Yahoo!

I just deleted my Yahoo! account. My mom received an e-mail she suspected as spam coming from my Yahoo! address, and upon getting word of this, I immediately set to delete it. It only made sense since I never use it anyway. I must have created it the same year as my livejournal (2004) because my first message received was from that year too. I dug through my sent folder since my inbox was brimming with weekly digests from various non-profits, shopping blogs, and general news sources. I excavated the remains of my teenage life, which in retrospect was more typical than any teenager would have thought growing up. You know how that goes.

Deleting my Yahoo! account also included the deletion of my flickr account, something else I never use. There were pictures of Rogue Wave performing at Amoeba Records, pictures uploaded from my cell phone of my grandfather's funeral, pictures of a grammar school Thanksgiving, pictures of a Euro-trip, pictures of last year's stint in the Philippines. All told, they amounted to five flickr pages, not much, and I bet they still exist somewhere in the microscopic annals of some long forgotten data device. Regardless, I am happy to let go of these memories, effectively speaking. This feeling of finality does not occur very often for me, but on this occasion, it feels good to know that I can get past the immobility of sentimentality and move on with a clearer more spam-free life.

Slight Return

November brings beards, a brief break from midterms, and National Novel Writing Month. For the past fifteen days of this month, I've been slowly building up a draft for my novel, The Ultramafic Magazine. It's undeniably Sci-Fi pulp, and the title came from my intent to produce an art-related magazine in Davis that fell through the cracks, so the title is either a) my own memento mori, reminding me to follow through with my personal endeavors lest I die with a life unfulfilled or b) simply an act of reconciliation.

Anyway, today marks the midway point of the month, and I've written twenty thousands words since November 1st. Once a writer submits at least fifty thousand words worth of a first draft of a novel, then that person automatically is considered a winner. The prize is the experience, they say, instead of some kind of tangible trophy. According to Nanowrimo organizers, the second week of November usually marks a dry period of creativity. After the first productive week of writing and a more or less clever plot line, many people, myself included, lost steam. Now, I am in the third week of this writing marathon, and I'm quickly gaining second wind, and though it may be attributable to my generally vacant Mondays, I'm opening up new plot lines and complicating previous ones. (Basically: more planets = more writing fodder, duh!)

P.S. I need a real website, like, right now.

From "Creative Places: A Dean's Welcome" by Peter Salovey

"These and other work environments fostered spontaneity, collegiality, intellectual intensity, and most importantly, the opportunity for the unfettered exchange of insights and ideas, some bizarre and others amazing. The curators of the Centennial Exposition unabashedly declared, 'The creative process is extremely dependent upon the individual's surroundings.' The point is that whatever brilliance we have been able to attain, is in part a function of the environments in which we find ourselves."

Song #2

Kings of Convenience - Misread

On Drawing the St. Cecilia Church

It was another day in San Francisco, so I continued drawing the building-scape of St. Cecilia Church. I'm very fortunate to have such nice images to draw so close to my house. In fact, I'd draw my whole neighborhood if drawing weren't such a conspicuous activity and if there were more benches for me to sit. Usually, drawing buildings calms me. It is comforting to do something that you can admit you're pretty good at. I also appreciate the humility of a drawing; it doesn't beg for your attention. Instead, it's encapsulated on a given sheet of paper, and the responsibility falls on the individual to observe the drawing. I am always fascinated by things that behave this way, though I know that careers are seldom launched by such passivity.

Today, as I drew the church, I came to a realization that can only be described as profound. I hesitate to use such a descriptor as profundity is a fairly subjective experience, but as I drew the power lines, electroliers, and other public works structures in the foreground of my drawing, I could only think of the parallels to the San Bruno fire. I was watching the news several nights ago and learned that a little girl that had perished in the fire last week was the student body president of St. Cecilia. It just so happened that I was also once a student body president of a San Francisco private Catholic grammar school. My parents had also initially tried to get me to attend St. Cecilia School, but I was a number of months too young to be accepted into the upcoming class, a questionable logic that I had falsely attributed to the school's desire to have beefier and stronger athletes against other Catholic schools.

So, as I mentioned earlier, I had been drawing St. Cecilia, and in the foreground was a cacophony of power lines and street poles all managed by, I presume, PG&E, the company responsible for the San Bruno fire. I felt useful, for once, during my one and a half week's worth of a summer vacation, and so I was glad that finally my drawing skillz would be put to use on something worthwhile. I resolved to send a copy to the St. Cecilia principal as soon as I finished it. I even came up with a working title for my drawing, "Neighborhood Imperative". Yeah, it felt pretty good.

But several hours later, I wondered whether the importance of my drawing was indeed as culturally relevant as it seemed. Am I really just exaggerating its value from the lens of a lover of buildings? Is the analogy too personal for anyone else to recognize, let alone appreciate? I still don't know, but I will continue drawing it. I have spent three hours on this drawing so far, and I have maybe a good third of it done. I never know at what point a drawing is finished. I'm still an amateur, and what I have in my mind doesn't translate in execution, but I do hope to send it to St. Cecilia School someday. Maybe they will like it. I don't really know, but either way I really want to finish this drawing.

