heaven can wait

a new beginning?

2012-01-23T22:21:00.000-08:00

spring 2012 semester started today
although it's (lunar) new years today i wanted to do homework tonight
unfortunately the textbooks for my japanese class are sold out at the school bookstore and the reading for my cinema class is some .pdf of a poorly scanned article that i can stand to read as much as a kindle. so basically i will read it when i print it out, not at home.

here is an unfortunate photo from this morning... yes... my 8am class...

professor could've emailed us beforehand... i celebrate lunar new year too you know. and i woke up anyways.

anyway i haven't written for a while. i am a bit tired, i am not even bothering to press the shift key to capitalize anything. i thought about this year being about me cleaning up my act -- and i think i have done so, i have dealt with many things and said goodbye to many things, in a timely manner. but i think it's only natural to make messes. my goal is just to try to clean them up and not make an additional mess and pretend i cleaned the previous one up. i did that a lot last year. i think ever since i turned 19 i cleaned up a lot. i had fun being 18, well fun is a general word for it. i did a lot. there was a lot that now, in retrospect, i wish i hadn't done but it's wasting time thinking about that.

i really like this on keep's blog so i will link to it here: "on patience" - i have used some of the ideas to remind myself to keep sticking to the work, the headache inducing, the stress inducing. and to breathe.

it seems the rain is doing me no good. i had two nightmares last night. in the first, i overslept and missed the first day of all my classes. in the second, an ex-lover and i were after the same girl and he got her.

i wish for peaceful rest.

BACK FROM THE MOTHERLAND

2011-12-31T15:53:00.000-08:00

THEY DIDN'T LET ME BRING BACK THE BOYS

SO I BROUGHT BACK THE COMME DES GARCONS

2011-12-16T16:57:00.000-08:00

2011-12-08T20:51:00.000-08:00

I like mystery boy's mess of hair.

Print him out Un hemisphere dans une chevelure and read it in French.

Brown, brown, sweet brown.

Quand je mordille tes cheveux elastiques et rebelles, il me semble que je mange des souvenirs.

Sometimes it is true: the back of the head is more pleasing than the front.

I encounter a mystery boy every once in a while. He walks with his hands in his pockets. What will they pull out to reveal?

I wish I could disappear into his head of hair. I wish he could eat me.

Pore, pour, poor.

One Day

2011-11-23T23:38:00.000-08:00

One day, we will stop sleeping together.

Actually, any one of our encounters could be our last. You could get sick of me at any moment. It's not very likely that I will get sick of you. It is not that I can't find anyone else--the contrary, in fact, did you know that I have had five lovers at one point in time, yes, I just stack them on if the situation allows.

Anyway, I fear for us. I feel the end is near. At least we have had a good run. We have seen each other at least five times now.

I remember looking over at my trash bin after sleeping with you for the first time, thinking "wow, his semen is in my trash bin."

Surely a lady knows where to draw the line, but I don't, I always write everything, I might as well address it in a letter to you but I post it publicly online instead.

The other day, my friend and I talked about sex, and he used the phrase "snail trail" to describe the wetness from a vagina. I liked that term. I just wanted to share it with you.

Vanessa

Zoetrope boy

2011-11-17T09:11:00.001-08:00

The sadness begins creeping up in November.

Last December on the road to Los Angeles I texted you. I didn’t even know your name yet. I had you in my phone as “J——-.” The thought of making small talk with you now seems unattainable, it’ll never happen again, I can’t believe I once did it so nonchalantly—whether you even remember my name, I can’t say confidently, although I know you remember my face because I ran into you in a cafe (three times) last month, or maybe it was September, and you ran, ran out, or rather you walked out quickly, because Oh shit! it’s that girl from forever ago.

I met you at Cafe Zoetrope two weeks after I returned to San Francisco. What had happened- one night I was watching Lost In Translation, texting you, we talked about Sofia Coppola. You asked me if I had been to Francis’ Cafe, the Cafe Zoetrope, everyone has their own relationship with the Coppolas. No, I hadn’t been, and so there were our plans.

Imagine identifying as a lesbian for two years of your life, and suddenly one day you’re on the train, on the way to your first date with a guy in what seems like forever, because even before you identified as a lesbian, you liked guys but did not date any—the last time, you were 13, and does that even count?, and you are 18 now.

I could not eat that morning, in fact my stomach felt like it was eating itself, I couldn’t sit still, but your sporadic texts I received (the first one came after I woke up) excited me, I told myself to calm down but hell, my stomach was eating itself. It was maybe 2:00 pm, you were running late because some dishes broke, you had to clean them up and you had to choose what to wear (it was a black coat with skinny jeans, thinking back now I can’t imagine how much time it should’ve taken you to decide on that), I thought a lot about my outfit, looking back now it is funny because I do not dress like that anymore, though I still wear the same shirt, my favorite t-shirt, A Bout de Souffle, I thought it fit especially well since you studied film and so on.

I arrived early, I even had time to walk around North Beach, actually I was lost because I had never seen Cafe Zoetrope before, now I walk past it several times a month, appreciate its beauty, I ducked into a bakery to pick up macarons and asked the cashier where the cafe was. My god, when you walked through Zoetrope’s doors, I thought, he’s a Goddess! but wait, maybe that is wrong, I thought, I was still unsure of what adjustments came with being with a man—or a guy, a boy, sorry. So I settled with, oh, his legs and hair are quite nice.

The core problem is, I’ve always regretted that you were the first boy—had you been my second, third, fourth, etc., I would have identified your tricks, as I failed to do then… which led to sadness, because I liked you more than I should have.

It’s almost reaching December, which means one year since the first boy, my Zoetrope boy. There have been so many more after him. It is a little depressing, actually… I guess, how failed they have been, but after all, I am 19 now, who has anything solid at 19?, I may know a couple of people but the love they have is so foreign to me, I have never made love you know, I don’t know what it means, though I have been naked with a boy, I have never made love.

lee on the chinatown bench

2011-11-10T23:06:00.000-08:00

as it turns out,
22 year old boys
don't have it any more figured out
than 18 year old boys

the oldest i've had is 26,
and on our date he whined about his sister
"she's 18 and
having a
baby
she doesn't
know
what
she is
doing"

i was also 18
but unlike his sister
i really
did not
know
what
i was
doing

poem in memory of an afternoon forever ago with a boy forever ago

2011-11-10T22:21:00.000-08:00

i like the idea of kissing in the streets,
eskimo kisses,
laying in bed in the afternoon.

i like being naked with you

i can't imagine my luck
opening my eyes and seeing
your tattooed arm there.

your
hairy legs
are so cute.

all mouth, all hands.
all of life's answers are to be found in water.

can i just have the
simple things?

beatrice

2011-11-04T22:35:00.000-07:00

beatrice dalle, actress

she strikes me as sort of a madwoman. so i like her.

i first saw her in olivier assaya's clean (starring maggie cheung) but i didn't really notice her until jarmusch's NIGHT ON EARTH. i finally bought the dvd last week and i've given it two views already...

by the way... how many times have i referenced winona's character, corky? so many times.

things wong kar-wai taught me about love

2011-11-04T22:34:00.000-07:00

1. You will fall in love only once. Obstacles will prevail. The rest of your life is spent recovering.
2. Anything that distracts you from the pain of your loss is good. Some people are more successful in this regard than others.
3. Eroticising their objects will be the pinnacle of your sexual fulfillment.
4. Desire is kept eternally alive by the impossibility of contact.
5. The most potent way to exist is to occupy someone else’s imagination.
6. Technology will only heighten your sense of desolation making you more keenly aware that no one is trying to call.
7. Hook up with someone. Live with them. Sleep with them. Tag along. Don’t be fooled. You are only a transitory distraction. Ask for commitment. Declare your love. Watch the set up evaporate.
8. Some coincidences are deliberate.

this entry is by protohyped
films pictured
chungking express; happy together;
in the mood for love; fallen angels

16

2011-10-28T21:25:00.000-07:00

18

2011-10-25T00:05:00.000-07:00

I'm writing this a day before my 19th birthday. Just a year ago I dropped out of art school, scraping whatever minimal plans I formed during my high school years. In fact, I left art school before turning eighteen. In the United States, turning eighteen basically means two things: you are "legal" and you can buy cigarettes. I wouldn't really take advantage of either one until the new year began.

I never thought that I would experience more freedom being with boys than girls. I identified as a queer girl, and loosely as a lesbian, for the past two years; not too long after turning eighteen, I became more interested in boys again. And I took up that interest. For the record, I haven't been with very many girls. They make me nervous. But that's a different subject altogether.

Dating boys was awkward. I didn't know what exactly to do. Essentially, I still don't. Most of my experiences with them this year can be attributed to the fact that I have felt, for the most part, that I can do anything with them. My feeling that my life is, or should be, a Sofia Coppola film helped me rationalize my strange decisions.

"Don't think--just do. It will be a story later."

The first boy came in January. He left a mark. He changed me in ways that I do not know how to communicate yet. Afterwards the boys kept flowing along. Being an 18-year-old girls means something special to American boys (and some men.) I smoked cigarettes to deal with it.

Despite being a total pain in my ass, boys inspired me this year, specifically in entries I wrote on my blog. Often my friends--and strangers--told me to be careful about sharing too much, despite the majority of the entries being posted to my personal blog rather than my more popular one. I feel like I shared my personal life for the sake of helping myself. If doing so has hurt me, I haven't noticed. Writing is a way of personal healing.

Moving forward, I'm sure I remember more of the boys I knew when I was eighteen than what is written. Eventually, none of it will matter, if it even does today...

1.
I sat in Cafe Zoetrope. You were late but I was nervous and wanted to fix my hair so I didn’t mind anyway. It was 2:00. The place was close to empty. I had chosen the booth in the back because I thought I looked the best sitting there. Like, when you entered through the doors, it would look perfect. Francis’s Sofia wines were sitting in a basket next to me.

When you came, I thought, wow, how skinny. You handed me your business card and I said, “this is where you work?” I was not sly at all. You already knew I was impressed. What a game.

We walked through Chinatown with your arm around me. Then you stopped me and we made out on the street. I thought, “if I was anyone else I’d hate us.” You tasted like cigarettes and mint. What a fucking game.

We went to your house. On the bus we looked like a couple. You massaged my hands. What a lie.
We laid together. I asked you to play “Playground Love.” I felt you on my skin. This is, I’m guessing, the part I should leave out.

When night fell I helped you choose your clothes. We said bye near my train. And then you told me a lie.

You don’t remember. Or you don’t care. I won’t forget it.

2.
A week ago I met a couple. The girl was really pretty and the guy was average, and they are nearly a decade apart in age, but they were both nice. They told me I was cute. They paid for my movie, expensive tea and dessert and invited me to their downtown loft. I had never actually been in a place like that before, it’s ideally where I’d be living now if I could afford it. I introduced them to Toro y Moi and we talked about Scarlett Johansson.

They met each other at a music festival in Texas by pure chance. He kept asking me whether or not I found his girlfriend to be attractive. I observed her and she looked like she wanted to leave. Or, at least, she looked at me like I was to bring something new to their relationship. I’ve never dealt romantically with a couple before. I had already made up in my mind that I could not have anything with these people. So I thanked them and left.

Over the weekend I finally saw a boy I’ve been meaning to break it off with for the past few months. I didn’t know how to tell him, so I put it off for so long. After spending a couple of hours with him, I realized he already knew. He still offered me whiskey and his jacket. I accepted the former and declined the latter. I felt like shit.

