Colored Ink
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miss something? check the archives about me name: n/aaliases: kit (and various iterations thereof) age: 23 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 a good night's sleepmoney stress-free life hardon-kardon speakers world peace hdtv ps3 wiifit realistic wishlist transmetropolitan vol 5-6, 9-10teflon-coated whisk long-term obsessions comicsslash writing reading music animals life and living current obsession(s) writing a novelcurrently reading the caves of steel by isaac asimovoutlaws of sherwood by robin mckinley currently playing persona 3digital devil saga currently watching kino's journey |
Sunday, December 28, 2008 [link] 11:42 p.m. listening to: nothing Home again, home again, jiggity jig. Home for two days, as a matter of fact, but have been far too busy to blog. Two days of work and one day of rest, and tomorrow I must: - pick up my new glasses - do laundry - unpack - find food, perhaps Aaaauuuuggh! Friday, December 26, 2008 [link] 05:05 a.m. listening to: nothing In an eerie sort of deja vu, I am back in the Taipei airport, sitting at the exact same gate, in the exact same place. (It turns out the cushy spot with an outlet doesn't get very good wireless reception.) I am mildly hungry, but I don't have any of the correct currency to get any food. But if this flight goes the same as last time, they will feed us pretty much as soon as we're in the air. I'm much more used to this keyboard now. I'm afraid that when I get back to my standard keyboard, I won't know what to do. Monday, December 22, 2008 [link] 07:17 a.m. listening to: nothing I am ready to be home. I was ready to go home on Sunday, but instead all I did was get on a plane and fly to yet another country where I don't understand the language. I miss the comfort of familiar things: my room, my snake, my roommate, my kitchen. The language barrier is wearing on me more now that I am older and--to borrow an antiquated phrase--embued with more sensibility. But soon enough. Soon enough! They keep feeding me, at least, and the food is wonderful, even if I did just pay $6 for a pint of Haagen-Dazs. Sunday, December 14, 2008 [link] 03:21 p.m. listening to: nothing I am in Taipei airport, blogging and chatting on my new laptop. There is free wireless here. I am already homesick. I don't want to be here, halfway around the world from my family and friends, sitting on the floor. I want to be home in bed, or playing video games, or watching TV. It feels like ingratitude. How many people get to fly halfway around the world and spend two weeks in exotic foreign countries? But to me it's a duty I must discharge. I've never been to Mexico, but I've been to Singapore. I'm sick of this. I'm whining. I'm sure it's the long plane flight talking. I'll feel better after a shower and some sleep and a real meal. But first, I have to get out of this airport. Thursday, December 11, 2008 [link] 04:36 p.m. listening to: "Home as a Romanticized Concept Where Everyone Loves You, Always and Forever" - Woodpigeon Calloo callay! We are getting a bonus after all! It's the puniest bonus ever of only one week of pay: but that's better than nothing, and better we all get smaller bonuses than we start laying people off. For now my job feels quite secure, but who knows if I'll feel the same way a year from now? Better start laying up money, although this year's bonus will certainly go toward paying off my credit card bill. . . Monday, December 1, 2008 [link] 10:32 a.m. listening to: "The King of Carrot Flowers Pt Two & Three" - Neutral Milk Hotel Rabbit, rabbit. Where does the time go? It seems like just yesterday that I got a raise and contemplated my undeserved good luck. My roommate berated me. I loathe my upcoming trip to China. I have so many things I need to do. I need to write, I need to decorate the apartment, I need to practice sweeping, I still need to eradicate the apartment of fleas. And where do all these fruit flies come from? But of course, it's also important that I see my family--my parents aren't getting any younger, after all--and perform my filial duties. But the very thought of it is exhausting. Friday, November 14, 2008 [link] 09:18 p.m. listening to: "Nuits de Reve" - Moxy Fruvous I got another raise yesterday. One year, two raises. Yesterday, I went to a stationery store not too far away and bought myself another fountain pen to celebrate. I saw there a girl I used to go to school with. "What are you doing these days?" I asked. "Just working here, really," she confessed. I assured her she was lucky to be doing that; that times were tough; that I knew a lot of people that had trouble finding jobs. She said she'd done a few internships with music festivals, etc. but those didn't pay the rent. I know, I said. Paying the rent is important, I said. I don't worry about paying the rent anymore. I don't worry about food, clothing, luxuries. I still haven't learned how to budget properly, because my job actually pays me more money than I know how to spend. I set up online banking to pay all my bills for me, and I never worry about overdrafts. My 401(k) and my bills and my credit card and my automatic transfer to my savings account siphon the money away, and my next paycheck is always there before I hit red. What did I do to deserve this? It was luck--just sheer good fortune. I don't have any particularly