// JOURNAL | Healed, resealed.

Gee, golly, I really like dresses. When I confess this, the responses are usually mixed: a smile or polite nod and the occasional, “Wow, that is cute.” (And maybe the opposite depending on how bad your taste in fashion is.)

But every now and then, someone will say: “Why?”

And all I have to say to that is: Really now? You’re asking me why?

After all, since when do I need a reason to like dresses? I don’t know what these people expect me to say. Perhaps some contrived semblance of logic like, “Oh, I don’t know, I just like the breeze between my half-bare legs,” or “I just like the way the skirt flounces while I’m doing jumping jacks getting ready to kick your ass for asking such a ridiculous question.”

Can’t a girl just like wearing dresses?

I think this seems like the appropriate moment to remind everyone that this month is National Women’s Month. And that “why?” is never an appropriate response to “I like dresses.” Never.

And, hey, that really is a cute dress. I need more places to be. And more money. But that was a given.

I used to think I was a night owl.  Maybe I actually am.  I once read a study that said you are born one way, and it’s not worth fighting the way you are born.  Instead, embrace it, care for it, understand it.  Thrive.

Now that I’m coming around to thinking about it, I’m starting to doubt my late-night insomnia.  Because what I actually like isn’t the numbers on the clock or the way my laptop screen illuminates the plaster walls in total darkness.  It’s the quiet.  Something about being awake, breathing in and slipping into the silences and equating myself to the plinking of rain outside my bedroom window.  It feels secretive and forbidden and entirely mine.  It’s about seizing agency when no one else is present to usurp my definitions or reject my philosophies.  I think 4 am is my favorite.

This week has been what I call deceptive cold: an unlikely pairing of happy/sad visible in weather changes.  It’s an illness about a crooked smile, like tawny sun against picked up ocean breezes.  The deceptive cold swoons and crows and seduces, lulls you into false comfort, then abandons all together.  Outward glances through sealed windows convince you that overhead is cloudless but such glances forget the grey-lavender sky and 40-degree dryness about the air.  So the weather transcends, creeps, chills, and on these days, I continue trekking, gloved, scarved, and jacketed, waiting for better days of spring.

Everyone leaves. Hardly anyone ever stays. Not in these parts, at least. Not with the melodramatic murmurings of a suburban town with too little to do and not enough to contain, with restaurants that close at 10pm on weekends and stoplights that flash red, red, red all night, every night. Why would you stay? There is nothing here. Nothing, except for me. You get in a car, or on a plane, and then you’re miles away, hundreds of them. I imagine you to be somewhere more fashionable. Somewhere with city lights, lots of them, brightly gleaming, casting rings of shadows atop your hair. Where you are, there are probably late-night diners serving corn beef hash for cheap, perhaps even flashy cinemas with neon signs and bowling alleys and beer, lots of beer. Where you are, there are probably laughs, deep-throated chuckles and toothy grins, cheap entertainment, video games and ritzy promenades, snow, palm trees, sand.

But everyone leaves. Maybe you should stay. I think you should. Stay. Won’t you?

Stay. For yelp runs on rainy days and caffeinated nights. For indoor board games and home-bound concoctions. For morning fog and heartbeats competing with the pattering of nighttime rain on car windows.

Stay.

Cute, little clips with all sorts of facts zinging across the screen are hard to hate. You somehow stumble upon them while “doing homework,” probably because of YouTube or Tumblr or Facebook or StumbleUpon (and wow, I have more ways to procrastinate than classes I need to study for). And they’re impressive. They catch you off guard, with their fancy type and flashy colors. If you’re anything like me, colorful moving type on a bright screen all too easily and distressingly attracts your attention. Suddenly, I understand why I find shiny, silver objects so distracting. (Macbook pro. It’s so pretty.)

But then I stumbled upon this. At first, it was cool. I’m thinking, I love social media! Gen Y? That’s me! And okay, an attempt (well, fail) at typography, I’ll keep watching. But then, at some point, two thoughts entered:

1.) Uh, how long is this thing?