3.
LIVING IN SF MEANS that you’re connected to everyone. That guy you met off that dating site went to the same high school as you but graduated one year ahead. And what do you know, you have vague memories of seeing him around but you were too young to date him at the time so what did it matter? The city’s small enough that you two have met again. Living in SF means reppin a muni line even though you hate muni. It means knowing which muni employees are the nice ones and which ones are the worst. It means being confused as to why your friends are texting IM-style, that is, until you get an iPhone. It means making fun of all the hipsters in the Mission even though your friends are hipsters in the Mission. Living in SF as an 18-year old native means that you want to move out, but be real, everyone knows you can’t afford the rent. Living in SF as a native means that you roll your eyes when you hear others claim being from SF though they’re really from Daly City.

Living in SF as a native means having other natives ask you, “are you tired of it yet?” And at 18, you’re like, “yeah.” And you’re at Dolores Park even though you claimed you were “over” it 2 years ago because, be real, you’ll never leave it, and you’re smoking on the grass with people you’ve never met before but they look like your friends, they’re all wearing cuffed jeans, v-necks, wayfarers and chrome bags so it doesn’t matter anyway. Then you take the bus home and your friends from Oakland text you to make more DP plans, except not when it’s so windy because “I really didn’t think SF was this cold.”

Oh wait, maybe this is just me.

4.
He turned to me and said, “we’re the best looking people here.”
He smelled like mints and cigarettes.
He held my hand.

5.
He looked me up and down and said, “you weigh less than 100 pounds, don’t you?”

Flustered, I immediately giggled and yelled, “no!!” I felt guilty for taking that as a compliment.

Later, he correctly guessed my clothing and shoe size. I was sold on him.

He also asked, “are your shoes Chanel?”
“Yes. These are my walking shoes.”
“Oh. These are my walking shoes. They’re Armani.”

I smirked so big, thinking back on it now, I want to slap myself for it.

6.
I’ve been busy getting boys upset with me,
Drinking their whiskey,
Not touching them,
Not laughing at their jokes,
Avoiding them,
Spending my days alone,
Dressing up silk.

7.
I’m sitting on the train next to this beautiful creature with luscious lips and the most amazing side profile. As I’m typing this I hope he looks over and sees it.
Have I really lost it? I honestly feel nervous doing this right now.
Fuck, he’s not looking. He just threw his head back and closed his eyes. I guess he’s tired. This isn’t helping. He has a beauty mark above his lip. I want to lick it. I want to trace his face.

8.
It was late afternoon. I was lying naked on your bed. I watched you throw on your shirt, coat, jeans, and wipe your mouth. You went outside to smoke a cigarette. I wondered if the people who passed by you outside could guess that you had a naked girl on your bed. I thought it would be so obvious, maybe it was the way your hair was messy, maybe it was the way your eyes looked different.

Lying alone in your room, I wondered if I should get up and search through your drawers. But instead I just laid there, smelled the sheets, wrapped your blankets between my legs. I saw the marks I left on your pillowcase. I saw the picture of your son on the wall and then I looked away. I had no business seeing his face.

When you came back, you asked, “find anything interesting?” I told you I didn’t get up. “How boring,” you said with a smile. You looked at my face then my body. You took off your clothes. I stared at your belly button, your happy trail, my eyes lowered.

My mind wanders to the space between and I think, “you were here.”

9.
I smothered your face in kisses. Your nose protruded in a way so different from mine that I had to trace it with my mouth.
My lips went to your neck and you said, “if you give me a hickey I’ll kill you.”
We matched one another in vanity.
You were quite the charmer.

10.
I laid naked on your bed. You walked over to your laptop, put a new song on. You glanced over at my Breathless shirt, slung over your chair. “I look like the girl in the movie,” you said, obviously referring to Jean Seberg. You made a cute face imitating her.

“I think you look more like Belmondo,” I replied, which was true. You looked absolutely nothing like Jean. She was far prettier than you. You were what I’d call “handsome.” Or maybe “charming.”

I asked you who I reminded you of. You said some Chinese female character from maybe a 40s or 50s American film. “Of course,” I thought. “Mysterious, like an enigma,” you added. I laughed like I thought it was a good answer but really I thought you were being kind of dumb.

11.
Avoid these boys at all costs:

1) Boys who call themselves lesbians. They are not lesbians.
2) Boys who admit they’re assholes. You may think, “well, all my friends are assholes too so it should be okay,” but you’re wrong. Your friends may be assholes. But at least you don’t sleep with them.

12.
Him: “You know how some assholes call themselves lesbians because they’ve eaten pussy once? Well I’m a lesbian for many other reasons than that.”
Me: “And what would those be?”
“I like being little spoon.”
“Ok.”
“And the rest you’ll have to see later.”

13.
When it’s close to midnight and guys on the train with their passed out girlfriends sitting on their lap check me out, I just think, my god, what a filthy world.

14.
I like to assign songs to people, saying, “this is our song.”
That way, it’ll always be ours, they’ll always think of me, I’ll always think of them. Even if it isn’t for the best.
After all, who doesn’t remember a lover’s song?

15.
I’m surprised I don’t remember what you wore that day. I remember what I wore in great detail. Probably because I had worried so much about it.

You studied film, so I wore my Breathless shirt. I was pretty sure you had mentioned that you like Godard. Also, you know, the shirt is slightly sheer so you could make out the lines of my black lace bra. That was intentional. The rest of the outfit was just what I felt comfortable in—my leather jacket, black tights, a skirt, and flats. And of course, my Balenciaga bag, a trusted friend. I also threw on a scarf because it was cold. Even though this was an outfit I wore all the time, I still thought it over countlessly before I left the house. I even fidgeted with it while I was on the bus. Even while I sat at the cafe waiting for you…

My outfit had a quiet sort of luxury. I knew you liked fashion. What kind of fashion, I didn’t know. But the clothes, apart from the obvious quilted flats with the interlocking C’s on the toe, were sans labels. The tshirt has a visible “Rodarte” on the back, but I wore a jacket. You would have to have the eye to pick up the fine cotton, the hand stitched edges. Same with the Balenciaga—no one knows it’s Balenciaga unless they are familiar with the bags. Or, one could appreciate its delicate lambskin leather and unique vibrant color. Which you did. You had the eye.

Back to you. You wore a dark coat, that much I’m sure of. I remember our walk through Chinatown, the way you wrapped the wool around yourself before you grabbed my arm to wrap around yourself. You also wore skinny jeans—your stick thin legs are a detail I remember quite well. But the rest, I’m not so sure. What I remember is your hair, your cigarette stench, the way you wiped your lips with your fingers like Jean-Paul Belmondo in Breathless. And the way you threw on your Raybans, I thought you looked so cool.

16.
I’ve always thought life would be easier as a boy, I’ve always thought I knew exactly what kind of boy I’d be. But maybe if I was a boy, I’d think I know exactly what kind of girl I’d be. And the reality is it’s not so easy to be human, boy or girl or otherwise…

17.
Do you remember at 18, falling in love (lust) with a 22-year-old boy? And you had a conversation that went something like…

You: You know, I just turned 18 in October.
Him: [smiling] Oh, really? Congratulations.
You: Yeah, thanks.
Him: [under breath] Oh god, I’m like a pedophile.
You: Shut up!
Him: It's kind of hot.

18.
You wanted to know why I was in so much pain, and I told you the story of how I had been assaulted at age 14. Or maybe it was 13, I didn’t remember because that wasn’t the point. You nodded your head, you seemed to understand. “Here, I’ll get naked too, I’ll turn the lights off. It’ll change the mood,” you said. We took a break from being rowdy and you held me in your arms.

I felt the tip of your nose against my the back of my head, our toes touching. After a few minutes, I heard you snoring. Later you said that meant you felt comfortable around me. “I feel like I’ve known you forever,” you said.

I smiled at you, because I thought I finally had someone.

“This is me being nice,” you said. “This’ll wear off in about 5 minutes.” And it did, because you’re a boy. One time, this other boy on the internet told me that with boys, there’s only ever a head, heart, or dick operating. And for you, it’s not hard to guess which one you make decisions with.

I want to promise myself that this is the last story I’ll write about you, but I know it’s not true. I don’t know why it’s so hard to heal from you. But it is.

These days, I still think about the possibility of running into you, staring at your face, not knowing what to say. Do you even remember?

19.
I’ve had the cute first dates: art museums, curiosity shoppes, drives to the Pacific Ocean.
I’ve had the other first dates: making out in the streets, meeting the potent stench of cigarettes (my first time), tasting what men want me to believe is God.
The only conclusion I’ve come to is that I hate first dates.

20.
Me: I want to be in a Sofia Coppola film.
Him: I hope you don’t mean Somewhere.
Me: Hah. No, I meant a new one.
Him: you’ll need a male protagonist.
Me: What do you think the film should be about?
Him: an existential struggle to find meaning in a post-counter-culture dystopian society, of course.

Note: I liked 'Somewhere,' idiot.

21.
I don’t know why, but I have this thing about boys putting lipstick on. I think it’s cute. I always say it as a joke, but they always end up wearing it.

“I think you should wear lipstick.”
“Um, no.”
“If you wear it I’ll lick it off of you.”

That’s all it takes. That was Saturday. “Do you have any on you?” he asked. I didn’t. We walked to a drugstore and he paid $8 for a tube of red lipstick.

“I know somewhere we can go. I’m positive you don’t know about it.” Bring me, you take the lead, I told him. We walked to the St. Francis. “You have a room here?” I asked. Fancy place for a college student. He said no, it’s not a room. We took the glass elevator to the 27th floor.

We walked down the hallways with his arm around me and he seemed to be lost. Finally he opened an unmarked door and we were out on a balcony. In that moment I felt an extreme sentimentality for San Francisco—it felt like my blood. And the people appeared to be harmless from so far up in the sky.

“Do you like my city?” I asked. “Does it make you feel claustrophobic?” He said yes to both.
“Give me the lipstick,” I said. He flinched as I painted his upper lip. “Now, come here,” I said. And that was that.

We spent maybe the next hour on that balcony. I could tell he was nervous. But I liked that. It was sweet. I had work at 8 pm and he walked with me. “Am I going to see you tomorrow?” I asked. “I’ll call you,” he said.

22.
I didn’t see him today. Maybe I’ll see him in a year. Maybe I won’t see him again.

He kept saying how I was “different.” He said, “when I first saw you I thought you were just a quiet fobby Asian girl. But you’re crazy. And different. In a good way.” I didn’t know it then, but he apparently didn’t know what he was asking for when he said we would meet up to “have some fun.”
I don’t know, he didn’t seem to hesitate (too much) to put his arm around me. I suppose I was walking next to him closer than I realized. But I guess he wasn’t expecting me to be so forward—I mean, the boy had 3 more days in my city. Why waste time?

I liked it when he spoke Mandarin to me. I thought it was really sexy. It made me realize how different it really feels to date another Chinese person. “Asian guys don’t like me here,” I said. “They like long-haired pretty Korean girls. I’m like a boy to them.” I guess it’s not worth quoting his response to that. Almost everything he said struck me as cute.

After the drama of our 2 am texts last night, I said “you make me realize I don’t understand boys at all.” He replied, “you do. I’m just different.”

He is. That’s what I like about him. For the first time I was with a guy who was less experienced than me. And it made an extreme difference. He was less arrogant. Sweeter. He made me laugh. But ultimately his lack of confidence (and his scheduled flight) forced us to come to an end. At least, for now.