I think the side window at the top of my living room isn't straight. In fact, I'm sure it is angled ever so slightly within a margin of one or two degrees, and it's making me go crazy.

I heard this on the radio today.

Please excuse the YouTube video. I'd upload an mp3, but I don't know how.

A Blobby Summer

"'Green.'
Corran nodded.  'Yellow.'
The youth smiled, straightened up, and lowered his blaster.  The agreed-upon challenge had been a color in the visible light spectrum, and the countersign the color immediately contiguous with it.  'I'm Rade Dromath.'" - Star Wars, The New Jedi Order, Dark Tide II: Ruin, by Michael A. Stackpole.

Yeah, that's pretty much the longest title I've ever heard.  So-

Today has been a superlatively relaxing day.  I mean, I got to read Star Wars!  Sci-fi pulp is for sure my leisure activity of choice.  Otherwise, I spent a good part of my day with my friend Mari eating pho, watching The Zodiac (long, and unfortunately, not worth the wait), and walking my dog.  Now, I'm listening once again to of Montreal's new LP which came out today.  The vinyl is being shipped, en route to my house in Davis.  I only wish I ordered it earlier.

Yesterday, I submitted my 2nd term paper, which was officially marked the end of my summer sessions at UC Davis.  I have now a week's respite before the onslaught of school returns.  I have most of my days planned out already, complete with shopping, record hunting, and reading.  Hooray!  The only bummer is the two dollar fare for Muni.  I haven't been back to SF often enough to be used to it.

Yeah.  I  got nothing.  Slow news day.

Opportunity Costs

 devenustate - v. - To deprive of grace or beauty (Webster Online)

Right now I'm listening to the Nels Cline, of Wilco fame, perform at the NPR Music office as part of the Tiny Desk Concert series.  He uses a Fender Jazzmaster guitar, and it reminded me of the days when I listened to the band Incubus and of how badly I wanted to shred like their guitarist, Mike Einziger, who uses the same guitar.  These days, I've been playing drums almost every day, and it's been difficult to get out of that great frustrating thing every musician encounters: the plateau.

A lot of the new music I'm listening to is coming from the website of Colette, a high fashion powerhouse in Paris.  Of Montreal is even featured there!  Their next album is so good that once I get back to SF, I'm going to grab myself some tickets at the Warfield for their next show.  ($35)  I'm wavering on buying their limited edition red vinyl version of the album ($20).  I don't usually buy music, and I've been begrudgingly thrifty because I don't have a job.  I need a job.

There's a bunch of other new artists I'm really getting into, and I don't have a category for their type of music.  I recommend Andy Votel's Vintage Voltage ($20).  He's a dj, and he's pretty good.

Done

"Formerly signifying Kentucky Fried Chicken, now signifying nothing, KFC is arguably the company that has increased the sum total of suffering in the world." Eating Animals, Jonathan Safran Foer

I  just finished a grueling week.  I finished a midterm, in which I compared SF MoMA to the London National Gallery, and a term paper, on the work of Japanese architects Kazuyo Sejima and Ryue Nishizawa, collectively known as SANAA.  By Friday, I was completely spent, and I did notice that no matter the quantity of work, I still can get washed over with an equivalent magnitude of stress.  But I've held out this week by recalling the advice of one of my favorite illustrators, Adrian Tomine, who once remarked that to be a good artist I'd probably be turning a lot of invitations to hang out and that I should moreover be wary of artists that don't.  I'm not sure I believe in the latter, but the former is a simple enough justification.

If there's anything that has really moved me this week, it has been the music of Bill Evans.  It reminds me of a more formal background music to Mr. Roger's Neighborhood.  You know, it may as well be.  I have been wanting to write in this blog for so long, and this morning I find myself with nothing to say.

I left my journal in San Francisco, so for the past week and a half I haven't written much except architectural criticism.   Time for  a break!

Thanks, Roxanne.

coruscate - v. - To give off or reflect light in bright beams or flashes: sparkle (Merriam-Webster Online)

Every weekend for the past several weeks, I have made excuses to return to San Francisco.  I am here now, and the hour and a half commute from Davis has changed from an agonizing life-lesson saturated ride with my dad to a pleasant respite accompanied by the sounds of backlogged episodes of This American Life playing from my iPod speakers.  Today, I realized my speaker-box fits conveniently between my legs, so I could hear Ira Glass' voice coming from, well, there.  The episodes make the time pass faster on the way.  Otherwise the drive to San Francisco is the same as ever.

I arrived early to meet my aunt, who treated me to dinner this evening since my birthday is coming up.  I could think of no other place to have dinner than at Farina, a restaurant that has been lauded and awarded for its successful architecture.  I can never forget when, in a news story, the architect had discussed his choice of concrete for its "materiality, which contributes a sense of stability and structure" or something like that.  I noticed that Farina served a clientèle of a much higher age bracket than mine.  Beside me were pairs of middle-aged husbands and wives, one of whom mused on the "remarkable charisma of employable men in that room".  The quirky dim restaurant lighting, the appetizer platter of inscrutably thin Italian meats encircling some kind of cheese, and the waiters that addressed you as signore all suggested to me that award-winning architectural design is a nicety enjoyed by and large by the elite.  As much as I admire the thought put into Farina's design, and for that matter, of any swanky restaurant, I do not wish to be an architect for a society with which I do not identify.  That is, I would rather design public spaces, for all types of people to enjoy, paycheck be damned.  Good design should not be restricted to those that can afford it.

