Colored Ink
|
miss something? check the archives about me name: n/aaliases: kit (and various iterations thereof) age: 22 location: oakland, ca hobbies: comic books, reading, writing, doodling, video games likes: all of the above, being lazy, mushrooms, animals, food, laughing loudly in public, SUSHI dislikes: nuts, stinging/biting insects, religious fanatics, violence, olives contact: coloredink(at)gmail.com wishlist playstation 2car a good night's sleep money stress-free life hardon-kardon speakers 19" flatscreen monitor world peace realistic wishlist transmetropolitan vol 5-6, 9-10long-term obsessions comicsslash writing reading music animals life and living current obsession(s) supernaturalhouse m.d. temeraire currently reading the earthsea trilogy by ursula k. leguinthe iliad by homer currently playing okamifinal fantasy xii wild arms 3 currently watching farscape (1.)supernatural (hiatus) house md (hiatus) veronica mars (hiatus) criminal minds studio 60 on the sunset strip |
Tuesday, November 6, 2007 [link] 12:23 a.m. listening to: none I did lots of writing today! Friday, November 2, 2007 [link] 02:11 p.m. listening to: "Still Alive" - Jonathan Coulton Halloween was boring. Not a single trick-or-treater, which I can only attribute to my neighborhood not having enough children or homeless people. I am getting really sick of eating nothing but cereal, congee, and Morningstar Farms fake sausage patties. Well, maybe not the sausage patties so much; they're delicious, but they'll only take you so far, is the thing. Maybe next time I go to CostCo I'll pick up some Gardenburgers. And buns, but not from CostCo, because CostCo will want to sell me a pound of buns or some such ridiculous thing. I would like someone to offer me a job now. Saturday, October 27, 2007 [link] 05:56 p.m. listening to: "Zebra" - John Butler Trio Today has been a day of thwarting. Being thwarted. THWARTATION. First, I went to the farmer's market in Berkeley, which is my custom on Saturday mornings, for there is a certain dairy there which sells raw milk, and I drink raw milk. The dairy was not there. So I went to Berkeley Bowl, where they also sell my raw milk, for an additional forty-five cents, and I thought I could pick up some eggs and things in the meantime. My raw milk was not there, either. Later, I went to the vivarium to purchase my snake a rat. The vivarium was out of $2 and $3 rats, so I bought him a rat pup, which is a mere mouthful for my snake, but I thought it better than nothing. Constantine did not eat the rat. Sigh. Tuesday, October 23, 2007 [link] 10:32 a.m. listening to: nothing For as long as I can remember, I've lived with the conviction--not even a conviction, really, more like a basic truth, like the way one simply knows that the sun rises in the east--that I am not needed. I am not necessary in anyone's life, and no one will miss me if I simply get up and leave, or they'll miss me only in a detached, wistful sort of way, like, oh, her? Yes, she was funny, wasn't she? I miss her jokes. Also, she was handy around the house. It is, as someone put it, a fear (or in my case, a deeply held belief) that people forget me as soon as I leave the room. Lately, I've come to realize that this isn't true. It's an odd feeling, and every couple of days I have to stop and think about it. People do need me. People do miss me. People do, in fact, think about me and wonder how I'm doing. And if I were to get up and leave, if I were to suddenly move to Boston, change my name, and get reconstructive surgery and assume a new identity, I would leave a me-shaped hole behind. Someone's life would be the worse for my not being there. How weird is that? Sunday, October 21, 2007 [link] 07:36 p.m. listening to: nothing So, for the past. . . gosh, I guess it's been almost a year, I've been experimenting with voice and structure. As a result, I have written (in no particular order): - an epistolary - a story that went backward and alternated between first person past tense and third person present tense (yeah, I don't know what I was thinking, either) - a short essay in second person - a story in third person omniscient - a story about crossplay, from the POV of a straight man who happens to like dressing up as girls - a story from the POV of a crazy person I am now embarking on a story about bondage. I'm nervous about this story, for some reason. Am I afraid of pissing off the BDSM community? . . . why wasn't I afraid of pissing off the crossplay/transgender community? Anyway, I think after this bondage story--if it pans out, it's ballooned to something unwieldy in my head, and I think I need to rein it in a little--I need to take a break from writing short stories and actually focus on a book. The problem is that I don't have any stories (in my head) that are actually novel length, but I'll build that bridge when I come to it. Friday, October 19, 2007 [link] 03:17 p.m. listening to: "No Aphrodisiac" - The Whitlams I've set myself a quota of applying to five jobs a day, which is surprisingly difficult. Sometimes there simply isn't five jobs I'm qualified for, and I've been searching on Craigslist as well as the classifieds in the newspaper. The classifieds have been