I admit I spent all of today feeling like shit. I fell asleep at 3 am and woke up at 5 am because I felt sick to my stomach. I don’t know if it was specifically him I was upset about. Maybe I was projecting the disappointments of my lifetime on him. I asked him multiple times to see me one last time today, and it didn’t happen. I just don’t understand that. Boys have taken me out to fancy dinners and sweet dates without even getting a peck on the cheek, let alone get what he experienced with me. But I suppose that’s the problem. I liked him because he was simple. And that’s what made him different.

23.
Note: If you see someone who sparks your interest on public transport,

1) having your earphones plugged in means conversation is not likely
2) reading a book means conversation is more likely

Need to read more while riding muni.

24.
San Francisco is a funny place to be single in.

25.
“I’m really glad you showed me this place,” I said. I genuinely liked it. Three minutes from Union Square. Incredible view. One I would remember, I thought.

“Yeah, so you can fuck other guys here,” he said, smiling.

We had two days left. We hadn’t fucked yet. I thought about it the whole time. He always smiled whenever I flirted. But looking back, I guess he was more dumbfounded as to how that was really happening more than anything. He said he thought I was a quiet, shy girl. Instead I showed him my crazed Scorpio side. I liked the idea of him having a story of an interesting San Francisco affair to tell.
The night before his last day, he asked me why I had let him get so close, so fast. I didn’t understand then (or now) his worries. The way I’ve always known it is that guys sleep around with whoever they want and don’t give a shit about it. In a way, it made me mad. Because it was finally one of the times when I didn’t really give a shit. But for some reason, he did.

My mind constantly wanders back to the couple of hours we spent in that spot. From the moment he showed it to me, I thought about what a sweet place it’d be to smoke cigarettes. I’ve thought about going up there and smoking several times but I still haven’t been able to go. I’m scared of how I’ll feel standing there, whether I’m alone or with people. He isn’t anyone important to me, but still there was a time when he held me there. A time when we had absolutely zero space between us. I’m not saying it was romantic, I don’t know what it was. I knew I was projecting feelings onto the experience because I like when my life mirrors films. But maybe, for him, I was just too much.

26.
Countless times I looked outside and swore I saw you. I guess, subconsciously, I really wanted to. For months I avoided coming here because I had a feeling you were always here. I imagined you never left your table. Drinking coffee. Romancing other girls. With your tired eyes.

It’s happened at least twice now. I see someone from behind and they have your hair, your hands. Those are the two things I always notice. For a split second I freeze. But it’s never you. It doesn’t occur to me that maybe you moved. Maybe you gained weight. But those are both hypothetical situations. I will never know.

Even though I’ve sworn to be over you I continue to write about you. Always when I reflect on dating I think of you first.

We once stood here and danced. Had I been an observer maybe I would’ve thought, these fools are ruining my peace. Instead we were busy being young and beautiful. More importantly, we were young and beautiful together. A moment that will never return.

27.
I sometimes feel so regretful about things I wrote. Usually they are about boys. Did he really affect me that much? I hate to say it, but yes. I like to think that I’ve become less vulnerable, more disconnected.
The truth is, I probably haven’t.

I cannot believe how many times this year I’ve walked down the streets of my beloved city alongside some boy who wanted something from me. Maybe I shouldn’t say that, maybe what I mean is that they all enjoyed my company. It is interesting to me. I can do nothing. Just walk with them. Sit across from them sipping coffee. And they’ll be happy. It’s like I don’t have to be anything, and they don’t necessarily want me to be anything. Usually while I’m talking I can’t help but imagine that my words are floating and they are only imagining me naked. If I found this to be true, I couldn’t be mad. Because I already knew.

Being a girl. It's so hard. But it's strange when everything in life seems so predictable.

At times I’ve thought of doing foolish things like scribble “For a good time call ____ (415) —- ——” in bathroom stalls. But I always stop myself because I think it would help me preserve my dignity. Still, that fucker deserves something bad, I think. Yet I cannot bring myself to do it.

If we sit and smile on the train together, eventually everyone will be jealous. I guarantee this, no matter what.

28.
Too many new romantic possibilities.
Not enough friendly possibilities.
My life is turning lopsided.
Never thought it’d be like this. I’ve always thought it would be nice to be busy dating. But actually, it’s tiring.
Solitude really is the greatest luxury.

30.
He texted me at 5:55 in the morning. The moment between dreaming and waking.

At this time of day, I am never sure that I am really conscious.

He said “I want to be inside you.”
I said “I want you inside of me.”

I’m sure that was real.

31.
"And that's what fucking feels like."

I got off my knees and onto my back. I was bewildered. I was naked in bed with him. A moment ago he had been between my legs.

“You are a really beautiful girl,” he said. He wiped the corners of his lips. He was a smoker and had a tendency to draw attention to his lips. I liked his lips. They seemed expressive. I liked his tired eyes. They were eyes that smiled. And I liked his hands. They were the hands of an American boy. The stench of tobacco and discoloration of coffee stains. I sensed freedom in his hands. He explored my body free of restrictions, the demons that have always kept me from understanding my own body.

It was 4 pm. The world outside seemed so calm. The light that shone through his window made our naked bodies appear soft. Like a dream. His finger was in my mouth. I sucked.

Boys. They smile and moan. I memorize their gazes and their tongues on my chest. Their faces when they cum. It’s what fucking feels like. Skin and insides. I always thought fucking would be intimate. But I thought only of myself and how separate my body felt from his body.

32.
Getting laid in San Francisco is not hard. Something about the energy here.. everyone is so close, but deeply preoccupied with themselves, people want romance but think, oh god why is there no space? It feels like you’re sleeping with the same people over and over again. And in San Francisco nothing is shocking. You sleep with a 30 year old internet start-up employee and it’s whatever. You sleep with friends of friends and guys you went to high school with, but only because it’s legal now. There are the tourist summer flings. Then the thousands of recycled hipster boys who all like that you’re Asian and you like Wes Anderson.
Everyone has their own spot they’ve marked as special. The view of the city may be particularly beautiful, or it’s secluded and not too foggy. This is the spot they bring lovers to for making out. Smoking cigarettes. Maybe giving handjobs. They have a specific route for a romantic walk afterwards—each time, they remember what failed with past lovers and they try something new. A different turn. A different line. Maybe just different timing. It’s hard to think of it as anything but an experiment. A lesson in writing a good screenplay.
When I see two people on the street who look like a couple, I don’t assume anymore. Chances are they’re on their first date. Chances are one is going to walk the other to muni after fucking. San Francisco was made for walkers. It’s nice to walk together. Never take the bus together after sex. Take it alone. Sleep on the train. Grin. Or sit there and stare at your reflection. Just be content for a while.

33.
I wash down the taste of cum with coffee.

Coffee, cigarettes, and cum—my American life.

There is nothing like lying in bed naked at 3 pm. I look at my nipples hardened. The stretch marks on my thighs. Have you ever traced yourself? At times my fingers feel foreign.

The cigarette burn on my hand has faded. I remember it fondly…

34.
there's something about cold hands
the feeling of hunger
the smell of cigarettes on my fingers
that have particularly appealed to me lately

35.

“Cum tastes weird,” I said. By “weird," I meant “bad.” But I didn’t say that. It wasn’t his fault that it tasted bad.

“Have you ever tasted cum?” I asked. He said no. Only one boy has ever said yes.

I know being on your knees is supposed to be degrading or something of that sort. But I’ve never felt particularly degraded. After all, sex has never been too personal to me…

He’s moaning and I know what happens next. Yet when my mouth fills, for a second, I cannot think. It’s irrational to me that someone else’s insides are in me. But there is no time to rationalize—maybe no need, even. Without thinking I tilt my head back and it is gone.

We laid down on my bed. Eventually he put his clothes back on but I remained naked. Being young, naked—I had to enjoy this moment. My silk dress was on the floor. My bed was small and laying horizontally, our heads and feet spilled off to the sides. We talked about me for a bit. I guess we touched some more. It was 3:00 and he had to return to the East Bay. My house was quiet again. I got dressed, ate, and walked to the bus stop. My bus came. I rode it alone and fell asleep.

36.
we drove down market street and
I unbuttoned my dress
it was nine o'clock and the street
as full as ever with its soldiers
I moaned for you and turned
to see you

we drove through north beach and
at the stop sign you wiped
your cum with
your shirt

四

2011-10-24T14:37:00.000-07:00

1

we sat on the sidewalk. the fog of the city wrapped our bodies and made us sleepy. we tried to fill the empty spaces with sex and coffee, anything to keep us from thinking...

2

"you wouldn't smoke if you didn't look so good doing it," he said.
"I don't know." I wasn't really listening to him. I closed my eyes and I couldn't see the smoke. I realized then that smoking maybe was quite useless.
but maybe I smoked because I just needed something to do.
my fingers never strayed far from my lips.

3

for every two people
there is a planet

4

we drove through north beach and
at the stop sign you wiped
your cum with
your shirt

dear tourists,

2011-10-17T23:04:00.000-07:00

as I meet less and less people who are sf natives
and more and more people from southern ca or wherever
I've become more proud of being a native.
it's like a badge of honor

so please, don't call it frisco
and please, don't block up the streets taking stupid photos
and don't complain about the word hella - you are in sf

p.s. if I like you, I'll call you a visitor
if I don't like you, you're a tourist

Thoughts while waiting in between sets at a regular Saturday night show

2011-10-09T02:36:00.000-07:00

There would always be the tall, lanky boys. I always wanted them to notice me but they never seemed to. I was too short. Skinny, but not quite enough… What would sex be like anyway, under these six feet tall giants? Regardless, I appreciated their elbows and collarbones jutting out.

Their legs in black denim looked like chopsticks, so foreign to me. Ever since I noticed legs I’d only known my own muscular pair. I hated them but they did what they were supposed to.

There would always be the couples, inconsiderate of everyone around them. Making out and violating whatever space the strangers had left. I hated couples. If one was more attractive than the other it was a shame. I preferred to be around two people who were just fucking. Sure they would lick and stare at each other but they also looked around the room to find new people to fuck. Couples were disgusting. Intimacy was painful to watch.

It was very fun to watch white boys dance. I appreciated the ones who danced more than those who stood there, unsure of their bodies. Loosen up, I thought. Look at your legs—just move the damn things. There was a boy with messy brown hair and an extremely toothy smile. He would periodically put his arm around the girl beside him but I imagined fucking him anyway. I would kiss and fuck him, I thought…

I reminded myself to smile more often.

Abandoned Sleep

2011-10-01T15:43:00.000-07:00

I went to see the Ari Marcopoulos show at Ratio 3 with a friend yesterday. He is one of my favorite photographers. Above is my favorite image from the show. I really want one of his books as a birthday gift... I was first exposed to his work when he contributed to Purple Magazine I think two seasons ago. There was a portrait of Jenny Shimizu and a book of his photographs--the first of a "book loop" and I was in love with how raw and honest his images are.

In them I see the truth of everyday life.

2011-09-30T00:08:00.000-07:00

American boys.
The stench of cigarette smoke and the discoloration of coffee stains.
Wrinkled white t-shirts and tired eyes.
Used to be I felt their gaze had a price. Now
I say five words and they give me their number.

An American boy.
We lie on grass and smoke more cigarettes. Talk about French films.
He watches the world while he walks. Nothing passes him.
His hands fascinate me.

We don't do much of anything -
but lie in bed naked, pretending as if
he cares that it's my body there.