Unfortunately, San Francisco is becoming less the egalitarian and more a habitat for these Farina types.  I unconditionally love San Francisco, but for many reasons including the one above, I would prefer to live elsewhere after college.

Anyway, the food was good.  Afterwards, Ninang Reggie and I bought some ice cream at Bi-Rite, but not before waiting in line for a good thirty minutes in the shivering cold.  After a certain length of time, waiting for something guarantees, if not increases, its enjoyment.  I had a cone of 1) malted vanilla with peanut brittle and 2) toasted banana.

Journal Entry: August 12, 2010

"Well, Mr. Antichrist, that's all for the present." - The Stranger, Albert Camus

I had two pieces of bread this morning.  What happened yesterday?

Yesterday, I woke up multiple times, from both naps and maladjusted sleep cycles.  Each time was a different but familiar scenery of my Philippines: Lola Pat's house, Lola's home in Cavite, my dad's apartment.  Right now, I'm sitting on my dad's couch.  It is probably ten o'clock in the morning.

I had never eaten so many meals as I did yesterday.  Sometimes, I was proud.  For example, I had balut for the first time.  I picked out the pieces: first the yolk, then some other gooey stuff, and finally all that remained was the duck embryo.  You could see its eyes, beak, and claws, all in all a feeble sight.  When it came time to eat the actual creature, it was not the familiar taste of duck.  In fact it tasted like nothing at all, except for the sale and vinegar used for flavoring.

My friend Courtney is vegan.  By virtue of not being the killer of the animal, she chooses not to eat meat.  So conversely, if she elected to kill an animal for sustenance, she would eat it.  Got it?  Good.  All right back to the somewhat present - I had in my hand a fertilized egg of a duck.  It was hot to the touch.  I suppose in all of the animal kingdom, a harmless waterfowl embryo must be the easiest to kill.  Technically, I didn't kill it; the man who heated the egg must have done the job, but eating the duck straight from the cracked eggshell  was the closest I've been to taking the middleman out.  So, for now, I am justified.

But I still feel disgusted.  Not at the time, no.  I was glad to eat a uniquely Filipino delicacy, if you can call it one.  Another check on the bucket list.  But "Was it really necessary?"  All right.  It didn't even taste good.  It didn't even taste like anything, just, well, faintly crunchy.

"What's the point?" is another form of the question, and I'm aware that asking this question (for me) ends up in a sorry nihilism that can piss away a whole day, but truthfully I had the equivalent of five meals yesterday.  Thinking myself a hobbit imbued (Edit: I am embarrassed by this sentence!  Imbued was the wrong verb, but I can't think of a better one.) me no solace.  Was it for sustenance?  Not really.  Taste?  No.  Curiosity?  Yes.  Add a little bit of questionable cultural approval, and you can maybe see why I still feel queasy.

Eating that duck challenged my reasons for not being vegetarian anymore.  I wasn't asked to eat it, and my refusal would have offended no one, culturally speaking.  For some inexplicable reason, I am pretty sure I felt better as a vegetarian.  Maybe it's the self-righteousness.  I am slowly coming to terms with my omnivorous life.

Journal entry: August 10, 2010

truculent - adj. 1) Feeling or displaying ferocity. 2) pugnacious. 3) aggressively self-assertive.

Is it the tenth?  Not so sure?  I am in the Philippines.  I got the phone call from my parents just yesterday.  Within twenty-four hours, I had packed a week's worth of clothes for the the trip.  I had forgotten extra pants and shoes and socks.  Fortunately, my dad and I are the same size.

More than anything else, I feel the humidity and the pervading smog, best seen from my dad's nine story view of Metro Manila.  It reminds me of every time I arrive in San Francisco at the Monterey Boulevard on-ramp, I lower my side window and take in a nice healthy breath of air.  Once I disembarked from the airplane, I was immediately reminded of that foul smelling sterility I can only associate with Filipino hospitals.  I sit here now in Barangay Bel-Air and can feel the rainy season, the wet air that mitigates the otherwise oppressive heat.

More people here are uniformed in loose-fitting white button-downs and slacks (for men) and 90's styled two pieces (for women).  The evening I returned, I saw an airline stewardess walk boldly through a busy thoroughfare.  We had nearly grazed her, yet both she and my family's driver seemed totally unphased at the time of near impact.  I think about my commute to Davis, and how I'd mutter obscenities under my breath when a driver would get to close for comfort for my rear view.  I am guessing to the average Filipino driver, I would seem unreasonably paranoid.

Behind me our water tank whirs on and off to continue supplying water to my uncle in the shower and the maids who are at work, probably preparing our meals.  I am waiting for my sister to get dressed so we can see my grandmother in Cavite.

It's a quotidian perspective on Filipino life, an outsider's one, definitely.  Everyone comments on the weather.