surprisingly disappointing: they're either so vague that I'm afraid to call the number or for skilled labor like plumbing. Monster.com is entirely useless. Also, I hurt my back a few weeks ago and it hasn't gotten any better. Actually, it seems to be getting worse. I'm spending a lot of time lying on the couch with my laptop, which I'm sure isn't actually helping my back, but sitting in my shitty desk chair for any amount of time is excruciating. Tuesday, October 16, 2007 [link] 11:24 p.m. listening to: "St. Peter's Bones" - Girlyman Tra la la, back to the job hunt. Oh, life after college sure is grand. And by grand, I mean sucktastic. Why do I have this useless degree again? I think someone told me I'd be able to get a better job. Whoever it was, they lied. A tally of what my friends have been doing since graduating: - working at Borders - unemployed - went back to school - went back to school - went back to school - working as a secretary/administrative assistant at a law firm - freelancing as a writer/editor - working at a post-production company - working. . . at a trading firm? something that sounds like it actually makes money, anyway - substitute teacher I'm not going to bother tallying who has health insurance; that'd just be way too depressing. Monday, October 15, 2007 [link] 05:21 p.m. listening to: "Reva, Thereafter" - Girlyman There's something encouraging about reading the long-ago works of writers you really admire and thinking, "Wow, this is actually. . . quite awful." There's something nice about opening a published book and thinking, "Well, I wouldn't have done it quite that way. . ." and thinking that your way is better. It's not egoism and it's not conceit, it's just realizing, one day, that you're a better writer than you used to be. Saturday, October 13, 2007 [link] 03:43 p.m. listening to: "Windmills of Your Mind" - Noel Harrison I return home from LaLaLand to find a thin layer of dust over everything, a pile of newspapers just inside the door, and an ant trail leading to the snake tank. No ants inside the tank, thank God--but then what are they doing? I found a dead spider behind the tank, which I thought explained it, and then noticed something yellow under the tank. When I moved the tank, I discovered approximately a billion ants crawling over a pile of. . . well, my first thought was that the ants were eating the snake tank, which made me positively livid. Closer inspection revealed that it was a pile of yellow ovals. Eggs. The ants set up a fucking nest under the snake tank. I sprayed them all to hell, of course, and in a moment I'll work up the nerve to clean up the mess. Ugh. This can't be tolerated any longer; time to call the landlady and get someone in here to spray! Monday, October 1, 2007 [link] 03:29 p.m. listening to: "Be Mine" - R.E.M. I'm continually surprised by how close together things are. By which I mean, I biked to Oakland Chinatown today, close to Jack London Square; it took me less than half an hour. I bought quite a bit of poor people food, by which I mean, things that go well with congee: tins of fried dace and roasted eel, jars of pickled lettuce and bamboo shoots, packets of various preserved eggs. I'm good to go for several weeks of eating nothing but congee, pasta, and mac n cheese. Oddly enough, no one store in Chinatown had everything I needed/wanted. I ended up going to one store for the fried dace, another store for tinned eel, and yet another store for green onion/cilantro and the preserved eggs. At the last store, the one where I bought the fried dace and pickled lettuce, I inadvertently cut a man who appeared to be buying a basket full of coconuts. I've had this problem before, at this particular store, where the cash register is in the center of the store and you're never quite sure where the line is. I thought I'd checked, but apparently I was wrong. "Hey," he said, after the cashier had already started ringing me up. "I was there." "What?" I said, stupidly. "I was next in line," he snapped. "Oh, well then, shall I pay for your groceries?" I did not say. "I can certainly afford it, since I'm buying all of five items and am inconveniencing you all of three minutes." "Oh, I'm sorry," I said. "I didn't realize the line went that way." "Yeah, well, it is," he said, brusquely. "I'm so sorry to offend," I did not say. "As you can see, I'm just a poor hack who doesn't know any better, with all my canned food. How about I carry your coconuts out to the car for you, and maybe you'll tip me a dollar afterward?" I paid for my groceries and apologized again on the way out. Sunday, September 30, 2007 [link] 11:14 a.m. listening to: "Mamas, Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys" - Willie Nelson Mamas, don't let your babies grow up to be cowboys. Don't let 'em pick guitars or drive them old trucks, make 'em be doctors and lawyers and such. Mamas, don't let your babies grow up to be cowboys. They'll never stay home and they're always alone, even with someone they love. (I woke up this morning with this song stuck in my head. Goddamn you, Willie Nelson. Only not really.) Saturday, September 29, 2007 [link] 11:50 p.m. listening to: "Calypso" - Suzanne Vega I miss my bicycle. She's still in the shop, this time with a broken spoke. I actually noticed it last week, shortly before I got my flat tire (on the front wheel; the broken spoke was on the back), so I forgot it in my consternation over the flat. I fixed the flat today, though--changed the tube all by myself, ma!