Later -
I see him walk down the street alone.
For American boys
there is no other way to be.

the teaches of peaches

2011-09-28T22:31:00.000-07:00

fuck a 80 degree weather work day
it seriously makes me just want to lay in bed all day with a lover

since i don't get home until late i just lay here pretending, texting
it's different when the sun isn't here to illuminate our skin

i got these denim shorts in LA. they're a little too big for me and when i sit down i look like a have a massive boner. "helloo boys"

i've been kind of weird(er) as of late. i really like the idea of dressing up as a school girl - will do for halloween - and flashing people.

i'm turning 19 in less than a month. i must make the most out of my 18 year old shenanigans...

With you inside me comes the knowledge of my death

2011-09-24T11:55:00.000-07:00

Lustmord (1993-1995), Jenny Holzer

"And that's what fucking feels like."

I got off my knees and onto my back. I was bewildered. I was naked in bed with him. A moment ago he had been between my legs.

“You are a really beautiful girl,” he said. He wiped the corners of his lips. He was a smoker and had a tendency to draw attention to his lips. I liked his lips. They seemed expressive. I liked his tired eyes. They were eyes that smiled. And I liked his hands. They were the hands of an American boy. The stench of tobacco and discoloration of coffee stains. I sensed freedom in his hands. He explored my body free of restrictions, the demons that have always kept me from understanding my own body.

It was 4 pm. The world outside seemed so calm. The light that shone through his window made our naked bodies appear soft. Like a dream. His finger was in my mouth. I sucked.

Boys. They smile and moan. I memorize their gazes and their tongues on my chest. Their faces when they cum. It’s what fucking feels like. Skin and insides. I always thought fucking would be intimate. But I thought only of myself and how separate my body felt from his body.

Maybe it's morbid to say that sex reminds me of death. But it does.

Flowers. My insides. Memento mori.

Fuck.

2011-09-13T20:01:00.000-07:00

No oral sex. My stomach was too upset. I mounted the famous doctor's ex-wife. The cultured world traveler. She had the Bronte sisters in her bookcase. We both liked Carson McCullers. The Heart Is a Lonely Hunter. I gave her 3 or 4 particularly mean rips and she gasped. Now she knew a writer firsthand. Not a very well-known writer, of course, but I managed to pay the rent and that was astonishing. One day she'd be in one of my books. I was fucking a culture-bitch. I felt myself nearing a climax. I pushed my tongue into her mouth, kissed her, and climaxed. I rolled off feeling foolish. I held her for a while, then she went into the bathroom. She would have been a better fuck in Greece, maybe. America was a shitty place to fuck.

From Charles Bukowski, Women

I read Bukowski on the train today. It was crowded and noisy, but I wanted to read. I looked up and strangers read alongside me. The word "fuck" is one hell of an attention grabber.

I like reading men writing about women. A lot of it is fucked up. But at least it's real.

The writing I read about sex is not erotic. It's always raw. Sort of melancholy. Never romantic. Erotic writing always focuses on what sex can do for a person. But I'm more interested in what it can't do.

Still Life

2011-09-12T11:58:00.001-07:00

I saw the Horrors at Bimbo's 365 Club this past weekend. I came about 3 times.Standing there surrounded by girls with Horrors haircuts felt so 60's. I'm ready for October, a month of shows.

2011-09-08T21:34:00.000-07:00

Getting laid in San Francisco is not hard. Something about the energy here.. everyone is so close, but deeply preoccupied with themselves, people want romance but think, oh god why is there no space? It feels like you’re sleeping with the same people over and over again. And in San Francisco nothing is shocking. You sleep with a 30 year old internet start-up employee and it’s whatever. You sleep with friends of friends and guys you went to high school with, but only because it’s legal now. There are the tourist summer flings. Then the thousands of recycled hipster boys who all like that you’re Asian and you like Wes Anderson.

Everyone has their own spot they’ve marked as special. The view of the city may be particularly beautiful, or it’s secluded and not too foggy. This is the spot they bring lovers to for making out. Smoking cigarettes. Maybe giving handjobs. They have a specific route for a romantic walk afterwards—each time, they remember what failed with past lovers and they try something new. A different turn. A different line. Maybe just different timing. It’s hard to think of it as anything but an experiment. A lesson in writing a good screenplay.

When I see two people on the street who look like a couple, I don’t assume anymore. Chances are they’re on their first date. Chances are one is going to walk the other to muni after fucking. San Francisco was made for walkers. It’s nice to walk together. Never take the bus together after sex. Take it alone. Sleep on the train. Grin. Or sit there and stare at your reflection. Just be content for a while.

i'm gettin tired of yo shit you don't never buy me nothin

2011-09-08T21:26:00.000-07:00

see everytime you come around you gotta bring jim, james, paul n tyrone

wanna share fruit
New York. Sweden. Eiffel Tower.I was stressed out the other day so I bought an Acne sweater. I wear it like a catholic school girl. It works out well for me.

there's something wrong with my phone. your number's not in it
I bought this shirt jacket thing at Stussy. It says "S + M" above the pocket. In the lookbook it's modeled by Charlotte Free but I think the styling is bad. I like to wear it with this dogtag my friend made for me:

"If killed in action, return to SF"
By the way: Vicious V may or may not be my new nickname.

I've been so tired lately. Always sleepy. I don't know why. I want to get my Kiko haircut like now. I want a massage. A manicure. A Celine bag. And more coffee, please.* i <3 u *

All artists are mortal

2011-08-30T00:03:00.000-07:00

Most of my lovers are artists
Artists have dirty hands
All artists are mortal

Brick & Mortar

2011-08-28T22:00:00.000-07:00

source

Yuck - Get Away

the last of summer

2011-08-25T22:14:00.000-07:00

tim barber

hedi slimane

ed templeton

more half naked guys next time

caw lleggge

2011-08-23T20:08:00.000-07:00

A Tribe Called Quest - Steve Biko (Stir It Up)

today was my first day back at school
it actually isn't a big deal because i only had one class,
but after being out of school for nearly a year it felt like a pretty big thing.

honestly it feels nice being back in class, around hella people my age
let's hope i continue to stay feelin that way.

btw that's my new labbit haha. i got the zebra print one too
couldn't resist the mustache

Nothing and everything

2011-08-21T23:34:00.000-07:00

1. Patti Smith by Judy Linn 2. Ed Ruscha

I always refer to Patti as "my queen." When I think of demigods, she is it. I am very happy about the news of her beginning the screenplay for the Just Kids film. A must read (and eventually a must see) for any artist, lover or dreamer.

Winona Week

2011-08-15T23:28:00.000-07:00

Last week was crazy, I was feeling particularly fed up with boys and dating life in general so I declared it "Winona Week." I love Jim Jarmusch's Night On Earth and Winona is amazing as Corky, a taxi driver from Los Angeles. I love her androgynous style and feminine features. Dress like Corky, fuck dating and forget this shit ever happened was last week's motto.

It was nice getting less attention for a week. Well, maybe not less attention, but different type of attention. Less "can I wife/fuck/get to know you," more "sup bro" (which I heard at least 4x at Outside Lands.) And this guy told me I looked like a lesbian, which hasn't happened in a long time. I almost forgot what it felt like to be "clockable."

FYI! Add a backwards Giants cap and this = lesbian. Lesbian at a music festival. *For the record, I am queer/pansexual. Only part lesbian. Flannel from UO, Tank by UNIF and cheap Zara jeans that left rashes on my legs.

This week, I'm trying to lay off the cigarettes, get at least some rest, and count my blessings. Sometimes I can't believe there are only four months left of this year...

V

objects of dreams

2011-08-10T22:46:00.000-07:00

I want to grow old before I grow up
I want to die with my chin up
And definitely maybe I will live to love

I made a mix for you all of music that I've been listening to. For lovers, solo cigarette breaks, & wandering back home at 1 am - summer 2011

image by rinko kawauchi

skin is not a map but i trace you anyway

2011-08-09T17:33:00.000-07:00

i thought that maybe
you would like to know my mood

i like these images which remind me of moments with lovers
a hazy type of beauty
memories in which my feelings are more clear than the images
i hate to get sentimental but i always regret not filming the moments more carefully
what exactly did he say to me?
what was his expression when i last saw him?
i can't be so sure if my memories are really true

there's something about cold hands
the feeling of hunger
the smell of cigarettes on my fingers
that have particularly appealed to me lately

credit

why does intimacy always breed some sort of depression in me?
tenderness feels sad
maybe because it makes me realize
its absence in most of my life
maybe because it goes
just as quickly as it came

Sentimentality in its purest sense

2011-08-08T15:58:00.000-07:00

Last Fall / Andrej Pejic by Mert & Marcus

This Fall / Mariacarla Boscono by Mert & Marcus

GIRL TALK: BOOBIES

2011-08-06T01:12:00.000-07:00

I vaguely remember it being around 3rd grade when I began to notice boobs (and not in a lezzie way.) I thought it was really important that one day I would have big boobs because--well, I don't remember why. I just thought they were important. To be a girl, to be a woman, to be pretty, whatever.

I would do things like... be really careful about not bumping into anything, move my seat belt so that it wouldn't "put pressure" on my chest. I even remember one time getting really mad at this boy because he accidentally threw a ball and it hit my chest, and I thought he had stunted my boob growth forever. Too much information? I don't care. This really happened.

By 5th grade my best friend would do things like point at pictures of Paris Hilton and say "look, she's in the tiny boob club like me!" I remember thinking, "you have bigger boobs than me, idiot."

I also remember that episode of Lizzie McGuire where Hilary Duff's enemy became evil because she finally bought a bra, and Lizzie (Hilary Duff) really wanted to buy a bra but didn't know how to shop for a size. I felt like that was pretty relevant to life.

Thinking from a feminist/sisterhood point of view it really annoys me that no one ever told me it's ok that even the smallest Victoria's Secret size is too big. And while I understand the importance of having the message of "curvy/big is beautiful" I wish at least one small-boobed girl like me would've said it's beautiful too. Hell, at least one message to match the countless comments I would hear about "that poor flat chested girl", she needs a boob job, how having small boobs meant you were basically a boy and not a sexy one, etc. Even if they were not directed towards me (they rarely were) I still took them in the same.

Even in my personal life I didn't know how to address it. It just felt really awkward. It seemed like my partners never knew what to do with my boobs. (Tip: small boobs have sensation too...) It made me realize that what I heard in all those sex-positive trainings is true--you really have to get to know yourself--your body, your boundaries, how you communicate needs, etc--before being with other people. Because they may not know what to do with your boobs. But you do.

My original intention behind writing about boobs was to post pictures of VPL lingerie (my favorite) but I guess that's beside the point now.

Now, give me a quarter for every time I wrote "boobs" in this entry...

DYE IT B L O N D E

2011-08-03T21:30:00.000-07:00

Freedom is a waterfall

2011-07-27T00:03:00.000-07:00

Freedom is a waterfall, is pacing
linoleum till dawn, is the right to
write the wrong words. and I done
plenty of that...

Patti Smith, April 1971

Hedi Slimane / Jaco van den Hoven / Hedi Slimane / Daria by Mario Sorrenti / Hedi Slimane

I smell you on my skin

2011-07-27T00:01:00.000-07:00

Helmut Lang x Jenny Holzer

Ryan McGinley (?)