2.) Wait a minute. Did they just– oh, they just did.

As if they didn’t have enough facts to point out the obvious (that social media is quite convincingly the trend), they had to make the unforgivable mistake of pulling facts and implying–oh no–causation. At one point, they cite a 2009 study indicating that, on average, online students outperform students with face-to-face instruction. Because it’s totally cool to ignore lurking variables, such as, oh, I don’t know, the possibility that students who choose to take online classes generally don’t need as much face-to-face instruction (hence electing to take an online course) as other students. In all fairness, though, it’s an awesome purposeful exclusion to support the clip’s main assertion–that social media is more the future, less the fad.

But that got me thinking. All those cute clips with facts zinging across the screen–that’s the problem with them. They lack context. It’s like saying: FACT–More people fly kites than the entire population of Denmark. Fad? No, FUTURE. And that is a very terrible, terrible thing indeed.

Not all clips are like that though. Some, like The Girl Effect, are legit and have well-designed websites to follow. I can deal with that.

But this social media one? On a topic I so dearly love? Sorry, it’s a no go. And p.s. your choice of typeface sucks.

I won’t lie. When it comes to the protests for public education in California, I’m in an ethical double bind.

It’s a lofty idea, romantic even, defending public education. How can you, in good conscience, be against that? You can’t really. We’re students; presumably, education is important, otherwise we wouldn’t be here slaving away at papers and studying for exams into the early hours of the morning. But the problem here doesn’t lie with the goal. It lies with the cause–the battered about, beaten down cause that, when it comes down to it, lacks direction.

The cause comes down to an easy oversimplification: we want money, but there isn’t money. Why do we deserve it more than anyone else?

But let’s suggest this: The cause rests more with a lack of transparency. A budget’s been produced that mandates fee hikes, cuts and layoffs; no one’s happy; but there hasn’t been a tradition of public discourse, involving students and faculty, accompanying it. Perhaps there are alternate sources of funding, but there’s no real way to be sure. No one is saying why it is, just that it is, and we’re expected to respect that.

There arises a second problem: the symbolic value of the UC and what this means for the value of our education. As the best professors get swept away with better offers from schools with more money/less financial difficulties, the value of our degree means less–and we’re well aware of the impending permanent damage.

This is, at least, the cause that I’ve come to understand.

But here’s where the ethical dilemma enters: there’s something remarkably unattractive about the protests. The protests turned violent (last Friday morning’s was grossly distasteful to most students) and the outrageous claims profusely being tossed about (“Free housing for everyone!” – ridiculous) give me every reason to want to distance myself from the the demonstrations. And then there’s the history–the feeling that that you’re participating in something monumental, historic, something that gave Berkeley (and other schools) its reputation in the first place–that regretfully produces the radical activists wanting a small taste of rebellion; maybe these are the ones that promote those outrageous claims, but it makes you hesitant about Berkeley’s reputation for protest and demonstration just the same. Further salting our tastes for the protests is the inherent irony to (many of) the protests: locking students, who actually want to attend class, out of buildings, disrupting in-session classes with fire alarms. Not cool.

In the end, the cause is a noble one, but it’s confused. It isn’t possible for everyone to be happy. I want to support public education, but I don’t agree (or don’t know if I agree) with a lot of the claims thrown out there or even the tactics used. I support a cause that rests with transparency and promoting value and investment in public education, but I can’t say whether fee hikes are the right path or whether the cause I’m supporting is the cause even 40% of the students out there are protesting. Participating in the demonstration feels like an automatic association with the certain crowds of radicalism I don’t support–the vandalism and violence, the unjustified and impractical claims and solutions being offered. This isn’t at all an indication of what I’ll do, or what I think people should do, or what I think the solutions are, but rather undigested thoughts on the double bind I feel, have heard others hint at in some form or another.

I guess we’ll see today.