--and when I rode it around to check that I hadn't messed up the brakes, I heard that squeaking again. Better go get it checked out, I thought. They can check my brakes while I'm at it. Funny thing about bicycles is that they're remarkably like cars, especially if you're dependent on one for transportation. My driver friends are very attuned to the sound and feel of their cars, and I'm the same way with my bike; I picked up on the squeaking immediately, and how the bike behaved differently. The funnier thing is that bicycle repair is also similar to car repair, in that your car/bicycle is somehow never in peak condition (there's always something wrong, and you live with it because it's not affecting performance, and also, you don't have the time/energy/money to get it fixed right now) and sometimes it takes longer than anticipated because--guess what--they don't have the part you need. Which is the case right now; they haven't been able to find a spoke the right size. Jesus, maybe I just should have bought a new wheel. Friday, September 28, 2007 [link] 01:57 p.m. listening to: "Desparecido" - Manu Chao This is has probably been the shittiest week of my life to date. Tuesday, September 25, 2007 [link] 02:17 p.m. listening to: "Hall Om Mig" - Nanne Gronvall I received a phone call during a session with a student yesterday, which is always dreadfully embarrassing; fortunately, the student in question did not quite have the social awareness to know that what had just happened was a dreadful faux pas, and was more curious about who the phone call was from. I told her I didn't know, which was true, since I'd just hung up on the person in question and didn't recognize the phone number. The caller turned out to be HC Language Solutions, a company for whom I do contract work on occasion, rewriting dialogue for manga and video games. They had some kind of emergency--I wasn't quite sure what, since Mika, the liaison, probably has impeccable Japanese but not quite as coherent English--and desperately needed a rewriter, could I pick up the slack? Er, sure, I said. When's the deadline? Today, she said; could I get the documents in by midnight? Since I have to get up at 6:30 am to go to work, I try not to be in bed after 10:30, and certainly not after 11:00; a deadline of midnight was in reality a deadline of, say, 10:00 pm. I told her to send the files and that I would be home in an hour, and I'd have a reply for her by then. I bolted down my lunch, hopped on my bicycle, and raced home. She said there would be about 35 pages of text, I just didn't know what kind of text. A manga script has a lot of white space; 35 pages would take me a few hours, no sweat. But these were "factfiles," little encyclopedia entries about the characters, the kind that you'd see compiled in a book or in a DVD insert. I started working as soon as I got home and took a break after finishing the first two documents in order to take a trip to the video store. (Late fees, you know.) The trip itself took about an hour, and as I pulled into the driveway I heard that dreaded hissing sound that every cyclist hates and watched in despair as my front tire deflated. It was just after closing hours for my bike shop. Since there was nothing else I could do, I went back inside, heated up some dinner, and got back to work. I completed everything at 9 pm and, when I logged into my email, discovered more work waiting for me from Curve. I then decided to take a hot shower and a break before I had some kind of breakdown. I did manage to get everything finished, miraculously, by 10 pm, and had a whole 15 minutes to myself before crawling gratefully into bed. I console myself only with the reassurance that yesterday, I surely made enough money to cover the cost of a bicycle tube. Friday, September 21, 2007 [link] 08:59 p.m. listening to: nothing My upstairs neighbors are having a birthday party; I can hear them singing "Happy Birthday." Going "home" in October. Looking forward to it, and also not, mainly because someday, I'd like to go an entire year without flying. This will be my third flight this year alone, and I'm assuming there'll be another one in December, when I fly "home" for Christmas. Argh. I really friggin' hate airports and just the whole flying experience. Maybe someday I'll bike to Los Angeles. I'll need a mountain bike, of course. And camping equipment. And wilderness survival skills. Saturday, September 8, 2007 [link] 08:12 p.m. listening to: "Party Generation" - Dar Williams The sun has started setting earlier, which seems somehow wrong and startling; I'm fairly certain that it was only four short weeks ago that the sun only started darkening at 8:00; now it's a little past that and it's already full dark outside, or seems like it. I guess summer really is ending. All around me, people are going or have already gone back to school. I noticed for the first time, last week, that my route