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Corrosion in the Hyperreal:

A Chronicle of Manic/Panic Attacks, Cyber-related Depression, Real time Observations, Disillusionment, and Occasional notes of Life-Affirming Awe.

Call me a sap.  Call me an anti-everything poser.  Call me a sucker for communal displays of shared happiness…but this makes the hidden girl inside me smile and tear up.  So what if they’re a bunch of rich, happy-go-lucky shmucks showing off their made-for-TV goods?  They’re happy and they know it so why not stop being a snobby hater and just clap our hands?

Want more wedding gayness?  Why, sure!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4-94JhLEiN0

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=irh9darXFs8

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0u1FZhMA88g

…Alright there’s enough corny links for the year.  Time to go back to my dark cell being Miss Anti.

This is what you shall do; Love the earth and sun and the animals, despise riches, give alms to every one that asks, stand up for the stupid and crazy, devote your income and labor to others, hate tyrants, argue not concerning God, have patience and indulgence toward the people, take off your hat to nothing known or unknown or to any man or number of men, go freely with powerful uneducated persons and with the young and with the mothers of families, read these leaves in the open air every season of every year of your life, re-examine all you have been told at school or church or in any book, dismiss whatever insults your own soul, and your very flesh shall be a great poem and have the richest fluency not only in its words but in the silent lines of its lips and face and between the lashes of your eyes and in every motion and joint of your body.

An Excerpt from the Preface of Walt Whitman’s Leaves of Grass

I know I have the best of time and space, and was never
measured and never will be measured.

I tramp a perpetual journey, (come listen all!)
My signs are a rain-proof coat, good shoes, and a staff cut
from the woods,
No friend of mine takes his ease in my chair,
I have no chair, no church, no philosophy,
I lead no man to a dinner-table, library, exchange,
But each man and each woman of you I lead upon a knoll,
My left hand hooking you round the waist,
My right hand pointing to landscapes of continents and the
public road.

Not I, not any one else can travel that road for you,
You must travel it for yourself.

An Excerpt from Walt Whitman’s “Song of Myself”

Lists For When I’m Ungrateful and “Depressed”

Things I Appreciate:

  1. Talking to my boyfriend about anything I have floating around in my squishy, little brain.
  2. Rolling on the ground and squealing like an infantile squirrel with my dogs.
  3. Books.
  4. Writing.
  5. Shady outdoor areas—preferably near trees and urban areas where I can get a glass of wine.
  6. Air Conditioning.
  7. Musical Instruments.
  8. Free Wifi.
  9. Route 11 between Hillcrest and Adams Ave.
  10. Parks.

Things that make me happy:

  1. Animals
  2. Walking
  3. Discovering, exploring, experiencing, and observing
  4. Creative expression, both witnessing and actively creating
  5. Youtube videos of pacific islander tribal dancing (this shit gets me all pumped and ready to punch people in the face while clinging to my island warrior roots)
  6. Road trips
  7. Music
  8. Altruism 
  9. Spontaneous acts of kindness from strangers
  10. Cheese!
  11. Onions!

Artists and their respective works that aided my confidence and development as an individual:

  1. Kathleen Hanna, Ani DiFranco, Melissa Etheridge, Tori Amos, Bjork, Madonna, Joanna Newsome, Tracey Chapman, Patti Smith, Janis Joplin, and all the other big clit-wielding, subversive powerhouse women that make me want to grab my tits and flip off the oppressor(s).  I love them for their sociopolitical involvement, their musical talents, and their various contributions to making pop culture a less toxic cloud for young women of color (or not), of size, of abusive backgrounds, of confusion, of age (or youth), of sexuality, of fluidity, of transgression, and of atypical creeds.  They beautifully led the torch.
  2. Edgar Allen Poe’s “Imp of the Perverse” and “Man of the Crowd”.  Thank you Poe for making me aware of the dark imp of the conscious mind and for being such a jaded crackpot.  You’ve inspired me to counter your pessimism.  Even though I used to worship you, I’ve jumped off your dark bandwagon and made the full conversion to the peace-breathing bumpkins aboard the Whitman wagon.
  3. Walt Whitman’s “Song of Myself” and “Crossing Brooklyn Ferry”.  Thank you Whitman for giving me a contrast to my weak moments when I almost succumb to the darkest depths of shitty humanity.  Your transcendental spirit and radical democracy is refreshing.  Because of you, I’m a hell of a lot less smug.
  4. Alan Ball’s American Beauty, Towelhead, and Six Feet Under.  You’re an amazing director.  Regardless of your academy successes and mainstream appeal, your vision never compromises to fame.
  5. Angela Carter’s “Wolf-Alice”, Passion of New Eve, and “The Tiger’s Bride”.  I have considered getting fur tattooed all over my body because of your work.  Thank you for penning a more promising vision of society and culture.
  6. Yetta Howard’s upper division course in American Literature at SDSU.  Thank you for deviating outside of the canon and giving us kids something worth reading!
  7. Kelly Mayhew’s British Lit course and Jim Miller’s American Lit course at San Diego City College.  First off, you guys have an amazing marriage.  What’s more beautiful than a bridging between body, mind, and soul?  Secondly, your courses and your professorships are of equal high caliber.  Out of every individual that has ever braved the front of a classroom, it’s the two of you that cemented my reasoning for wanting to do the same.  I love what you both do because you both love what you both do.  It’s infectious!