There’s something about being from the suburbs that automatically makes beaches (and other things, like forts) instantly cool. Cool in a way that makes me want to wiggle my toes into the sand, run up direly close to the water and laugh because the ocean can’t tag me back as I skip away like a five-year-old.

I discovered beaches in college. I know what you’re thinking: that’s pretty badass. Like in a way that Christopher Columbus or Sir Francis Drake were badass. (There is always something inherently badass about seeing a beach for the first time when you’re at least 20.) Well, my discoveries were admittedly a little less glorious than my 15th and 16th century counterparts–I didn’t have my own boat (I did have a car), and the beaches already had names (some that I certainly wouldn’t have chosen). But the discoveries came in spurts, where I visited a ton of beaches, one after another, in a span of three or so years. Up and down the California coast, and then others elsewhere. By the time I was done, the beaches all sort of looked the same: salty ocean breeze, white sand–maybe rocks instead of sand if you were up north, miles of water sweeping up and down a pretty Pacific coast. I still like having the water brush up against my toes (I squeal, without fail) and I still like plopping myself into the sand to watch kids half my height struggle with opening their kites–the novelty of these things hasn’t worn off just yet. But, in some way, every beach is a reminder of me wanting my naivete back: to go and see, wide-eyed and amazed, because it’s the first time ever and, wow, everything looks so beautiful, and let me find a seashell to take home, please.

I have an informal rock collection. I don’t know where it is, but I know that I have one. I usually stumble upon it when I’m looking for things, like unpacking my suitcase or cleaning out the linen closet, and find something inhumanly heavy. My rock collection has been years in the making. I snatch rocks from places I want to remember, making me think that it was probably a good idea to take up writing and photography. When I was 7 (or so), I took a rock from our backyard before my parents did some landscaping. When I was 19, I took a rock (more like 3 boulders) from the Grand Canyon. The rock from when I was 7 gave me ringworm, and the rocks from the Grand Canyon didn’t. In 7th grade, I classified rocks I’d jumped out of the car for while in Death Valley. It was for a science project on taxonomic classification.

When I was 7, I also collected seashells, but because I didn’t live near any beaches, my seashell collection suffered terribly. Instead, I relied on the excursions of others, asking them to bring me back relics from any shores they frequented. I managed to collect a grand total of two, only because my dad went to Hawaii, brought back shells for both my brother and me, and I somehow convinced my brother to let me keep his in my room for good measure, or extra security, or something.

I still like beaches. Rocks and shells, not so much. The last time I tried bringing a shell home, it broke in my camera bag, and I think I’m done with them now. I’m also thinking that seeing freezing water and an overcast sky at 6 am would be nice. Maybe I’ll do that.

This is my kind of humor.

Two days ago, my professor handed out sheets of 8.5″ x 11″ paper, filled with about half a page of text, big blockish letters at about 12 pt. size font.

I actually don’t understand this trend in the English department: this need to print out whole sheets of paper for everyone when you could easily conserve space (and that tree outside) with slight changes of the margins, lowering of the font size, a pair of scissors, and did I mention stop using that ugly typeface? Perhaps it’s to give the appearance of what you say being meaningful. Like compensating for something. Well, you know.

Besides, of all the departments to waste paper, I’d least expect it to be the English department–you’d think that they’d have dealt with enough paper, ink, and every possible method of fudging margins, columns, and leading to know perfectly well how to micromanage every last word on a page. Just saying.

So on with the story.

In its ominous, blockish, 12 pt. type (with a bajillion points of leading–okay, I’m probably exaggerating), the paragraph read:

In walks these three girls in nothing but bathing suits. I’m in the third check-out slot, with my back to the door, so I don’t see them until they’re over by the bread. The one that caught my eye first was the one in the plaid green two-piece. She was a chunky kid, with a good tan and a sweet broad soft-looking can with those two crescents of white just under it, where the sun never seems to hit, at the top of the backs of her legs. I stood there with my hand on a box of HiHo crackers trying to remember if I rang it up or not. I ring it up again and the customer starts giving me hell. She’s one of these cash-register-watchers, a witch about fifty with rouge on her cheekbones and no eyebrows, and I know it made her day to trip me up. She’d been watching cash registers forty years and probably never seen a mistake before.

