for me

flowers for me, originally uploaded by prettyjjbean.

just about the nicest thing anyone has written about me...now i've got warm fuzzy feelings that will last me throughout the day, which is a wonderful comfort for a thursday.

dilemna

guess what i finally bought today?, originally uploaded by prettyjjbean.

what happens one has absolutely nothing to say?

i spent the day bottled up at work...speaking hardly more than 100 words in a period of 8.5 hours. the most i talked all day was when receiving a phone call from an old friend in california who just rang to tell me of a memory that was stashed in a box of his.

perhaps that is why i feel like exploding now with words and my mind is racing with thoughts...but for some reason i can't get them out. there is no one to talk to, and my blog seems like a blank face with whom i just do not feel like conversating with tonite.

so, i don't want to talk...and yet, i somehow miss the sound of my own voice.

"all that is solid melts into air"

i'm sitting here, waiting patiently (for once) for the pages to load so i can blog, and write and reflect on the day. i have time while the pages boot, to catch up on the lives of others, and it makes me happy to know that i am not the only one writing (thank you eric & isabelle). as the circle goes round and round, marking internet-time-gone-by, i turn my head to stretch my neck out which is slightly out of whack from another survived monday at work (woohoo! that makes 3 now!)...my eyesight focuses on a book which i have yet to still read. "all that is solid melts into air" by marshall berman.

i know very little what this book is actually about, but the phrase draws my mind to other places. i've just been thinking: what shall i write? what was important to me today? what did i see that struck a chord? what are the things i need remember?

the things which were so solid for me just hours ago, have now all melted into the thin, thin air.

if i did not write it here...right now...at this very moment...that last friday i witnessed a couple so in love on the subway that made my heart jump and giggle for joy, would i remember how the sparkle in her eyes died as soon as he left her two stops before she herself left me? *a pause to smile and imprint their smiling eyes and squeezed hands that was so vivid*

it is not only memorable moments which dissipate with time. i look back and remember motivations, goals, aspirations that i once considered so dear, so solid in this case...those too have melted into the thin. yes, there are certain dreams which have sustained throughout (perhaps the most strong of cases my desire to pursue a knowledge of what architecture is)...

but it would require much more careful thought to understand where and why those deviations have occurred, when was the moment they turned from a solid thing into air. did it take a long time? or was it instantaneous?

anyhow, the point of all this was: whatever i thought was important and worthwhile of the day, whatever list i was going to put here for me to remember to do, it all seems without meaning as my mind wanders towards the pillow and dreamland. i myself long to be caught up into the clouds and dream of being thin...

*poke*poke*

*poke*poke*, originally uploaded by prettyjjbean.

he sat behind me me on the couch, not more than 6 feet away. he was intent on his laptop. i was intent on my blog catching-up. the yellow high-lighter, and yellow post-it caught my attention, and from the silence i wanted to say hello in a cutsie, creative way. therefore...the howdy via yellow post-it. i spun aroun in my orange chair and flashed its message his way. he smiled, and emitted a small chuckle. i spun back around, and smiled and chuckled myself.

silliness is important. it is what keeps us sane. it is what keeps us smiling. it is what keeps the mood light and free, open even. if we cannot laugh at silly noises made at otherwise inopportune times, or giggle at crunchy bone-cracking, then there exists no fun, no games. without fun or games, we would live in an extremely bleak and dull world. who says that just because we are "grown up", with "real jobs", living a "mature" life that our mouths are forbidden to crack upwards.

let the funny noises ensue and allow the bone-cracking to persist. it is these moments that i will remember fondly. in turn, it will be these memories that will make me laugh once more even when i am old and grey.

make-up post #2 (for 09.23.06)

where are you going?, originally uploaded by prettyjjbean.

as an attempt to give myself a good creative project, plus have something to post on my website, i've decided to make a map that shows all the places i've been/lived/worked (him too)...this is the beginnings of that list...i'll need to wrack my brain to remember those childhood road/plane-trips. but i'm excited that it will give me a chance to talk with mom & dad about all the places we've traveled. it will also be a good opportunity for me to ponder all those places that i have yet to visit and explore. i'm getting that 4 month itch to get on a plane and go somewhere, to see something new...i know, i know...i've just moved to new york and that should be enough new....but i crave adventure requiring more than just a subway ride.

make-up post #1 (for 09.22.06)

THINK-ACT-REFLECT, originally uploaded by prettyjjbean.

the internet has been down and out, just like the L train, this weekend. thus the behind, and lack of posts. in my attempt to make it up, i thought that i would take a few little snippets from my moleskine, of thoughts and notes that were profound and important to me.

this first snip, are clips of an idea that relates to making as a way of seeing. this idea has been around along time already, however, at the time of my scribbles, it was my own little revelation of how living a life of making (architecture in this instance) was directly applicable to me.