Mystery Train, dir. Jim Jarmusch

Juergen Teller

Unknown

Hedi Slimane

Peter Lindbergh

The Dreamers, dir. Bernardo Bertolucci

Vivane Sassen

Annie Leibovitz

Helmut Lang x Jenny Holzer

You get so alone at times that it just makes sense pt II

2011-07-26T23:05:00.000-07:00

Tokyo Boy Alone by Eiki Mori

Juliet Fang

Rinko Kawauchi

Tokyo Boy Alone by Eiki Mori

Vivre sa vie, dir. Jean-Luc Godard

Hedi Slimane

Daul by Beau Grealy

Happy Together, dir. Wong Kar-wai

DREAMIN' OF YOU DREAMIN' OF ME

2011-07-19T20:38:00.000-07:00

Well, life has been beautiful lately. Got my new macbook, which I've wanted for so long. I named her Kiko, (big surprise) after Kiko Mizuhara, what a babe. Got a cover and stuck Takashi Murakami stickers on it, but it still needs more decorating. Started my new job at Urban Outfitters (my first retail gig) and I like it a lot. Transitioning well into my new position at LYRIC. And my outfits are so easy to put together now because I basically wear variations of the same 3 things I really like. I'm feeling better and better every day.

Kiko Mizuhara - is this ♥?

Yesterday I saw a picture of Smith Westerns and realized what a BABE Cullen Omori is. Oh, one of my favorite things is calling people babes now. Cos there are so many of them. And I thank the universe for that. Another update, I've probably crushed on a new person every 3 days. I should probably stop. But there are just so many BABES around. Life is rrraaaddd.

Smith Westerns - Weekend

Cullen's the one in the denim jacket. BABE

Now, time for self-indulgent pictures of myself, which will now probably come in bundles, courtesy of Kiko...

Sorry, my default picture face is :-| and I'm bad at smiling if I don't mean it. I didn't buy a shitload of clothes when I was in LA, but the pieces that I did buy are basically all I've worn since I returned. This cardigan is from Opening Ceremony's men's line and the tank top is Jil Sander (!) my first.

I bought this amazing TOGA Archives flocky print cardigan at Opening Ceremony. I regret not buying more there. It was my first stop during our Melrose shopping day and I wanted to save some $ for other stores, but the selection at OC's the best. The blouse is from American Apparel--I purchased it in downtown LA when I realized that all the clothes I had packed were too hot, and I basically lived in it for 4 days.

I've been obsessed with Yves Klein blue nail polish, I've had it on for a month and I just got it redone again yesterday. This is OPI's Dating a Royal.

Oh yeah, my SF native pride's at an all time high and I got a Giants cap. I want to dress like Winona Ryder in Night on Earth. But probably with red lipstick, because I'd feel weird being too butch.

Btw, while I was taking these photos, I was jammin to Smith Westerns and Toro y Moi. Thank GOD(DESS)? for musicians. I need to go to more shows...

Peace
x

Where there's smoke

2011-07-14T21:36:00.000-07:00

press play

The other day I was thinking. Forget peer pressure. Forget "fitting in." My cigarette smoking is completely cinema's to blame.

In so many of my favorite films, in any given scene there's bound to be a cigarette between the actors' fingers... I don't know, I guess it's a big influence on me. I'm a sucker for its appeal. I will admit, in the end, it's all about image and aesthetics...

Has anyone ever looked as cool as Jean-Pierre Leaud in Masculin Feminin, tossing cigarettes in between his lips? With his intent gaze upon Chantal Goya? And his smartass remarks...

Can you imagine being in the front row of the theatre, the film 30-feet tall facing you, a beautiful stranger lighting your cigarette...

When I imagine this, the stranger is always Louis Garrel. Mmmh. No wonder it's a daydream I'm so fond of...

You get so alone at times that it just makes sense

2011-07-13T23:22:00.000-07:00

Lighting new cigarettes,

pouring more

drinks.

It has been a beautiful

fight.

Still

is.

Charles Bukowski

Coffee and Cigarettes / Unknown / Charlotte Gainsbourg
Sen Mitsuji / Nana

Influence

2011-07-12T22:47:00.000-07:00

I've definitely seen a huge change in the way I dress over the past several months--I'm on a rotation of the same few button up shirts, sweaters, cardigans, and chiffon skirts. I've also been living in a pair of bleached cut off denim shorts I bought in downtown LA.

I splurged on a few pieces this past month (including one Jil and a Toga piece), so it's back to strictly ogling clothes until sales time again. I saw the Dries van Noten Autumn/Winter 2011 in person the other day and I am completely enamoured by it. I hate the thought of waiting until December to get my hands on a piece, but the full price hurts my eyes...

Here are some things I've been into lately, and some directions I'm hoping to move towards.

Okay, everyone who follows me on tumblr knows that I'm "into" Pascal (of Fashion Bits And Bobs) in the sense that I have a ridiculously huge crush on him (in the futile internet crush sort of way...) but I'm also really into his style and the brilliant way he puts his outfits together. I justify my many purchases on American Apparel button up shirts because of him. Tip for dudes, dress like Pascal and you'll probably be irresistible. I'm actually on a mission of finding his San Franciscan doppelganger. No luck so far.

Every day my hair is veering more and more towards "normal". By that, I mean that I'm coming to terms with saying goodbye to my rebellious, choppy, voluminous cut I had for years. It's not long enough for me to do anything with yet, but I'm really into the hair at Dries van Noten Autumn/Winter 2010 (Dries just has such an impact in my life right now.) I think I'd like to keep my asymmetrical bangs, but I love the texture, the messiness of this style.

The other day, pictures of this amazingly beautiful girl popped up on my tumblr dashboard. Her name is Olivia Lebefre and the photos were taken by Katherine Louise Lowe. Because of my short hair I'm not sure that I could pull off the look without just looking like a boy, but I've always loved girls in men's clothes. And for my new job at Urban Outfitters, this is the look I'm thinking of... I just want to shop in the men's department!

I'll have to write another entry detailing my current inspirations that are a bit more outlandish / cosmic because I've actually put an effort to make this entry somewhat cohesive. I could also add photos of Sofia Coppola to this entry, as she'd fit in perfectly... but I'm sure I could do about 10 entries on her alone. Love that woman.

Until next time! Kisses! (Charlotte and Gael in The Science of Sleep)

Vanessa

Cliché, I like Bukowski like everyone else

2011-07-12T21:18:00.000-07:00

if it doesn’t come bursting out of you
in spite of everything,
don’t do it.
unless it comes unasked out of your
heart and your mind and your mouth
and your gut,
don’t do it.
if you have to sit for hours
staring at your computer screen
or hunched over your
typewriter
searching for words,
don’t do it.
if you’re doing it for money or
fame,
don’t do it.
if you’re doing it because you want
women in your bed,
don’t do it.
if you have to sit there and
rewrite it again and again,
don’t do it.
if it’s hard work just thinking about doing it,
don’t do it.
if you’re trying to write like somebody
else,
forget about it.
if you have to wait for it to roar out of
you,
then wait patiently.
if it never does roar out of you,
do something else.

if you first have to read it to your wife
or your girlfriend or your boyfriend
or your parents or to anybody at all,
you’re not ready.

don’t be like so many writers,
don’t be like so many thousands of
people who call themselves writers,
don’t be dull and boring and
pretentious, don’t be consumed with self-
love.
the libraries of the world have
yawned themselves to
sleep
over your kind.
don’t add to that.
don’t do it.
unless it comes out of
your soul like a rocket,
unless being still would
drive you to madness or
suicide or murder,
don’t do it.
unless the sun inside you is
burning your gut,
don’t do it.

when it is truly time,
and if you have been chosen,
it will do it by
itself and it will keep on doing it
until you die or it dies in you.

there is no other way.

and there never was.

So you want to be a writer, Charles Bukowski

*I don't think of myself as a writer--far from it--I just keep a couple of extremely self-indulgent blogs.

Dream car

2011-07-11T22:32:00.001-07:00

by my favorite artist, Keith Haring

LA 1

2011-07-11T22:32:00.000-07:00

An image heavy entry of photos I snapped at the Art in the Streets exhibit at the MOCA, one of the best I've been to in a while (and only $5 for students). If you'll be in LA before August 8th you should drop by and check it out. And hang out in Little Tokyo afterwards.

Keith Haring's NYC subway chalk drawings, seeing these in person was a spiritual experience

André in the gallery / André in the ladies room

neckface being creepy

KAWS

Jamie Reid

crazy acid Kenny Scharf room - this picture is easier to read if you see the person in the white tee, on the right...

space invader invading

the ultimate - Haring and LA II

There were also some Basquiat pieces that I didn't photograph, for me it was a huge joy seeing Haring, Basquiat, and Scharf all in one day.

I'll admit to not knowing that much about street art, but some of it's just so witty and interesting that I don't know how anyone could dislike it. Maybe it is a bit strange to see "street art" in museums--art zoos--but I haven't thought too much about it.

Vanessa

Hi SoCal, Bye SoCal

2011-07-09T01:22:00.000-07:00

I'm updating this blog on this half-dead PC (that apparently has 200 MB of free disk space left) on a faulty internet connection. What happened to our home computer while I was gone, I have no idea. I'll just say that technology sucks.

I don't know how to put into words what it means to be "San Franciscan". All I know is that whenever I leave the city, I realize just how San Franciscan I am.

Within a matter of hours of arriving in Southern California... scratch that, within five minutes of arriving at SFO, I missed San Francisco. It was a pretty stupid feeling to have, since I was just going to socal for a week. I was hella whiny. "I miss SF. I want to ride muni to the park and walk around and get a fruit tart at Tartine" (which is precisely what I did the afternoon before I left.) I can't say I was ready for socal--the heat, the car rides, the manicured Orange County and pretty people of Los Angeles. But anyway, I was on vacation, so I shouldn't have complained so much.

I learned something from this trip. I learned that as much as I like Los Angeles, I need a city where I can wander. I experience cities by walking through them, not by riding in a car. And unfortunately I don't find walking in 85 degree weather particularly appealing. So I have to remind myself to only visit in the winter. I also learned that there's a lot of good, cheap food in the OC (I stayed in Irvine), but it's too suburban for my tastes.

Oh yeah, and I learned that as much as I complain about muni, fog, and SF's geographical tininess while I'm here, I actually love it. I really do. So much that I can't put it into words.

Vanessa

Self Service

2011-06-23T10:39:00.000-07:00

Check out the new Self Service website, it's rad. I love the archives.

1/ Malgosia Bela
2/ Agyness Deyn, Hedi Slimane
3/ Mary Kate Olsen, Hannah Holman
4/ Tilda Swinton, Chloe Sevigny

NEW YORK HERALD TRIBUNE! NEW YORK HERALD TRIBUNE!

2011-06-22T23:12:00.000-07:00

Cat's Eyes by Cat's Eyes

This is me wearing my favorite t-shirt, which I have two of. And a matching poster, which hangs over my bed. You can't blame me--Breathless is my favorite film. And I think I was going through an existential crisis when I made the purchases. Also, they were on sale.

T-shirt Rodarte for Breathless 50th Anniversary.

Jean-Paul Belmondo and Jean Seberg in Godard's À bout de souffle (Breathless), 1960. Jean was absolutely beautiful, I'm mesmerized by her. And Jean-Paul was recently honored at this year's Cannes Film Festival. In this film, he reminds me of some guys I've dated. Except, I like Michel (his character). The other guys, not so much. Not anymore.

