Mid-way

"So, if I decide to waiver my chance to be one of the hive,
Will I choose water over wine and hold my own and drive?" - Incubus

My thighs don't like me, they've been used to me being very lazy this summer, the run took them for a surprise. Lewiston has been great in showing me how I never want to be in a city like Lewiston again. I get whistled and honked at, guys making inappropriate comments on a near daily basis as though I were a hoochie from a rap video-- more class and respect would perhaps bring the city back to what it once was. Living here is settling for what life is instead of what life can be-- my lack of passion makes me feel asexual.

The Cowan Mill connecting Lewiston to Auburn burned to ashes last week by arson. The atmosphere at the journal was indescribable while it was happening, like any big breaking news story, we were scrambling to it, trying to get an edge, trying to get photos and shoot video.
It's only in the aftermath that we realize, that part of history, the home to thousands of workers during the era where mills made up the industry to a then, up-an-coming town, that driving past the remains of something so historic becomes heartbreaking.
There's also a park surrounding it with a plaque before it with the words, "In Honor of Those Who Served," embedded on the marble. An illustration of five young men donning an outfit from each military unit: army, navy, coast guard, marines, and air force; stood above those words, welcoming people to the twin cities; and now the mill behind them- beside the river and bridge, is no longer.
-Maybe I'm just old school.

On another note, the following was written Tuesday night/ Wednesday morning.

12:52 a.m. July 22

I saw a caterpillar creeping up the badly painted structure of a cheap building. Although with all of its efforts, it still fell into the heater. It gave me a chill. That's what seven weeks of un-vacuumed carpeting brings, what shoes, dead skin and crumbs attract. I watch the bug fall hoping only that it doesn't find its way between my breasts tonight. I find it to be like the white man's adage, the more terrifying, the more intriguing. As we run away from the fire, jokes Chris Rock, they run toward it and the biggest fire attracts the biggest crowd... of white people.

Silly thoughts keep me up tonight, like why didn't I finish writing my story, to why I didn't run, to where this surge of anxiety has suddenly come from.

The story is on the broken desktop and can't be transferred over. It is about a girl stuck in a world of loving three men, three different ways. Conflicted between her goals and the need of her working class, single parent household. A baby of a war vet, the story takes place in the early 90s. I haven't written the middle, I'm dabbling with story lines as I so often do - but somehow my heart tells me that this character, as strong and objective of Ayn Rand character as she is, will end up leaving everyone.

And unlike Rand, I don't know if that'll necessarily help her find herself.

Each of these boys and these girls who I write in the voice of are part of me of course. It would be un-genuine to make them too much stronger, fiercer, wiser.

Begs the question, if I were me, how would I write my life? So I always stop mid-way.

I would never write it with badly painted white walls screeching the sound of silence. Or with each flick of the pencil, and a tissue, another smudge, another detail bring self-portraits to life so I can make Nas' eyes penetrate his thoughts more than my words can penetrate my companion's mind.

And so I stop the story mid-way because fear is a curious and dangerous thing only the white man chases- and my characters cannot be dull as a white wall, as dead as an artist living in her fantasy world.
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He has shaken me with fear so I stopped
My voice recordings of interviews on sex and knives;
on hearts and homelessness
are a recording of a 10-year-old child.
My voice is younger, softer, quieter than I imagine.

He has shaken me with fear so I stopped
Because the prick from unforgiving high heel shoes
leave marks on my soft feet
and makes my back scream in agony

He has shaken me with fear so I stopped
It is all I can do
Approach and it cracks like a bullet racing through a glass window.
Fall back and my hands are up, knees bent down, in a submissive position
with the barrel staring straight at me.

He has shaken me with fear so I stopped.
I'm up at 1:30 a.m., daydreaming.

Dash

"You said I must eat so many lemons 'cause I am so bitter." -Kate Nash

Cute song. In this order: good news, annoyances, and Jeronimo.

Two articles on the front of the Sun's city section today. I believe that's the first time that's happened. The nursing home story was too cute; eight more days in Lewiston, then freedom.