marketable skills. I'm not particularly good looking or charismatic. I was just in the right place at the right time. I don't deserve this. Sometimes, I want to give it away. Wednesday, November 12, 2008 [link] 08:12 p.m. listening to: "Run" - Air What am I doing with my life? Thursday, November 6, 2008 [link] 02:15 p.m. listening to: I spent most of yesterday sick at heart. I couldn't really be happy about Obama--or rather, I could, but there was a knot of anticipatory grief in me after I woke up in the morning and saw that Prop 8 was in the lead. AP ran an article saying it'd passed later that morning; I read it shortly before I had to get on the phone with a client, and I had to ask her to repeat herself three times before I finally heard. Then I went out and bought everyone in the newsroom cookies. They're sad cookies, I said. I eat when I'm upset, I said. It will be okay. I know that. Everyone knows that. Rome was not built in a day, and though we may have lost the battle, we will win the war. Young people today grow up more and more with the idea that being gay is okay; already the amendment is being contested; demographics are changing. That isn't what haunts me. What haunts me is a photo in the LA Times of people jumping up and down cheering in a hotel room, after hearing the results of Proposition 8. Every so often I remember their photo, their elation, and I'm overcome with grief. How can they be so happy at the misery of others? How can they smile while others weep? What are they cheering for? I'm not angry at them--they are, after all, doing what they think is best, and their intentions are sincere if nothing else--but I don't understand. I don't understand. What did I ever do to them, that they're so glad I've been defeated? Tuesday, November 4, 2008 [link] 02:40 p.m. listening to: "Home as a Romanticized Concept Where Everyone Loves You Always and Forever" - Woodpigeon God, give us grace to accept with serenity the things that cannot be changed, courage to change the things that should be changed, and the wisdom to distinguish the one from the other. Sunday, October 26, 2008 [link] 07:35 p.m. listening to: "A Hymn for 2 Walks in Different Cities" - Woodpigeon We had paté for dinner. It was nice. 2008 is drawing to a close. October is nearly over, and then comes November and the beginning of holiday season. I'll be spending two weeks in Asia, and when I return it will be nearly 2009. In 2009, I will begin my drive to be published in earnest. It's hard, to not be able to plan the future. There is no goalsetting in the world of publishing, of being able to earn your entire income by writing. You can't say, by 2015 I will be a bestseller. You can't even say, by 2015, I'll have published a short story. This field is equal parts hard work, networking, and just plain luck. You get lucky and someone publishes you; you get lucky and an agent discovers you; you get lucky and find an agent that doesn't screw you over. You get lucky and become a best seller. But then, clearly being a best seller doesn't count for much: a glance at the New York Times best seller list going back three or four years shows the same names over and over again: James Patterson; John Grisham; Sue Grafton; Nicholas Sparks; Dean R. Koontz; occasionally, Stephen King. Once, J.R.R. Tolkien. It's simultaneously heartening and depressing. On the one hand, I'm a much better writer than any of these people, and they're best sellers! But then, I know for a fact that there are writers out there better than the above list put together (leaving out Stephen King), but they're not best sellers. This does not say good things about my chances of being able to make any sort of living from writing. This does not say good things about the kind of society that I'm trying to make care. Wednesday, October 22, 2008 [link] 03:58 p.m. listening to: "Float" - Flogging Molly The front page of the San Francisco Chronicle was devoted to Proposition 8 today. Their choice of photos made me smile. The main photo was one of two men sitting close together in what looked like a church pew. The taller one, a blonde with trendy glasses, leaned his head close to his partner's, one arm up on the back of the pew, his hand resting casually on his partner's shoulder. The other man, dark-haired with a dusting of attractive stubble, had his head bowed, smiling slightly as if in response to a joke, eyes half-shut like a contented cat's. It was a lovely, touching picture that practically purred, "See? Look at how happy they are. Look at what a beautiful couple they make. Don't you want them to be able to get married?" Below the fold was a smaller photos of protesters with "YES ON 8" signs, all with identical scowls. Some of them even had their arms folded and legs planted, as if they expected to meet battering rams and tanks. They looked like a singularly grim and humorless lot. I really don't understand. The article quoted a proponent of Proposition 8 as saying, "This is not about taking rights away from anyone. . . this is about standing up for your rights." What about this is not taking away rights? You are taking away the right (or perhaps the privilege) of gay people to marry. How is this standing up for rights? Straight people have always had the right to marry; that isn't threatened by gay marriage any more than your health benefits are threatened by gay marriage. It really saddens me. All