From one temple to another

2011-06-11T22:44:00.000-07:00

"A Buddhist monk lies on his futon in his Tokyo pied-a-terre, surrounded by his Comme des Garcons collection. Once a month, religiously, the monk trades his robes for a head to toe Comme des Garcons outfit, leaves the temple and heads for Tokyo to pick up a few more pieces and visit his sanctuary. Strangely, he sees the designs as having a religious quality. His sister, a former delinquent, apparently reformed when she found Garcon."
--Kyoichi Tsuzuki's Happy Victims

Snapshot

2011-06-11T22:34:00.000-07:00

1/ A kiss from Mark
2/ Me in the bathroom after therapy
3/ I make the same face in all my photos
4/ Patent leather flats soaked in rain

May-June 2011

Sea Within A Sea

2011-06-11T22:20:00.000-07:00

The Horrors - Sea Within A Sea

So after plenty of family drama and tears shed, my mom was able to persuade me to continue living at home so that I could spend my money on clothes rather than rent. So this past week I bought a Margiela sweater and the VPL bra modelled above by beautiful Kiko, from the Barneys catalogue. I was supposed to save money for next month's Southern California trip. Oops.

I can't help but feel as if I'm compromising a lot of my wants. Like, I really want to move out of this neighborhood. The neighborhood I was going to move to is near a lot of queer shit, which would've been ideal. But I could have it worse.

Who knows, maybe in two years I'll want to transfer schools, so I'll have an excuse to move away. Maybe if I move away I can just focus on my studies. Don't have to think about my "career." The word itself scares me. I just want to run around wearing Comme des Garçons.

Beliefs

2011-06-04T21:09:00.000-07:00

IMAGINE PEACE.

Yoko Ono

DRESSING IS A WAY OF LIFE.

Yves Saint Laurent

LEND YOURSELF TO OTHERS, BUT GIVE YOURSELF TO YOURSELF.

Essays of Montaigne, Book 3, Chapter 10

YOUR SILENCE WILL NOT PROTECT YOU.

Audre Lorde

PROTECT ME FROM WHAT I WANT.

Jenny Holzer

Don't you cherish me to sleep

2011-05-31T16:15:00.000-07:00

I should take the time to crop the toilet paper out.. but who cares, we all know it's a bathroom

I'm wearing an American Apparel button up shirt, H&M sweater, Étoile Isabel Marant skirt, Wolford tights.

It's raining today but I'm happy anyway.

Bon Iver - Calgary

The Extended Address of GLAAD's Media Awards AKA Debriefing the Trauma

2011-05-16T22:25:00.000-07:00

This past Saturday night, a group from my work and I were invited to attend GLAAD's (Gay & Lesbian Alliance Against Defamation) Media Awards. I've waited a couple of days to write this entry, because I wanted to calm down a bit before I set any words down. With that said, I did write a few short bits on my tumblr about this earlier. They are perhaps a bit less refined (and 10% as lengthy), but I think my feelings shared here are no less real. (Post 1; Post 2.) This event is the 3rd or 4th experience my coworkers and I have had with adult-run organizations/the media this past year. I've learned quite a lot about working with the media and adults who are not youth workers from those collaborations, and I have a lot of advice and critiques to offer.

First of all, I want any adults and organizations who are interested in working with or serving queer and transgender youth to know that we are not grasping at straws for attention. We aren't thankful for every time you show the slightest ounce of interest in us because we expect and deserve more. We also are not charity cases. If you want to work with us, it is in your best interest to put effort into it. We are not stupid and we know whether or not we are treated fairly.

I am writing this as an 18 year old who has been working in the community since I was 14. I am proof that youth development is successful; I am also proof that youth can do anything with enough training and support (hi, CHALK!) I am also writing this as a queer Chinese-American girl who is an extremely dedicated ally to the trans and gender variant communities.

Leaders of GLAAD, I know you are used to complaining about the oppression you face as queer people. But you must be REAL and face and address the ways in which you hold power and privilege over others as wealthy, white, older (not 24 years old and under) men (which the majority of you are. Unless you are hiding all the women in the back. Are they white too?)

I came to the GLAAD Media Awards knowing nothing about the organization. Later I was told that their work is centered around addressing negative representations of GLBT people in the media and celebrating "positive" representations of GLBT people. My coworkers and I would later learn that what they really mean is that they address negative representations of gays and lesbians. White gays and lesbians. I wish I had done a face count; I saw a few people of color, and no Asians at all. It's no wonder that so many in the Asian-American community (as diverse as it is) still believe that queer and transgender Asian people don't exist.

The blatant lack of trans-competency and cultural competency for people of color outraged me. Throughout the night I was shocked that the words "transgenders", "transgendered", and at one point even "trans-yen-yers" were coming from the stage. Those are slurs, not words we use. I would expect ANYONE who is even the slightest bit of an ally to the trans community to know that. Saying "transgender people" is not difficult, but they could not even do that. I am horrified by the fact that GLAAD has an annual budget of $8 million to do their work, but they do not know this BASIC information about the transgender community. My co-worker, Max, said it best: "saying that you do things for all the GLBT community, and then only repeating "gay and lesbian" and only actually doing things for gays and lesbians is counter productive." This also shows me that there are no transgender or gender variant people on staff, which is a problem if you are trying to work on trans issues. (It is the same as people trying to work on youth issues without having any youth leadership. It is not possible.) Or, if there are trans or gender variant staff, there is something wrong when they do not feel they can speak up against the use of these words.

This event had absolutely no space for youth. I felt I had been treated like a dog (my coworkers say "second class citizen", and that works too) and invited to serve the purpose of a dog--I mean, the staff member in charge of organizing the youth portion told us they invite youth to "add more energy. So be loud and cheer!" What are we, little Chihuahuas?

Youth were served dinner, tiny buffet-style, in a separate room. After a small intro/pep talk (during which the staff member told us we were to be Chihuahuas), we were brought out to the room where the event was held. It was a huge room, full of fancy tables where rich people sat and were served fancy food. The youth were assigned to the back of the room to 3 rows of chairs. The show lasted for 2-3 hours (felt like 4 hours at least) and we were not offered any food or drinks, while we watched tables nearby enjoying waiters' service. We were able to see who was on stage because of two gigantic screens placed on the left and right of stage. Otherwise, the presenters and award winners were barely visible behind the crowds of tables.

If anyone reading this is thinking, "why are you complaning? They gave you food and they invited you," you have to know that this does not do anything for me. Like I said, queer and trans youth aren't thankful for every drop of attention we're given. At this event, we were so clearly treated as second-class citizens, and none of us are thankful for that. I was invited for 3-4 hours of being fed advertisements for alcohol, AT&T and travel, listening to fundraising pitches, and exchanging plenty of "REALLY?" looks with my co-workers.

More problematic happenings throughout the night included:
1) The winning bidder of Naya's kiss non-consentually grabbing her butt
2) "If you haven't watched Glee... first of all, kill yourself, second of all, as if!" --Naya Rivera Kill yourself? Really? Did we need to pull out those statistics about trans and queer youth and suicide again? Or was that media blitz about youth suicides not enough?
3) Ableism in the house! I don't remember the exact joke, but my co-worker called foul. ETA: the ableism was some (rich, white, able bodied) guy saying "retarded" and someone else saying "it fell on deaf ears."

The following are some recommendations I have for GLAAD's next event when they want to be "youth-inclusive":
1) Integrate us with the rest of the humans in the room. Either that, or give us VIP service. Your choice.
2) If your main sponsor is a vodka company... you might want to think about the youth in the room and what kind of message that's sending. I know a sponsor will help you throw an event, but this is just ridiculous. It's no secret that there is a depressing amount of alcoholism in the queer community, and it's also no mystery why that is. (I know that there is a great deal of history in gay bars, but having all these advertisements around does not help anything.) They have plagued our community.
3) Re-evaluate your intentions and reasons for inviting youth. We are not there to be cheerleaders. If you claim to care so much about addressing "bullying" and youth issues, you must hire youth and pay them for their work. If you have $8,000,000/year, you can afford to hire youth.
4) Your fundraising pitches are IRRELEVANT to us. Spending over 10 minutes asking for donations is a waste of our time. Forgetting that we are in the room by stating that "EVERYONE in this room can pledge $100/month, I am locking the doors until you all pledge" is embarassing on your behalf. Please remember that during this, we are not able to be distracted by snacks or other entertainment. We are sitting in 3 rows in the back of the room, foodless, drinkless, bored, shaking our heads. A few of us have already left at this point.
5) If you promise youth a meet and greet with a celebrity, give us a proper one, or at least be HONEST about what it'll be. Telling us that each and every one of us will get time to meet Naya Rivera... and then in reality, people just stampeded around her and took a big group photo and called it a day, is lying to us. Also, it was SO CLEAR how much you valued the youth when it came time for us to take a group photo. Literally SCREAMING at the youth to sit, kneel, and "MOVE", while kissing Naya's ass in front of us is absolutely insulting. We expect to be treated like human beings, not cattle. I feel nothing less than exploited. You will use the photo of us will Naya and Kim Catrall to gain money from donors and funders, but you do NOT do ANYTHING for queer and trans youth. It is an absolute abuse of power.

The following are some recommendations I have for GLAAD in general:
1) I am enraged by the shameful lack of people of color in your organization and in the media you celebrate. You do not represent me or the queer community that I know--one that is extremely diverse, full of intersections of identities and unique experiences. A wealthy white adult male, which is who made up the majority of those on stage AND on screen, will never fully understand me or my experiences, and will NEVER be able to represent my voice or my community. You must have people of color in positions of power and leadership. And you must begin to work with the media to make sure that not only gays and lesbians are portrayed positively, but also TRANSGENDER and GENDER VARIANT folks and PEOPLE OF COLOR.
2) When you claim to serve GLBT folks, but the very title of your organization only lists "gays and lesbians"... it shows in your work.
3) You must hire youth, transgender and gender variant folks, and people of color. By this, I don't mean the token 2 or 3 staff members. We must make up at least half of your staff. I know this is difficult because maybe you are uncomfortable recognizing what communities people are a part of. But you absolutely cannot try to melt everyone into a big queer pot and act like those identities aren't important, because when you do, the people who end up in power are always (you guessed it) wealthy white older cis men. And that's not okay.

Please don't forget that:
1) You must ask youth what our needs are and give each and every one of us your undivided attention.
2) You must come with an open mind.
3) You must learn about adultism and address the ways in which you benefit from this system of oppression.
4) If you work at an organization and you want to work with youth, you MUST create space for youth to hold positions of power and have their voices heard.
5) Solutions to youth issues will NEVER be realized in a conversation void of youth voice.
6) You must be inclusive of people of color, trans and gender variant folks, and people from different communities, backgrounds, and experiences. This means they need to be on your staff. And you need to start realizing that racism, transphobia, adultism, classism, and sexism exists. And that a staff with a majority of white wealthy older cis men are not and never will be equipped to address these issues alone.
7) If you hire someone to be the head of anything for youth, they should be a youth worker. The sad truth is that most adults, no matter how seasoned of a community worker they may be, are not youth-competent. They can be with training, but that training WILL NOT come from other adults who are not youth-competent.

I have a lot more to say, and I will write as it comes along. These are my immediate recommendations for GLAAD, and any adults who are interested in working with queer and transgender youth can take from this what they wish to. I know that more and more adults are interested in working with queer and trans youth, and it is important that they do this in a way that is not degrading, exploitative and overall unsuccessful, which has been my experience so far. Let's work together and change that.

Vanessa

Please check out the LYRIC Queer Educators' Blog at www.queereducators.wordpress.com!

Let's debrief this Asian Gaga bullshit...