the first diagram shows this process of think-act-reflect, in a continuous circle...and it is something which can be translated into anything you are doing (making a drawing, writing a letter, preparing a grocery list). the next line in the notes: "too much reflection without action makes me nervous...the same goes for thikning"...hehe, there is so much truth to this, all three must be acting in a balance, neither one can overpower the other.

th remainder of the notes are for those who are nerds like me...there are references to filibert de l'orme's "allegory of the architect" (whose wood engraved prints are just amazing...i was lucky to see a copy of one of the first printed books while in montreal). also, a treatise i think that was entitled "fabrique"/"fabrica" where the frontispiece shows a surgeon holding an arm and in the process of anatomical studies...there is also a note how corbusier's famous sketches/concept of the open hand looks often like there is an eye within the palm itself. his drawings of the open hand, also can be seen as a closed hand. an open hand implies receiving, whereas a closed hand implies a hand of action (think of a hand which holds a tool). it could be conceived then that this hand is not one which is merely open/closed but rather a giving hand. a hand which gives is the union of the open & closed together (recall the process of making, something which created/given by its maker).

ugh...i'm such a dork

blog-a-day-project

this blog-a-day project is going well...i know it's only been three days into it, but i feel confident about pushing myself on this one. i never before have made writing a priority. this place just became a place to record memories or thoughts i had, or a way to encrypt a message to someone else letting them know that i was alive and well. i find by forcing myself to write, i think about the day differently. i am on a search for important things to say...picking apart at every detail around me. i look at the billboard advertisements looking for treasures, mentally record overheard conversations and definitely pay more attention to the things which strike a chord in me.

i've been told by many that i see things much differently than the average human bean. i concoct stories in my head that make what i see into what i feel. these stories often pass from my eyes thru my brain, but are never uttered by my mouth or recorded by my hand. sometimes these stories become evident in my drawings/collages, but in this area i also have been slacking as of late.

this is my own personal kick in the bum to get my creative self moving again...please help to keep me accountable.

song of the day

good mood...feeling productive...slept soundly till the three alarm snooze went off this morning. i woke next to him, who was still sleeping heavily, i touched his hair and kissed his cheek and stared at him for a while before finally getting out of bed to get ready for work. i have real work now at my archi-job and it feels refreshing to come in have something important to do. i've officially hit the two week mark and survived...i almost know everyone's name, and a routine has been settled into...well almost. i've been set up with my own personal phone line. they've set up architectural desktop on my computer specifically for a project i will begin working on soon. my desk is becoming full of "stuff"...redlines, trace paper, aerial photos, starbucks coffee cups. my ipod has a home, and i've finally been given a cup for my pens and pencils. all that is lacking is "my essence"...the photo that resides at everyone's cubicle that says their name + photo of their choosing. i've adjusted my chair to it's proper spot, hopefully preventing massive back pain, but it still doesn't fit quite right.

at home my finances seem to be shaping into an order of some sort. finally i'll be able to feel like a responsible adult again, able to pay my own bills, save my own money, think of that exotic vacation that i am dead set on taking next year to somewhere...*sigh*...if all goes well, i'll actually be able to afford toys & luxuries again (new camera & mani/pedi-cures, who could ask for anything more to make this little girl happy?)...ah...reminds me, i need to find taht moleskine at lunch...

i leave you with the happy song for the day, "white shadows" by coldplay. my buttercup of an ipod has been on continual shuffle these days and for some reason as this played, my mood lightened and ears perked at the lyrics...my first song to add to the beginning of a new york soundtrack. three minutes till lunchtime...

When I was a young boy I tried to listen

And I wanna feel like that
Little white shadows - blink and miss them
Part of a system I am

If you ever feel like something's missing
Things you never understand
Little white shadows sparkle and glisten
Part of a system, a plan

All this noise I'm waking up
All this space I'm taking up
All this sound is breaking up

Maybe you'll get what you wanted
Maybe you'll stumble upon it
Everything you ever wanted
In a permanent state

Maybe you'll know when you see it
Maybe if you say it you'll mean it
And when you find it you'll keep it
In a permanent state, a permanent state

When I was a young boy I tried to listen
Don't you wanna feel like that?
You're part of the human race
All of the stars in the outer space
Part of a system, a plan

All this noise I'm waking up
All this space I'm taking up
I cannot hear you're breaking up

Maybe you'll get what you wanted
Maybe you'll stumble upon it
Everything you ever wanted
In a permanent state

Maybe you'll know when you see it
Maybe if you say it you'll mean it
And when you find it you'll keep it
In a permanent state, a permanent state

Swimmin' on a sea of faces
The tide of the human races, oh
An answer now is what I need
See it in the new sun rise and
See it break on your horizon, oh
Come on love stay with me

an attempt to fling myself into the deep, dark, temple lair

Hypnerotomachia Poliphili page,
originally uploaded by Rashomon.

