[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