2011-05-14T15:46:00.000-07:00

Stephen Gan (Editor in Chief of V Magazine) on why he chose a white person for the cover of the Asian Issue:

"Honestly, we searched high and low for Asian celebrities, and we seriously did our homework. But stars who are big in Asia rarely come to America, and getting someone shot over there the way we like things done, started to look tougher and tougher. Gaga and I were emailing the day “Born This Way” came out and I said, “You deserve another cover!” It turned out our Summer issue was coming out ten days before her new album was due to hit. And so I turned to Inez & Vinoodh to come up with an idea that showed her as 3 different characters: herself, a Japanese butterfly, and a Bollywood Shiva goddess. This was their idea, and it just seemed to fit so naturally."

So you have 3-4 editorials with ALL Asian models who are perfect cover material, but instead you style Gaga as a "Japanese butterfly" and "Bollywood Shiva goddess", photographed by a Dutch couple and wearing clothes from a French house, BY THE WAY, and claim it as relevant to the Asian issue? Dazed & Confused put Ai Weiwei on their cover, i-D put Liu Wen on a cover, but for your ASIAN issue you couldn't even put one Asian person on your cover. That's just bullshit. Also, you're V magazine. It's not like you haven't done multiple covers before (and even then, Gaga is NOT relevant to this issue.)

I don't buy into people's explanations about, well, they have to sell copies, and you can't sell copies with an Asian face on the cover. Of course, no one has actually said what I just wrote--they phrase it differently. They say, Gaga sells issues. There are no famous Asian people in American media. It's just strategic. If you're going to take a "risk" making an Asian themed issue, TAKE A RISK. Stephen Gan, you keep priding yourself on how this issue is so innovative and edgy, but it really isn't. I don't care what kind of drag you put Gaga in, SHE WILL NEVER BE ASIAN, she will never represent Asians, and she will never deserve to be in an Asian issue. All you basically did was put her in yellowface and called it a day.

Lady Gaga, I have only one thing to say to you. If you wanted to do something for your "little monsters" in Asia, prancing around in straight, long, black pigtails and white facepaint pretending to be a "Japanese butterfly" isn't doing shit. P.S. People don't use the word "orient" anymore. It's 2011.

I never understand people who say that magazines using "ethnic" models don't sell because people want to buy things that mirror who they are. First of all, I'm Asian, so stop talking like the whole world is white and that white models represent everybody. Second of all, do you know how many magazine issues I've bought with white people on the cover? I mean, I have a shitload of magazines, and probably 98% of the covers and content inside is pictures of white people by white people wearing clothes from European and American fashion houses. This "othering" of people of color (white people are seen as the norm while people of color are seen as ethnic or exotic) is racist. I'm sick of fashion people (or people in general) claiming it isn't racist, because it is so blatantly racist.

I don't think I have to get deeper with this. It just doesn't make sense to have an issue dedicated to something MINUS the cover. I mean, can you imagine Vogue Italia putting Gaga on the cover of their black issue? Or i-D putting Coco Rocha on the cover of their Agyness Deyn issue? No, because it's just common sense that if you name it the Asian issue, you mean the whole thing. Which is what makes this cover choice an entirely political issue.

I'm beginning to do more community work with the Asian-American community, and I'm unpacking a lot of racist shit I've experienced. One of the biggest issues I'm seeing come up is silence and invisibility for Asian-Americans, and it's shit like this that proves how big of an issue it is. American media, in general, has a huge problem with representing Asians. From Gwen Stefani and Nicki Minaj's silent, exoticized "Harajuku dolls" to bullshit like this Gaga ordeal... it would seem as if we don't actually exist or have voices.

Vanessa

LE MÉPRIS

2011-05-10T14:48:00.000-07:00

when it gets sunny

I get goth

♪♪♪

☆5//5//11☆

2011-05-05T00:59:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was sunny and warm and I didn't have any important meetings so I decided to take the day off. I enjoyed myself. Girls dress better in this weather. No crappy jackets covering up outfits. Boys look better as well for some reason, despite dressing more or less the same. Basically, I'm just confirming my pansexuality for myself everywhere I go.

The MOMA was free so I decided to go. I initially went to see Tobias Wong's stuff and to have some quiet time for myself.. but then it quickly turned into cruising. Sometimes the people are far more interesting than the shit on the walls. A lot of really cute art school students. Okay, I need to stop. Anyway, it was too crowded for me to have quiet time, which was okay. I had a nice conversation with a stranger near the Louise Bourgeois sculpture. He was reading Just Kids by Patti Smith.

Tobias Wong (1974-2010) at the MOMA

Tobias Wong in my wallet. I don't remember where I got these, but they've come in handy.

Tobias Wong - a Jenny Holzer tattoo!? (Reads protect me from what i want)

Wayne Thiebaud - I've only seen his paintings of food... so this was nice.

The sculpture on the left is made out of chocolate, and on the right, soap.

Overall this MOMA trip was nothing special. The Nan Goldin I was hoping to see again isn't there anymore (The Ballad of Sexual Dependency, one of my favorite series/works ever, presented as a slideshow.) Last time I viewed it twice and sat in front of the screen for nearly an hour and a half. I don't remember what I was thinking about but I remember how it made me feel.

When I go to museums, I regret leaving art school. But the feeling is always temporary. It's funny how much being an art student/future art student/whatever made up so much of my identity, even though I put about 10% into that and 90% into community work. What's the point of spending $100k+ when I don't really care for it? In the end, I still believe that the majority of people in art school are a waste of space. It's not to say that they shouldn't be there, I'm sure everyone has their own reasons. But someone has to be the worst in the class.

Vanessa

MR. TAXI TAXI TAXI

2011-05-02T15:37:00.000-07:00

I've been wearing a lot of American Apparel because it's easy. I also got my nails done in red last week, the manicurist messed up, but it's okay because I went to see Takashi Miike's 13 Assassins last night. It was amazing. The Castro Theatre is what theatres should be like.

I can't stop listening to this song.

Good art:

2011-04-27T23:23:00.000-07:00

1) Does it make me feel something?
2) Do I think about it after I view it?

I'm realizing that, at least at this point, these two points are what I'm looking for in any work, whether it be film, photography, fashion, etc. And it's not that I'm trying to tell others what is "good art" or "bad art". If anything, these two points suggest how subjective that is. I'm just trying to understand what it is that moves me.

I must have some sort of experience with it. For me, feelings = experience. So that's what really drives how I see things...

LONG HAIR ♥

2011-04-22T17:30:00.000-07:00

I've decided to move forward and grow my hair out. Trust me, I've been so tempted to trim my hair these past few weeks, but I'm just keeping with it. I actually wear my hair flat now, which I used to be deathly afraid of. My old hairstyle completely revolved around having big hair. But it's okay.

My hair is almost getting to a mullet stage. It's definitely at an awkward in-between phase, but it could be worse. Pretty soon I'm going to have to tie it up in an "art school ponytail," you know, the ponytail that looks like a paintbrush because the hair is so few and so short, but there's no other option because otherwise it looks like a mullet.

When my hair finally gets long, there are a few things I want to do with it: tie it up in a bun (bun head) because it looks really funny (picture 2), and wear a beanie and have my hair fall out on the sides messily (4). It looks so good!! Also, I want to do the ponytail like in Dries Van Noten Autumn/Winter 2011.

I heard that if you massage your head, your hair will grow faster. I don't know if it's true, but at least massaging my head feels good anyway. Otherwise I'd just be wasting my energy.

I don't even know if I look good with long hair. I've had short hair for the past 4-5 years... but I figure, if it doesn't look good, I can just cut it again. And donate it or something.

Vanessa

Stress

2011-04-19T14:16:00.000-07:00

My footprint in this house is becoming smaller and smaller. Earlier today I found the area I normally occupy at the dinner table covered in snacks and napkins. I realized I haven't had dinner at home in weeks. I come home late from work and they don't wait for me. Or I just get it myself. And I prefer it that way.

I can already see the transformation, my parents are turning into babies and I am trying to grow up. My dad always asks me to help him update his facebook statuses, and yesterday I told him I would teach him how to do it himself because I won't be in this house much longer. He started fake weeping and complaining, complaining that I can't leave him until I get married and move away. And I wanted to punch a wall.

My dad says I can't leave until I get married. My mom says I can't leave until I can afford my own house. They want a big, 30+ year old Vanessa baby because there are 30-45 year old babies in my extended family. I think they're pathetic. Even my parents think those cousins of mine are pathetic. How can you live in the house you grew up in for so long? It seems painful. Living here is painful for me. And I'm 18.

I'm not a parent, so I don't know. But I honestly think that after 18 years, my kids should probably go learn to fend for themselves. No one grows up being babied. They just stay babies forever.

Honestly, I'm writing all this, but I've been leaving my strongest feelings out. This whole situation truly has me so stressed out and frustrated. I feel like I'm stuck in a cage. My parents don't understand that I don't want or need what they're offering me (e.g. rides from a bus stop a block away to our house because they think I can't walk home by myself) and that what they're really doing is making me hate them. They need to get with the times and let me go. This is too much.

Lately I've been really aware of how much space I'm given. Not just mentally/otherwise with my parents, but physical space--in public, walking down the street, etc. And now it bothers me more than ever when I'm not given a proper amount of space. It stresses me out. I see space as a really political thing. If you are in a public space, a perfect situation being the bus, really observe and analyze who is given the most space. And how someone moves around certain people and how their body language differs. It's all very interesting. The truth is, just because I'm physically small doesn't mean I don't need space. If I'm already taking up so little space, don't try to take even more away from me. I'm not afraid to retaliate anymore because I know how it affects me. And if you treat me like I'm small, I'll do something to prove to you just how small I am not.

In terms of the bigger picture, what I am really working on right now is communicating--communicating with my parents and with the outside world. It's like Audre Lorde said, "your silence will not protect you." For me it really is about taking up space. Because if you don't take up space, you don't exist. And I can't be erased.

Work 4.18

2011-04-18T23:51:00.000-07:00

After the media blitz in the fall of 2010 on queer youth suicides, some schools began to talk about more bullying and how to stop it. Unfortunately, solutions to issues that affect youth never will be realized in a room void of youth voice and youth leadership. In an educational system where the curriculum does not include diversity training or history that is reflective of the students who are forced to participate in it, the system is the bully. Students have already long realized that their "real" education will not come from such a system, and they turn to other sources, such as friends and community, the internet, and other media sources for information that is relevant to them.

Mainstream media needs to be real about what queer youth go through and what their needs are. Often the narrative used to describe queer individuals' experiences is the same--tragic, bullied, and suicidal. While this narrative and/or aspects of it can be true to someone's experience, this has become a stereotypical portrayal of queer life, and it completely casts a shadow over the reality that being queer and/or transgender can be amazing and that real community exists. Mainstream coverage of a queer movement that is led by young people, girls, transgender people, and people of color would be revolutionary.

*Note to self: Need to stop pushing writing assignments like this to late at night. The work suffers without a doubt.

Less God, More Godard

2011-04-13T11:23:00.000-07:00

Jean Pierre Leaud in Masculin Féminin, 1966* My first Godard film.

Anna Karina and Eddie Constantine in Alphaville, 1965

Anna Karina in Le Petit Soldat, 1960

Jean Seberg in A bout de souffle, 1960

My favorite, so there are three! Couldn't find one with Belmondo though...

Credit: Peggy Moffit

I have a Giants outfit too

2011-04-12T21:55:00.000-07:00

All black with neon orange Stephen Sprouse LV graffiti speedy and oversized wayfarers. DONE!