If you already know where this is from, stop. Stretch your imagination for a little bit, and bear with me. If you don’t, ignore the comment. I might tell you later.

My professor then asked us to write the next sentence–the first sentence of the second paragraph–some writing exercise to get us thinking.

Long story short, some people had some very nice things to say. Poetic things too. And then there was me. And, by some luck, I read my sentence aloud in class, and on my paper, I had scrawled:

“But in walked those three girls, and if this witch was going to give me hell for it, well, fuck her.”

Well, I found it kind of funny.

Sometimes, I think I’ve found something cool, but I’m not quite sure what it is. So I’ll use conversational cues, highly generalized statements, and tact to help me figure it out along the way (and not give away my ignorance in the process).

Exhibit A:

Joanna: let’s see zombieland.
Steven: what’s that?
Joanna: i don’t know. i thought it was a movie, and if i said that, you would know what it is and explain.
Steven: it might be … an amusement park …

It doesn’t always work.

I’m not taking a lab class right now, but I think this photo is supposed to serve as a personal reminder that there can always be worse things in life. And that this too shall pass, something like that.

But of course, that isn’t to trivialize the terribleness that is my life at the present moment. One look at the calendar, and my heart’s wildly palpitating. Recognizing this as I munch on a bowl Cheerios in the early morning is never a great start to any day, but I take some solace in the fact that my iPod tells me Berkeley is sunny and Fremont is cloudy. Comparative weather differences tend to have that effect on me.

Upcoming due dates– Today: 2 psets. Tomorrow: First part of essay #1. Wednesday: Essay #2, Essay #3, midterm.

Does that sound like a lot? It feels like a lot.

So right now, I have some marginal faith in myself that I can pull through. But the question remains whether I can make it through without needing to pull an all-nighter. And if I do need to, which day is the optimal day to do it? Life is never happy when you are contemplating these things.

Nothing life changing, but I’ve decided that I’ll blog a little more.  By a little more, I’ll try for daily.  Or maybe a few times a week.  We’ll see how it goes.  That’s usually how these things work anyway.

I’ve been writing.  Sort of a lot, actually.  I just haven’t posted here, and I admit that it’s pretty saddening.  But I’ll tell you why.  I think I’m just recently coming round to the idea that there are things for the desk drawer and things for the public eye–though with the advent of blogging and social media platforms (Twitter being the obvious one), that mentality has more or less eroded, if it even still exists.  The desk drawer becomes the Internet; uncensored writing, a subtle invasion of the public domain.  And we’re left with the unfiltered, heaps of junk spewing from brains to mouths to fingers to my computer screen.  I think some people call it “potty mouth”–or “talking out of your ass” for the crude.

But I’ll try blogging more, along with writing for the desk drawer.  I find motivation in the most curious ways, but mostly from friends who invoke guilt in me for my lack of publicly accessible writing.  I realized that I feel less guilty about spending time writing, not studying, if I think of writing as practice very much needed.  Whatever helps me sleep at night, right?

Another thing–I’ll try posting a photo along with each piece.  I do it for my Flickr account; I might as well do it for my blog.  Maybe it’ll encourage more photo excursions.

That reminds me.  Blog has always been a nasty word.  For whatever reason, I’ve always been sensitive to what labels I attach to my writing collations.  Not blog.  Not diary.  Journal is fitting.  Mead notebook seems to work too.  And if I shove them all into a shoebox beneath my bed or inside my closet, I can forget formalities entirely.  Because then it’s just a box.  With stuff.  My stuff.  Loose sheets of notebook papers, but still my stuff.

Well, here’s to creating more stuff.