to work passed a high school. I stop at the red light and see kids on the corner clutching their wrapped books, carrying musical instruments, giggling with each other. It makes me nostalgic, but at the same time, I'm glad to be far, far away from that. (I do not yearn for the days of having to wrap my textbooks.) My snake continues to be cute. He's in shed phase right now. I've gotten better at spotting it before it actually happens. Too bad that didn't keep me from buying a rat he didn't eat. Sigh. Thursday, September 6, 2007 [link] 04:54 p.m. listening to: "Bone In My Ear" - Bruce Cockburn I stopped by Radio Shack on my way home from work and purchased a set of A/V cables. They were abysmally expensive, but I needed them, and I doubt I would get them anywhere else for cheaper save Best Buy, which is not on my way home from work. Sometimes, your money is less valuable than your time. And convenience. As it turns out, the auto-sensing technology on my new splitter does work as advertised! Golly gee! Wednesday, September 5, 2007 [link] 02:12 p.m. listening to: nothing So I have a really old TV. (I got it for free.) It only has one set of input jacks. I also have a (relatively) old DVD player, an ancient VCR, and a pretty old (used) PS2. None of them have input jacks. (Well, maybe the PS2 does; I haven't checked.) For the past few months, when I only had the DVD player and the PS2, I'd been manually switching them in the back of the TV. It was sort of annoying, but nothing I couldn't live with. After I got the VCR, though, I found that I sort of couldn't live with the prospect of playing musical jacks with them, especially since I have trouble telling them apart. Time to suck it up, I thought, and buy a cheap-ass splitter. So I bought a splitter. It was on sale at Radio Shack. It's pretty cool. It's got so many outlets I don't even know what they're all for, plus it's theoretically got auto-sensing capabilities. In theory, I can turn on the DVD player, and it'll know I want the DVD player and switch over to that set of cables. Pretty nifty. Unfortunately, this is all a moot point because I don't have an extra set of A/V cables to make the splitter talk to the television. Argh! Monday, September 3, 2007 [link] 12:06 p.m. listening to: "For the Sake of the Song" - Azure Ray How is it that the weekends are too short, but the long weekends are too long? Wednesday, August 29, 2007 [link] 01:56 p.m. listening to: "Unwritten Letter #1" - Vienna Teng I spent most of yesterday feeling like something the cat dragged in. I feel slightly better today, albeit still congested. Also, my father is MIA. He'd better not be dead, or this will be the worst week ever. Tuesday, August 21, 2007 [link] 06:56 a.m. listening to: "Hall Om Mig" - Nanne Gronvall I dreamed last night about a doctor--who looked like Nathan Fillion--who performed surgery via shark. By which I mean, I was dunked in a tank with a shark that was secured with straps. They got me just close enough for the shark to tear out whatever needed tearing out, and then they pulled me out. Also, this doctor made sure Ray Kowalski was fit for life in the Great White North with Benton Fraser, and they had four children. Bizarre. Saturday, August 18, 2007 [link] 03:03 p.m. listening to: "Broken White Line" - Kris Delmhorst The other day, while cycling back from Emeryville, I saw a bicycle locked to a signpost. This wouldn't have made me slow down, but the bicycle was spray-painted completely white and had a bouquet of dried flowers laid on its seat. I read the sign as I coasted past: CYCLIST KILLED HERE, it said in Sharpie on cardboard. PLEASE SLOW DOWN. The problem is, of course, that the sign is too small to be read by passing drivers. So who's supposed to slow down, here? Other cyclists? Sunday, August 12, 2007 [link] 12:22 p.m. listening to: "Long-Haired Country Boy" - Charlie Daniels Band Weekends are too short. Ants have started invading my apartment. They're not as severe as they were last winter (yet), but they're getting to be a hassle. I've placed a row of pennies across the kitchen window in hopes that will deter them somewhat. I don't like keeping poison in the house, but I might have to get the guy to come in and spray during the winter, when the rain drives them indoors. Sometimes living on the first floor sucks. Friday, August 3, 2007 [link] 11:47 p.m. listening to: "St. Peter's Bones" - Girlyman I've been thinking a lot, lately, about intelligence and its correlations with language. I've been trying to avoid using the word "smart" with any of my students after reading this New York Times Magazine article, instead telling them that they're really hard workers, good readers, etc. But some of my kids are very bright; in particular, I have one student that I simply cannot believe is eight years old. He would probably be labeled "gifted" if it weren't for the whole illiteracy thing. He's well-spoken, articulate, logical, and has an amazing memory. But he can't read, so he thinks he's stupid. I recycle paper a lot, printing on the backs of things, etc. and I just found a packet from one of my journalism classes. I took the staple out and shoved it into the printer, but not before glancing