Several smiles and LOL's from a witty facebook companion right when I was feeling a surge in insecurity and sadness last night. I love going back and forth; a competition of intelligence and wit- maybe the awkwardness is starting to ween, but I don't want to speak too soon.

-Annoyances
-My Schwinn bike has a flat tire.
-Once one opens a box of Honey Nut Chex, it's like she wants to finish the whole thing. Thank God I get thirsty from all the sugar they put in it and must stop.... I feel sick.
-Sylvia Plath killed herself by putting her head in an oven. Why are writers so crazy? Lord have mercy. Maybe I should find a new profession.
- Black coffee is a godsend, but it no longer has an effect on me, which is unfortunate.
- The world is full of whinny people. I'm not angry but often I would like to cut the balls off some Asian men. I don't understand how the most unattractive race of men could be so goddamn big headed- their ignorance spreads like wildfire.

Jeronimo
I don't think I'm spelling his name correctly. I read his story in the school's magazine and it almost took my breath away. He went from having nothing to being a Colby grad by his own will and motivation. The exceptions at Colby are where my source of inspiration comes from.

There's very little failure there. To many of these kids, and especially to many of the minority kids like myself who receive scholarships, the option of failing is not on the table. People have invested in us and this is our shot. I'll be a first generation Huynh to graduate; how can I fail? The 'Posse' kids who come from New York public schools, and were a top their classes, and now are, by no uncertain terms, leaders throughout the very intellectual Colby community, is a source of pride.

It's the reason behind why I miss the college when I'm at home; I miss the challenge of being part of a young, intense, intellectual community. When one is away from college, she's sucked back into the reality that there is so much failure in the real world. There are so many people who are homeless or addicted to drugs or working low-wage jobs. At Colby, people who look like me, who were less fortunate than me when they came into the College are exceeding at a spectacular rate. There is still too few of us. There are still 50-60 percent of people fortunate enough to pay full tuition... there is still a lot blindness in a community consisting of people who are disgustingly privileged and refuse to admit and see it. There's a large sector of people who want to go on and indulge in their own privileges.... add more privileges if they can.

The difference about last year as opposed to my freshman year at the institution is knowing that I'm not there to befriend everyone, there's a section of people who help me strive, there's a certain percentage of amazing, focused and goal-oriented people, there's a niche of people who make my life there not only worthwhile but enjoyable.

To see Jeronimo's story and everything that he went through and continues to go through; yet seeing him not veer from his goal, is in one word, astonishing.

Expo

'Sometimes I think this cycle never ends
We slide from top to bottom and we turn and climb again
And it seems by the time I've figured what it's worth
The squeaking of our skin against the steel has gotten worse' - Death Cab for Cutie

Old women, friendship complexities, Saturdays and Men.

Eggs, mushrooms, and black coffee for dinner because I love my abnormal self.

There are parts of working for the journal that, to be completely honest, I absolutely hate. Mainly sitting, I'm almost surprised I'm not obese from doing it 8 hours a day. There are parts of the Sun that I respect but which don't suit me. Mainly, Lewiston is joyless, dry, quiet and somewhat not suited for exciting reporting. So our focus is very local; small festivals, stolen bike stories, minimal school firings. When a citizen has a gripe with a local official, it could make the front page. After all the state is a yawn kind of state for a city girl.

But then there are small stories like "In Need of a Heart" and my foster care story that I was very fortunate to write, and some citizen in a bigger town who may experience the same struggles wouldn't have that type of story written about him. And in a bigger city, I probably wouldn't have gone to a nursing home today to see delightful old women rehearse for sing-along variety show that they're putting on tomorrow. I guess I've begun to live more freely because everyone has only a minute period where they can really live, where they can really drink, where they can really kiss, where they can really party, where they really fuck. As long as those things don't get in the way of one being a good person or being the best one can be, I almost don't understand the conservative point of view.

