that everything is relative.

lee's character is a chinese immigrant who is the cook and caretaker of adam trask--a noble, simple man, whose innocence and constant wonder at the world spawns my own curiosity. throughout the novel, adam asks simple and sincere questions to everyone around him, humbly seeking happiness in truth. lee--adam's inferior--dares to offer philosophy to the man on whom he is practically dependent. the exchange between classes proves that intelligence is irreverent of social status. it reminds me to seek truth everywhere.

lee's answer is beautiful and simply spoken--i marvel at how steinbeck manages to convey the fact of lee's chinese heritage through his slow and respectful candor.

his other virtues are these: he offers his wisdom unassumingly, which is how i believe it should be done. he is humbly contented with feeling like a man, grateful for his past ("the elders") and to adam (his superior) for the richness in his life, taking "two pipes in the afternoon, no more no less", and most importantly, he admits his love of the human soul, adoringly described as "that glittering instrument...a lovely and unique thing in the universe".

it seems to me that there is much wisdom to be had from steinbeck and his entourage of deeply complex characters.

east of eden is a genius work that can reveal the universal truth in everything should you choose to be patient with it. steinbeck's prose is meant to be read aloud, i always say. each sentence should be tasted, each word appreciated. steinbeck was a careful writer. which is why east is my favorite of the books i've read so far. it's long--and that's the point. it took me nearly two years to finish reading that book. not because it was boring, but because i was constantly inclined to re-read sentences, to underline and ponder them.

it comes to you highly recommended, though who am i to say that you'll like it.

nobody, really :)

in any case, i hope this post wasn't too dry. i just wanted to share something that i found to be very beautiful with you, chloe, chloe's mom, ben, taylor, tati, and mommy bear--who i'm pretty sure are the only people who read this blog (comfortably so).

this post is dedicated to chloe, who yesterday encouraged me to continue writing.

love,

your favorite fish,

jti

[art.]

as an art LOVER, i have found that the more closely i look at art, the more i see around me and the more i see where it doesn't exist.

at vassar, i constantly wondered, "what is art?"

my professors each presented their arguments--art is beautiful. what is beautiful is pure to our senses--it gives us an uplifting feeling of recognition. like, "hey. i dig that."

do you know what i mean?

whether or not we know what it is about a work of art that makes it beautiful, there is still some "flash, some shimmer of recognition".

my favorite thing about art is that it both gives and receives. to properly look at a work of art, we see symmetry...we see disorder. we see things we like and things we don't like. and art that really appeals to us, strikes a balanced chord that agrees with us somehow. and the more we appreciate it and are grateful for its beauty, the more it can teach us about ourselves.

it's a lot like love, don't you think :)

[just a reminder.]

Beatles song All You Need Is Love was written by Lennon--though credited to Mccartney--as a song that was meant to send a message to every nationality on Earth that was simple and elemental:

pretty sweet tune, The Beatles.

the video (recorded live in the studio):

[singing all around you.]

since a few days ago, i've been running on an average of about four hours of sleep a night.

with seemingly imminent delirium, i've been anticipating the foggy, firm descent of delusion.

most of all, i am sitting at my desk, wondering at today's new sensations of sun and sensuality.

i've trained my mind to patience. calm. and awareness--i am aware of the wood under my wrists and a belly full of pasta.

though sleep-deprived, i am at rest.

...that's not to say that a nap with the kittens won't be in order :)

[admissions]

i left the candles burning so long they spilled wax puddles onto the carpet.

...forgetful.

i knocked over the cactus on my windowsill and now there is potting soil everywhere.

...clumsy.

i haven't showered. it's been a few days.

...stinky.

i'm avoiding the scale.

...still insecure.

i worry about the fact that i haven't cried in a while.

...apathetic?

i know that i am great at a small number of things.

...unapologetically, myself.

[trampers extraordinaire]

le kittens:

napoleon

bonaparte

&

olivia

la petite

collected photos by

tatiana michelle iskandar

[when it began.]

finding boredom in the insuperable grip of my post-graduation summer, with the support of professors at vassar, close friends, and sheer personal agency, i made weight of my desires to write.

reflecting on the amount of time that i spent foot-loosing about on the internet (shamelessly a child of the modern era) "blogging", as it is so delightfully called, seemed a worthy outlet.

with regards to the content, i will follow the force of my most insistent habit and have it be a collection.

when i was young, i used to hide small treasures--bits of colored glass, corners of marbled tile--in the curtains of my canopy bed and in the soil beneath the hilltop jacaranda. i used to press them into the earth besides the mighty shining pill bugs ("rolling polys") that i gathered as prehistoric charcoal gems. it wasn't until i was a bit older, and one of the eggs that i had kept in hopes of it hatching began to rot in my desk drawer, that i realized how unsanitary and outgrown my hobby had become.

haha

so i've since used social networking sites such as facebook and twitter to harbor the treasures of my days, be it songs, pictures, or brief observations of the world. so this blog is what that will be, but with a more substantial literary base.

i cannot make any promises about the frequency of my posts. i can only promise that each post will be inspired.

i don't even know if anyone will read this.

"who do i write for? perhaps the same person children do when they write their name in the snow." -margaret atwood