through it. One phrase jumped out at me: muddy thinkers. I think the sentence itself was saying something along the lines of how muddy thinking does not make for clear writing, but I was abruptly reminded of my father going on about how one of my friends was a muddy thinker and that was why she could never articulate herself, etc. etc. Something like that. He used the phrase "muddy thinking" a lot, and I had a brief, mad moment where I wondered if he'd ever read the book from which these pages had been photocopied. You never know, with my father. I've always told people that I'm not smart. And it's true. I'm not. I'm beginning to believe there's no such thing. The only thing separating me from anyone else is my memory (I have a near photographic memory; I never studied for a single test in high school) and some sort of God-given ability to organize thoughts in my head quickly and coherently. (I've also never written an outline for a single essay.) I have never been a muddy thinker. And that, apparently, is what makes me smart. And god knows there are plenty of people better than me. Wednesday, August 1, 2007 [link] 11:11 p.m. listening to: "Iowa" - Dar Williams Today, the five of us sat around and talked about how we were applying to work as waitresses, baristas, and in bookstores. We talked about where we wanted to be in five years (in med school, in grad school, owning a washer/dryer). We wondered why it was that we had college degrees in art history/English/biochemistry/biology/anthropology and still applied to places like Starbucks. We were bitter. If your parents tell you to go to college because you will be able to get a better job, know that that is a lie. Unless you major in something like accounting, computer science, or any kind of engineering. Tuesday, July 31, 2007 [link] 10:56 p.m. listening to: "You Won't Find Me" - Peter Bruntnell Why the fuck did I even go to college??? Friday, July 27, 2007 [link] 05:50 p.m. listening to: "Out Here" - Peter Mulvey I think I need to start looking for another job. The thought makes me want to cry a little bit. Thursday, July 19, 2007 [link] 07:53 p.m. listening to: "Wild Horses" - Off the Beat Sometimes I wake up in the morning and wonder what I'm doing with my life. Well, that's not entirely try. When I wake up in the morning, I stumble into the kitchen and put the kettle on to boil while I perform my morning ablutions. Then I make tea, pack my lunch, eat breakfast, and get my bicycle out of the garage. Then I go to work. It's more like when I settle into my seat on BART and pull out my headphones that it strikes me: What am I doing with my life? Am I happy where I am right now? Will it ever get better than this? What if it never gets better than this? I'm not unhappy, which makes a big difference. I know that life must be going really well for me to be able to wonder things like, what the fuck am I doing with my life? Everyone I ask tells me, "Making a living," or "Getting by," or some variation of that: I'm doing what I need to, with the implication that in the future, I'll be where I want to be. But most, if not all, of my friends, have concrete short-term goals: graduate school, or marriage, or careers, or all of the above. I just want to write, but I know the chances of making a living out of writing are slim to none. I read a review of a book whose title I no longer remember, but it was something about depression in creative people (writers, musicians, artists, etc.). Besides people who make a career out of their art, the author also talked about hobbyists. What it really boiled down to was this: creative people suffer from depression more often than others because they're constantly searching for meaning in their lives. It's a generalization (and the author admits it as such), but it sounds about right. We question the worth of our creations, and by extension our own worth. I'm trying to find meaning in my life, and I can't. It's not my work, though I like it. I'm proud of it, and I love talking about it and telling people what I do. What I don't talk about is my writing, but that's what I really care about. |
blogs better than mine alexandra kleeman andy dailykos dave barry gen linda margaret cho neil gaiman places to go shameless plugs blue tumbleweedscolored ink the book notus bebhinn friends book of genismshike.org pirates' alley yaoiville non-friends bishoneninkcasualvillain.com firecat fanfics hanashika.com jenwang.net mooncalf quirkybird oki doki shadowscapes spamcan the void twoflowerian fiction verabee wabuland comics 9 chickweed lanebaby blues candorville doonesbury for better or for worse foxtrot frazz jumpstart pearls before swine zits count your sheep something positive questionable content achewood carpe diem penny arcade faux pas suburban jungle friendly hostility three panel soul better days vg cats bob the angry flower no rest for the wicked directions of destiny kagerou [mirror] sabrina grayling graphic smash girlamatic other cool sites anime news networkanimesuki anipike dictionary.com explodingdog elfwood epilogue gamefaqs glasseyecomics kekkai.org livejournal nerve.com orisinal the onion postsecret smrt-tv torrentspy wikipedia i owe my stress to pitas.com |