The women were so delightful, loving there sing alongs, it's definitely a more simple and quiet kind of joy. But they loved it, I loved it because the hearts of old people who have been through so much and have so much wisdom, simply are soft, kind, and non-judgemental. Still seeing them smile and tap their feet to the songs; I could tell that they've lived and they've had their fun. The workers there were delightful, but I feel that nursing homes were an unfortunate, terrible and selfish Western creation. These are people's mothers and fathers who raised them that they're putting away in a home.

The pretty ladies made me feel almost ok that they asked me to work Saturday. It's not the Saturday itself that I take issue with, more so the fact that Lewiston will trap me for 6 straight days. But I've been getting many front pages lately so I'll bite my tongue... or try to.

It's not a My Tien blog unless I mention the opposite sex.... As of late, playing friend to them has been quite a slippery slope. On one hand, I don't want to lose my friends. On the other, when one side likes/flirts with/even hints at liking.... whether on my part or their part, it's inevitable that there would be some sense of guilt or discomfort. The best way I've always seen fit is to cut everything off, often by choosing to disappear out of their lives.

Terrible.

If one is on top of a watery, slippery slope, and she doesn't want to fall, it wouldn't make sense to push. On the other hand my type of reaction solidifies the myth that men and women (if we don't count homosexuality), can't be close friends. As much as I whine and bitch about 'poor me', my reaction (or lack there of) has hurt a number of people. Maybe it's because I'm so god damn picky, (and this is why I understand it the other way around), I can't stand a friend being around me who has ANY type of thoughts about me other than that I'm his buddy. Many friendly male acquaintances but I'm lacking in the male friendship area. It's unfortunate. It's hard to be in a relationship during one's college years. And simply, honestly, men are more real and more fun to hang around then women.

Too many lyrics (ala whining), not enough poetry.

Streams of consciousness usually happen when I'm fed up. They're often terrible (as is the case here)... but since Sarah Verbisky made me smile and made the mellow-drama much less mellow-dramatic... It shall be called. 'Sarah V. is a life-saver.'

Stream of Consciousness

It’s a crazy delusion
I find myself so thirsty
When my body gives off water
I find my heart so dense
When my soul is so empty

I dream the dreams of you
My lover, my friend and protector
Vivid, clear, daring, smoldering, taunting
Brilliant dreams.

But I wake up somewhat confused

My face most emotionless
Is when my breasts whimper
And when my hair grows thinner
And my lips chapped and my teeth chatter

If only the internal could be externally shown
And the heels could break so I could come back to bare ground
And outwit the shadow
Where the body’s drawn like anime
With one broad stroke
When there are lines, and tears, and wrinkles already.

War

We in a need of a second look of the law books
and the whole race dichotomy
Too many rappers, athletes, and actors
But not enough ni##as in NASA
Who give you the latest dances, trends, and fashions
But when it comes to residuals, they look past us' -Nas

War movies are so beautiful and sad, I roll through one after another like it's no deal.

Half way into today's particular movie, I stopped and looked up the listing of fatalities in Iraq and Afghanistan. On the left are how many soldiers had died and what number they were; on the right of the name is the age. 19, 24, 22, 20, 40, 27, 21. I would say around half are around my age 18-24, a point where life is about to begin, the cool jobs, serious relationships, drinking, college, own apartment kind of phase. A phase where these kids with 20 and 21 next to their names will never see.

And me, my psychotic self, would for the first time stroll down that list not looking at the names, but only at the ages.

Because someone said something to an 18-year-old 3 years ago about NC's Fort Bragg or somewhere in Virginia. Maybe. And someone said something about Afghanistan. Maybe. Everytime I saw a 23, my heart stopped a bit and I checked the name. Then onto page 5 and 6, before August of last year I would check for a 22 and breathe a sigh of relief when a certain name wasn't there.

They are truly psychotic moments when one weighs out all the options. Rare, but then again, when one loves watching war movies by herself, almost inevitable.

Looking for a needle in a hay stack- how dumb.