these signs say "Protect marriage!" Protect marriage from what? Thursday, October 16, 2008 [link] 06:19 p.m. listening to: "Moving Pictures Silent Films" - Great Lake Swimmers Oftentimes, when I open the mailbox, it is empty. This seems very peculiar to someone that used to find her mailbox overflowing with credit card offers, mail for past tenants, and catalogs, but I shrug it off. After all, there's two of us in this apartment, and surely my roommate checks the mail as well. Also, we've recently moved, and it takes a while for the junk mailers to find you again. Then there is the problem of my credit card. My new card was mistakenly delivered to my old apartment. I had to declare it lost, and they sent me a new one, assuring me that it would arrive within ten to fourteen business days. I sighed and rolled them over to my other credit card, which has a lower credit limit and an actual interest rate. I figured that, eventually, my new card would come and I would be able to roll them all back. My card has not come. It has definitely been ten business days, although not quite fourteen yet. I fidget. I twiddle my thumbs. I check the mail religiously, sometimes several times a day. Just now, I checked the mail on my way back from taking out the garbage. No mail. "The mail hasn't been delivered today," called the neighbor lady with whom we share the stairwell. She is a fount of gossip and knowledge; she informed me of the debacle of the dryers. "New mailman hasn't got the key." The mailboxes are located in the complex itself, and to even get to them you need a front door key. You know, I'd wondered how the mailman delivered our mail. Did he or she have a front door key? The answer: yes, or s/he's supposed to. "The reason the mail got delivered yesterday," she continued, "is because he rang our doorbell, and Jim let him in and showed him where the mailboxes were at. But he hasn't got the key, so he can't deliver the mail." "Well," I said. "That's lame." Argh! Wednesday, October 15, 2008 [link] 05:20 p.m. listening to: "Knock Knock" - Woodpigeon Why haven't I gotten paid yet?! Thursday, October 9, 2008 [link] 05:35 p.m. listening to: Radio Paradise I can't tell you how nice it is to work in a kitchen where I can actually. . . work. Surface space! Counters! Pantry space! Cabinets! Drawers! I've done more real cooking these past two weeks than in the past six months combined. Where another time I might have made instant ramen or yet another tofu-and-preserved-egg dish, today I attempted chow fun for the first time in four years. This attempt was not disastrous (it was edible, at least), but not as tasty as I would like. But still! An actual meal! Leftovers that will last for days! I am thrilled beyond measure. Productive day today. Not only did I cook the aforementioned time-consuming meal, but I also took out the garbage, did laundry, and received my new ID in the mail today. Well, that last one wasn't through much real effort, unless checking the mail counts. Saturday, September 27, 2008 [link] 06:35 p.m. listening to: "Musical Key" - Cowboy Junkies I don't think I can make it. Wednesday, September 24, 2008 [link] 03:04 p.m. listening to: "Killing the Blues" - Robert Plant & Alison Krauss The other day, I passed a house on my bicycle where I witnessed a man beating his dog with a plank of wood in the front yard. The dog, some kind of brown mutt, cowered in the corner, half on his side, ears back and eyes wide. I heard the board connect with the dog's flank. Smack! I passed the house then and no longer saw anything, but I heard the wood come down again with a meaty slap, and the owner hiss, "Don't do that!" Friday, September 19, 2008 [link] 10:19 p.m. listening to: "Haunted" - Poe I've been thinking a lot about J.D. Salinger. Do you know what he does these days? Yes, he's alive. He sits in his home and writes short stories that he never intends to see the light of day. He says it's very liberating. He used to at least answer fan letters, but now he doesn't do even that. Part of me thinks he's being an asshole, but the other part of me is envious. How nice it must be to write for yourself and no other, to not need or crave validation from outside forces! Of course, it's only possible to do this if you've already been great once and you can make a living off your name alone. What of Bill Watterson, the reclusive author of Calvin and Hobbes, or Jeff Mangum, the driving force behind the now-defunct Neutral Milk Hotel? Like J.D. Salinger, they took all their toys and went home. They couldn't handle the fame, or they didn't want to handle it. They had too much integrity or too little stomach. Now Bill Watterson paints watercolors that any artist would give their left arm to see, and fans dog the Elephant Six in hopes of seeing Jeff Mangum as a guest. Do they know? Do they care? What selfishness! And yet, I envy that selfishness. The other day, someone asked me, "Would you rather be great, or would you rather be famous?" Of course the answer is that I'd like to have both, but if I could only choose one or the other, which would I choose? Fame without greatness is empty and comes only to the undeserved: hacks like Cassandra Clare come immediately to mind. The thought makes me curl my lip. But what is greatness, without fame? So many great artists were never discovered in their times and died without a penny to their names. Do I want to