I've been missing this place of writing lately. I've had the yearning to let my fingers flow, to let my mind ramble on as it so often does, to open up and share the things that are continually getting stored and buried inside of me. I blame it on the change, on my laziness, on my "falling into a routine". I blame it on being happy and content, and for the first time in a long time, being able to let my guard down and breathe a deep breath of New York grime.

As most of you know, I've begun working my new job, decidedly finished with school, moved to a new city, settled with a new boy (well not so new I suppose, it's been 2 New Year's now since we exchanged first glances), finally found a place for most everything in the apartment (there still remain a few boxes with stragglers searching for their place to be).

I wish I could say I miss my friends, I miss my old life, I miss something...but I don't. Although I am not beaming with joy yet (the noises and the mass amounts of people are taking time to grow accustomed to), I find myself not at all longing for any of the last five years in that place I could never really call home. I leave work now, today for example, with the thought and more importantly, the knowing, that there is someone waiting for me, ready to greet me with a smile, albeit from behind a laptop screen, but there nonetheless. There is a peace in my heart, and the hurt and wounds of years long since past are finally not even on the cusp of being remembered.

*pause*

I'm reading Henry Miller's "The Rosy Crucifiction"...I've merely begun to read Part One entitled "Sexus" but have already found a thousand gems that I find solace in:

"To write, I meditated, must be an act devoid of will. The word, like the deep ocean current, has to float to the surface of its own impulse. A child has no need to write, he is innocent. A man writes to throw off the poison which he has accumulated because of his false way of life. (Note to self: This remind me of a preview we just saw recently which said: New York is the place where people go to be forgiven...this resounded with me, especially while I continued to ponder whether I truly had moved here or not to do just that - be forgiven.) He (back to the writer) is trying to recapture his innocence, yet all he succeeds in doing (by writing) is to innoculate the world with a virus of his disillusionment. No man would set a word down on paper if he had the courage to live out what he believed in. His inspiration is deflected at the source. If it is a world of truth, beauty and magic that he desires to create, why does he put millions of words between himself and the reality of that world? Why does he defer action - unless it be that, like other men, what he really desires is power, fame, success. 'Books are human actions in death,' said Balzac. Yet, having perceived the truth, he deliberately surrendered the angel to the demon which possessed him.

"A writer woos his public just as ignominously as a politician or any other mountebank; he loves to finger the great pulse, to prescribe like a physician, to win a place for himself, to be recognized as a force, to receive the full cup of adulation, even if it be deferred a thousand years. He doesn't want a new world which might be established immediately, because he knows it would never suit him. He wants an impossible world in which he is the uncrowned puppet-ruler dominated by forces utterly beyond his control. He is content to rule insiduously - in the fictive world of symbols - because the very thought of contact with rude and brutal realities frightens him. True, he has a greater grasp of reality than other men, but he makes no effort to impose that higher reality on the world by force of example. He is satisfied just to preach, to drag along in the wake of disasters and catastrophes, a death-croking prophet always without honor, always stoned, always shunned by those who, however unsuited for their tasks, are ready and willing to assume responsibility for the affairs of the world. The truly great writer does not want to write: he wants the world to be a place in which he can live the life of his imagination. The first quivering word he puts to paper is the word of the wounded angel: pain. The process of putting down words is equivalent to giving oneself a narcotic. Observing the growth of a book under his hands, the author swells with delusions of grandeur. 'I too am a conqueror - perhaps the greatest conqueror of all! My day is coming. I will enslave the world - by the magic of words...' Et cetera ad nauseum." (pages 17-18)


I am going to attempt to write everyday, from here on out, whether I have something "worthwhile" or not. I need to get back into my habits that I find a comfort for me, the writing, the drawing. I've been without a proper moleskine to draw in, and I've been without a proper mood to write in. I intend on finding the art store that sells my particular sketchbook, and to forget about trying to find something important to say. I intend to throw myself back into my imagined story life where reality makes itself real for me. I want to share my life of imagination with you so that you can tell me how silly I am, how real I am. The only way that truths or knowledge can become evident, are thru dialogue and conversation with another. And even the most enlightening conversations begin everyday with just a simple hello...In this manner of thinking, why do I continue to believe it necessary to confess some great discovery (i.e. "The world is round.")...

*pause again*

So anyhow, and anyways, here I am, just saying, "Hello."

ownership

new york times (september 16, 2006),
originally uploaded by prettyjjbean.

from "the new york times" on september 16, 2006:

"Who owns memory? Or, perhaps more pertinently, who selects memory? History, it was once said, is what countries try to remember and try to forget. But for humnity that is hardly an adequate formula. The horrors that people would like to forget...are often those that they should remember. for many individual memory is easier than collective memory. And Pierre Levi's suitcase? Well, in a sense, by fighting to secure his own memory, Mr. Levi-Leleu has reinforced the collective memory. He wants to recover his father's suitcase but, in the process, he has also drawn attention to all other suitcases...whose owners will never be known."