I googled myself for the second time today and I realized how easy it was to find me. Everything about me from this Web site, to my Facebook, to my articles in the Colby Echo, to the numerous articles in the SunJournal, to reunion.com. My address is right there. My age, my viewpoint; every little detail is on the first two pages of the search.

I'm not a secret agent; it doesn't take strenous work to find me. About as much work as it takes to say, "I'm hurt", "I'm going to war", "I'm crazy", "I'm psychotic", "I'm leaving", "I see things people shouldn't see", "I hear things people shouldn't hear".

If there was some news, or something I couldn't bear to hear, either from the streets or from the desert, it would take split seconds to find me, mere minutes to reach me. I know it's the right thing, and he did it for me. And consistently knowing when one is trying to move on is just stupidly hanging onto a string that holds one back.

I'm flirtateous, extremely, I'm having loads of fun, sometimes dating, sometimes not, sometimes playing hard to get, sometimes being an all out blunt bitch, sometimes pretending like I'm dating to make the one I'm falling for jealous. Silly young girl things because I love men. But I live with the fact that I cut the strings; and what happens if he's hurt?

http://www.sunjournal.com/node/27843/

For a Friend

"I'm hearing what you say but I just can't make you sound." -One Republic

Can I sit at this desk for 8 hours each day until I turn 65, writing stories I'm assigned, informing the community about shit I don't care about?

It's a fair question, nothing has ever gotten me passionate, or has grabbed me from the core. "Can I?"... is different than "Should I?". At 21, I don't know yet, the possibility exists that the passionate career choice, man, lifestyle might not always come swinging by as people wish with their delusions.

I can't imagine loving one man. Being in one home. Holding one job. Two years at a lovely campus with lovely people and I have the urge to run again.

I want to live how I want to live in a world that's confined, where everyone else surrenders to not living how they want. It's perpetual and contagious.

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The story was supposed to be about a young man who beats the odds of adversity and becomes a shinning example of youth leadership.

The story is of a young man who is riddled with flaws. He's homeless and troubled and even through his accomplishments, he faces the odds of being judged by the author of his story. A story read by 40,000, I strain not to judge, pretend not to look beyond the surface but it's not a touching, rags to riches story. Lie to myself and omit from the public my own prejudice of a person who I wished I admired, I wished I saw the strength of, he's been through so much, I wish I were impressed, omit that part of the story and positively portray this "success story", the one that sells papers and touches the heart of the public? Or go with the gut feeling that tells me.... the gut feeling that everyone else has.... that this success story is flawed and I don't believe that he'll amount to his aspirations. To me he is troubled, and if in ten years he ends up being nothing... I would've portrayed a success story, a rags to advocate story... of someone who isn't successful.

Put a million ways, I'm a doubter, I'm a realist, I get a layer of my naivety stripped away each year, and I just do not believe until I see the proof in front of me. I've slaved over this story for 4 days, being like an editor and not a person, luring, testing, asking questions out of skepticism. Is that why I like journalism, because I don't trust people at face value?

I'm a contradictory mess, empathetic but often heartless.

If I had seen this boy without talking him, there wouldn't be grounds to judge. However, people have so many imperfections. People say that imperfection makes one special, or unique, they fail to realize that they are talking about imperfection, when perfection is the ultimate goal, and complimenting people on their imperfections is almost like enabling them to settle and not strive for the best.

True, certain imperfection are thrilling. Rarely. But in other times the comforting comes from a place of helplessness and knowing that many imperfections are innate monsters.

I am what I always feared. The practicality of it all. The Republican White Old Man righteous, opinionated mind. Part of it is in me. Part of me believes that following the ABCs, doing what is right, will lead to the ultimate goal and the fault lies within the person who doesn't reach it. Even when everyone knows it's not that simple; the saying is a load of bullshit.

I'd like to believe I'm somewhat democratic or that I'm at least moderate.
It's a nice thought. But I judge so much, and I'm judging the exact people the world is already judging, so forget the word unique.'

I am not Mother Theresa and I am not a believer filled with blind faith.