languish in obscurity merely to preserve my integrity? Of course, who do I think I am to deserve either? Monday, September 15, 2008 [link] 12:07 p.m. listening to: Radio Paradise I don't want to pack. Saturday, September 6, 2008 [link] 09:47 p.m. listening to: nothing I found this in my notebook. I think I wrote it after working on Labor Day, while riding the train home at night. "The city is a different beast at night, a nest of neon Wednesday, August 27, 2008 [link] 05:16 p.m. listening to: "For the Sake of the Song" - Azure Ray I can't believe the last time I blogged was the 13th. What happened during those intervening days? Nothing of note. Apartment hunting, work, more work, more apartment hunting, some cooking and cleaning. I need to feed my snake. Has it been a week already since he last ate? Obviously, since he's hungry again. Sigh. I'm afraid of the story I'm (supposed to be) writing right now, but it's not an unmanageable fear. It's not like the novel I have in the back of my head, which I won't be able to write for five years or more, not until I'm Better. (Write what you know, but never write what you know.) This fear is the simple one of Getting It Wrong, so I know I can get past it and write. But will it turn out the way it is in my head? I think I'm getting Better. Things that used to frighten me don't frighten me as much, or don't frighten me at all. I can recognize my own irrationality and conquer it. I think a lot of it is just learned helplessness. I didn't have any control over these things in the past, so why should I now? It's like how I put the bag of rice on the top shelf even though I knew these days I'd spill rice on my head. Sure enough, I spilled rice on my head one day. Why didn't I move the bag? It somehow didn't occur to me that I could do so, even though I knew that I should, in order to prevent an accident. Puzzling, but it applies to other areas of my life as well. But I've delayed long enough. Time to write that story now. I perform better when I'm a little bit scared. Wednesday, August 13, 2008 [link] 03:55 p.m. listening to: "Symphony no. 7 - Allegretto" - Ludwig van Beethoven I was thinking, earlier today, about the nature of compassion, and a little bit bothered by a society that thinks of compassion is a weakness. Don't help people by the side of the road, because they might be robbers or rapists. Don't give money to homeless people, because they're just going to use it for drugs or alcohol. You should hang up on telemarketers, don't answer the door to Mormons, have no sympathy for prostitutes or drug addicts, always look out for number one. And, you know, a certain amount of that makes sense, because you have to look out for yourself before you can look out for others. A long, long time ago, when I was very young and full of myself, I was arguing with someone about tolerance. She responded with: what is the big deal about tolerance? Should I be tolerant of drug addicts? Should I be tolerant of murderers and rapists? Of course, at the time I could say nothing but well, no, but--. Now, I look back at that conversation, and my answer would be, yes. Isn't that what all religions have preached, down through the years and centuries and millenia? Didn't Jesus travel in the company of tax collectors and prostitutes? Isn't part of the Buddhist mission to bring joy to all sentient beings? Isn't one of the five pillars of Islam the giving of alms to the needy? Well, yes, but the world just doesn't work that way, I can hear that more "rational" voice saying. It's right: the world doesn't work that way. But dammit, it should work that way, and I'm going to do my part. And if, one of these days, I'm killed in a well-meaning act of compassion, then I'll count it as a life well spent. Sunday, August 10, 2008 [link] 03:56 p.m. listening to: OK Computer I spent far too much money today. Sealing wax, seal, good stationery: these things cost money. I also bought another rat for Constantine, a smaller one. He gulped it down almost immediately, and then gave me resentful looks. Look, it's not my fault you didn't eat the last rat. I haven't been writing much lately, and it's unpleasant. Writing well requires a lot of focus. My best writing happens when I'm doing nothing but thinking about the story. There have been a lot of wasted words in my writing lately. Progress is being made, but not as quickly or as much as I'd like. I got knocked out of the groove by too much work a few weeks ago and never quite got on track. This frustrates me to no end. The deadline's coming up, and this story would be so much better if I could just concentrate. But I can't. The job demands my time, apartment-hunting demands my time, all the other things that need to get done during the day demand my time. I need to win the lottery so that I can concentrate on writing, while a personal assistant does my laundry, cleans my apartment, and cooks my meals. Well, no. I would like to continue cooking my own meals. I enjoy cooking. The rest of it, though, I would love for someone else to do all that for me. Maybe this is why I keep moving backward through time. Typewriters, sealing wax, stamps. I want to get away from all these things that distract me. I just want to check myself into a hotel for a weekend with no telephone and no Internet and find whatever it is that I'm missing. |
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