P.S. Flat hair.

Stressed.

2011-04-09T21:21:00.000-07:00

Should've moved to New York when I had an excuse to. Should've wasted $50k a year of my parents' money like everyone else who went off to art school.

Shouldn't have stayed here. Caged up like a twelve year old. Micromanaged to the bone. Stressed out over explaining every thing.

I'm not out. I can't afford my own apartment. I'm trying to find another job. I can't drive. I can't grow up. Not here.

Early April Inspiration

2011-04-07T22:50:00.000-07:00

1. Chantal Goya in Masculin Féminin, Godard, 1966 2. Ed Ruscha 3. Clean interiors, the opposite of my room

The Journey to Sun Fei Fei Hair

2011-04-03T23:04:00.000-07:00

Devil on my shoulder: ✁✁✁
Angel: STICK WITH IT

Hair, please grow out soon. I don't know what to do with you.

P.S. (-_^)−☆

A thought 4.2.11

2011-04-02T12:48:00.000-07:00

One time I was shopping with my mom and she dragged me into some awful store like Old Navy or something. This random lady came up to me, eyed me up and down, and told me that "you must always match your blacks." Stupid fashion rule. Do you think Rei Kawakubo follows a stupid rule like that? No. It's a rule reserved for people who think they know fashion but are dressed in the most boring and uninspired clothes ever. I never understood those people who criticize others who are actually wearing something interesting or criticize designers' work when they don't even look like they care about fashion themselves. If you are interested in fashion, it should show.

Lost In Translation

2011-04-01T23:20:00.000-07:00

Two frames. A million words.

Lost In Translation, dir. Sofia Coppola, 2003

I know I've spent the last few months upset over the same person. I'm beginning to move on now. But there are still some things that remind me of him, like this film. Even though it's really more about me than him.

I'm beginning to accept that the Vanessa that was before I met him doesn't exist anymore. And I have to stop trying to get her back. This is a new reality. It's funny because I can pinpoint the exact moment that I changed. Or maybe that I changed little by little with every moment. As much as I don't like to admit it, I have learned something from this annoying situation. I guess that's life.

When we dated I was so obsessed with making everything cinematic. Coincidentally around that time I also stopped watching 5-7+ films every week, which I had been doing for months. I think the films brainwashed me to a certain extent. I felt anything was possible with him. But it was just the same shit again.

I guess, I should thank him for waking me up. I had been asleep for months. I had been in a rut ever since dropping out of art school. After him I didn't feel like staying home and staring at French New Wave actors' faces and gestures anymore. But I did feel used and stupid... stupid for believing in him and caring about him. Just another boy who let me down. There are many who have gone past letting me down... I remember all who wronged me. I don't forget. How could you ask me to?

I'm trying to let go of the bitterness, disappointment and anger. It's okay. It's a new month. I can let it go.

The last of this Britney shit, I swear.

2011-03-28T23:56:00.000-07:00

Because I'm obsessed with myself.

If you read one of my blogs or twitter regularly you've probably heard by now that Britney Spears came to do a concert in San Francisco and Good Morning America came to film Lyric, the community organization for queer and transgender youth where I work.

Hopefully this will be my last entry on this whole ordeal, since I'm getting sick of talking and hearing about it (but I doubt it--my mom has still yet to see the clip, and I have a feeling this will out me to her.)

Basically, I think it's cool that they did a piece with Lyric and Larkin St. Youth Services in it. However, I'm not impressed with how the whole piece was framed to be about Britney helping/caring about queer youth (only because they are "her fans") when the fact is she did not do much for us. Sure, we got VIP tickets for her concert. But is that really helping us in any way? No, but it was a move to make her look good. Even less impressive is the fact that she didn't even come to visit us during her trip to the Castro district (Larkin isn't located in the Castro, but Lyric is. Famously.) She even visited the GLBT Historical Society, which is around the corner. I mean, if queer youth is your "cause"... don't you at least want to see us, and not the organizations that aren't youth-specific and may or may not even be youth inclusive? Doesn't make any sense to me.

Also, I'm kind of annoyed with how all the voices in the piece are of white youth and community workers. That's not an attack on those individuals at all; I know the majority of the folks in the video, and they are all amazing. But the majority of the youth I work with are people of color, and we were all interviewed and filmed, yet they edited to show these specific participants' voices... a bit too obvious in my opinion.

The clip is available here.

Vanessa

Evil Twins' Summer 2011 Plans

2011-03-26T22:25:00.000-07:00

Mark and I have too much stuff we want to do. A couple of these things are plans we couldn't fit in this time around.

•Get tattoos (my first; his fourth)
•Friendship bracelets from Barneys CO-OP with Kelvin
•Get racket at Pride weekend
•See the Balenciaga exhibit
•French food at Bisou
•Participate in AIDS Walk
•Hot pot in the Richmond
•More shows, including Yeasayer
•Be temporary roommates again ♥

April will pass by like nothing honey, soon enough our YSL DSL club will reunite again.

Random is fine

2011-03-26T21:56:00.000-07:00

Spring break doesn't make much of a difference to me since I'm only taking one class at city college. The only thing that matters is that a couple of my close friends come back to San Francisco :-)

My "spring break" started on Thursday. I'm already exhausted from these past few days... kind of sad. I haven't had one decent night of sleep. But that's okay. I think it'll happen tonight.

This is my break so far, in instagram.

The much anticipated Toro y Moi show. Braids, one of the openers, was a nice surprise. They are perfect music to fall asleep to. Toro y Moi's set was great, but a bit too short and I wish they played 'Minors' (I told Chaz this when I met him.) Btw, he is really cute and geeky. And kind of shy.

Mosaic Frida at a post-Toro y Moi taqueria visit

My friend Mark was my temporary roommate, this is his luggage

Mark in my room

Work at City Hall, always love seeing the Harvey Milk piece

Cappucino chocolate cheesecake to finish up me and Mark's girl talk day at the Rotunda

An Oscar Grant mural at Oakland's Fruitvale station. I went to Oakland for a meal night run by Homies Empowerment. It was truly amazing, intense, and deep... still internally debriefing the night.

Mark and I added sushi + teriyaki chicken to our food coma weekend

Two VIP passes for Britney Spears' concert tomorrow. I'm sure there are people (i.e. her fans) who are more deserving of them. Oh well. I'm going with a huge group from work tomorrow, it should be fun.

Other stuff done recently: saw Destroyer live (amazing), went restaurant hopping in a storm, slid down a muddy Dolores Park hill, made dinner with Mark, got filmed at work for Good Morning America, said goodbye (temporarily) to mom and dad, who are both currently in Hong Kong.

Vanessa

two boys. two mixes.

2011-03-21T13:55:00.000-07:00

p.s. this isn't for you, you asshole. ♥

vanessamcqueen at 8tracks.com

I've decided

2011-03-15T21:54:00.000-07:00

It's kind of absurd of me to make this a "fashion focused" blog. Because there are plenty out there. And I don't exactly think about fashion in a way that allows me to write a blog that is focused on it.

I really think a lot more about social justice issues. That's what I can write about. I don't think I can take photos of shit, my outfits and bracelets or whatever and upload them and post them. It seems pointless. Maybe once in a while. But I need somewhere to write about everything else.

In the end, I'm kind of just writing this for myself... again. But I'll try to keep those relationship ruining rants off here this time around.

P.S. It's been hard for me to think about anything but Japan for the past few days. I know it's not very practical to stop living life once a disaster like this happens, but it feels wrong to go about life as usual. What can I do other than stop and think and donate money? It makes me feel sad. And I've had this really strong (and overly dramatic) feeling that I might die soon. So I've made it my goal to come out to my mom before she leaves for Hong Kong (this Thursday), because I told myself I have to come out to her before I die. Part of me doesn't think I'll really die, but I don't know, this is how I think.

Vanessa

Japan

2011-03-13T17:35:00.000-07:00

American Red Cross
*If you are in the US, simply text REDCROSS to 90999 to donate $10 from your phone (you'll be prompted to confirm with a second text reading YES).

Links to different organizations to donate to HERE.

I've been reading tweets from YOON and TOKYO DANDY. Follow them.

Heru heru heru

2011-03-10T13:49:00.000-08:00

I have a love/hate relationship with my hair. It's such a pain in the ass to take care of sometimes. But in a way it's my "look". I don't know. I wish it would figure itself out.

Stuff that makes me want to grow my hair long:

Basically, Sun Fei Fei, Chiaki Kuriyama, and other pretty girls.

I like:
That you can tie your hair up and style it differently
That it can look good messy
That it's sexy
I like it in general

Once upon a time, I, too, had long hair. It was after I grew out my mandatory childhood bowlcut. And, I'll be honest, it was all wrong. I looked like the girl from the Ring. Once I chopped it off I finally got the Joan Jett-ish (not really) haircut that I had always wanted (age 13). I felt cool. Also my demigod Agyness Deyn came into my life not too long after that, and there was nothing I wanted more than to be lil Aggy. So the short hair stayed.

Stuff that makes me want to keep my hair:

Two of my favorites, Jean Seberg and Tao Okamoto.

I like:
That it's easier to wash
That it suits me
I don't know, I've had this hairstyle for 5 years

Downside:
There's only really one way of styling it that works... and there is maintenance involved. You have no idea how appealing it sounds to just wake up, comb my hair, and have that be the end of it...

I'm going to a wig shop with my bestie to see what other styles would look good on me. Either way, it'd take me forever to grow my hair out. And it would go through a really long and awkward phase in between. Goddamnit.

I wish hair wasn't actually attached to our scalps and we could just put on a new style everyday. Like clothes. I've been cutting my own hair in more or less the same style since I was 13. I need some new inspiration.

On a side note: Why can't I just be Sun Fei Fei?

Vanessa

Land: Horses

2011-03-08T13:23:00.000-08:00

Leather jacket Rika. Top Vena Cava.

I constantly wonder whether other people feel the same way about their hometown as I do with San Francisco. I can't really explain it. Sometimes when I wander through the city, I just think, what a strange, beautiful place... at the same time, I become tired of it so often.

It's like when I visited Los Angeles over New Year's. After four days, there was nothing I wanted to do more than to zone out on muni and chill at my favorite cafe in the Castro. So am I doomed to forever wanting to be somewhere else?

When I get sick of dear San Fran, it's usually because of how small it is. I rarely meet new people who I don't already share mutual friends with. And then it gets down to be about what high school I went to. And I don't want to be judged based on what I was like in high school.

I can't imagine living in my hometown for the rest of my life. After a while this familiarity starts to feel oppressive. All the streets hold their own meaning and are tied to memories... and I don't know why that is so painful, but it is.

Move away. Move to London. A different country. A different continent. I've always been a proud San Franciscan, but never a proud American, anyway...

Vanessa

Clean slate.

2011-03-06T20:00:00.000-08:00

I decided to finally do something with this blog.

This is to be fashion focused. But, knowing me, I'll find a way to also make it about everything else in my life.

I felt relieved after deleting all my previous entries, but since I'm a sentimental person, I backed everything up on another page. After all, those are two years worth of my thoughts... and as embarassing as the majority of the content is, I like seeing how much I've changed.

Something that will never change about me? My initials are VSL. Add a line to the V and voila. Re: Yves Saint Laurent Y-mail clutch and gold chain bracelet, served on Purple Magazine Fall 2009.

Side note: I'm a big fan of gaudy gold jewelry.

Vanessa
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