Things to do when life sucks:

  1. Read and write
  2. Blast awesome music
  3. Get on a bus toward anywhere else away from where life seems like it sucks
  4. Ask self why life sucks and attempt to confront it
  5. Consult the companionship of my boyfriend or my dogs or my sister or my parents or my brothers or my blog. YOU’RE NOT ALONE ASSHOLE! 
  6. Exercise
  7. Try to make self laugh but don’t force it
  8. Doodle a short comic detailing what’s nearby 
  9. Avoid excess amounts of ethanol—this only increases the whole “life sucks” feeling.  
  10. Commune with nature
  11. Get off the internet and go skip around like a happy, breathing member of cosmic proportions!
There was a point in time where images like this would make me desire the life of a wanderer.  To an extent, the above image still evokes a sense of wanderlust.  My heart was a treehugger’s ashtray.  A combination of Thoreau, Wordsworth, Emerson, Whitman, and Coleridge in my backpack on top of computerized, high-def photos of nature made me want to shave my head and get high in the nude somewhere in a rainforest.  I wanted to confront life in the barest way.  I wanted to scrape my makeup off, toss the iphone, and walk barefoot in the swampy edens of the earth. 
All of this still sounds very nice—only, I’m much older and aware of my bourgeois romanticism with anything contrary to my privileges as a city dweller.  I longed for the outside when those who actually live in poverty think of me as an idiot for wanting to abandon my glittery pavement.  Many would love to sit in a coffeeshop on a laptop drinking a glass of Chardonnay while in pursuit of a university degree.  What is the nature of desire?  Is it for the unreachable?  The unknowable?  The unrealistic?  I wonder how many indigenous twenty-something year old girls want to trade places with me.
Life gives us ironic moments of clarity.  Maybe I should practice being grateful for the plastic cup I drink from.

There was a point in time where images like this would make me desire the life of a wanderer.  To an extent, the above image still evokes a sense of wanderlust.  My heart was a treehugger’s ashtray.  A combination of Thoreau, Wordsworth, Emerson, Whitman, and Coleridge in my backpack on top of computerized, high-def photos of nature made me want to shave my head and get high in the nude somewhere in a rainforest.  I wanted to confront life in the barest way.  I wanted to scrape my makeup off, toss the iphone, and walk barefoot in the swampy edens of the earth. 

All of this still sounds very nice—only, I’m much older and aware of my bourgeois romanticism with anything contrary to my privileges as a city dweller.  I longed for the outside when those who actually live in poverty think of me as an idiot for wanting to abandon my glittery pavement.  Many would love to sit in a coffeeshop on a laptop drinking a glass of Chardonnay while in pursuit of a university degree.  What is the nature of desire?  Is it for the unreachable?  The unknowable?  The unrealistic?  I wonder how many indigenous twenty-something year old girls want to trade places with me.

Life gives us ironic moments of clarity.  Maybe I should practice being grateful for the plastic cup I drink from.

Anonymous Ego

I recently started following a guy’s blog who I found to be interesting and intelligent.  He writes from this seemingly unpretentious, uncontrived, and discerning voice.  I’ll give the guy credit, he’s smart as fuck but I can’t stop gagging over his incessant need to expand his audience.  He has an open forum question tab where juvenile girl groupies who feign eccentricity/alienation/smarts ask him the dumbest questions related to their puny middle American woes—to which the guy indulges in his trying-not-to-be-flattered tumblr guru pedestal voice.  He has an obnoxiously contradictory presence.  On one end, he claims to be this humble knowledge seeker, but on the other end, he shamelessly advertises his full name along with links that lead to a lengthy site disclaimer where he gives his reasoning for being online (it reads like a loner’s manifesto for the uncool cool club of unhappy adolescents that dominate the online because presenting an intellectual presence alongside flesh and blood people from the offline is too scary).

With all the above in mind, I started to wonder why a smarty pants like Mr. Tumblr Messiah would need the hype surrounding him if he’s so damn smart and I’ve concluded that he’s after one, if not both of two things:

  1. monetization
  2. fandom

Why do I care?  I don’t, really.  But, I can’t help but feel conned reading his posts and seeing traces of his shitty ego plastered all over it.  Unfollow?  I already did.

Consequently, I decided to ask myself why I have a tumblr and why I remain anonymous.  Aside from the three followers who know me in real-time, none of my readership has any clue as to who I am or what I look like.  I use this space for artistic catharsis, escapism, and general time wasting when expressing myself creatively/intelligently is temporarily unavailable offline.  I’m not boasting egoless superiority but I like the idea of art for art’s sake.  I should be able to creatively barf in a space when I need to evacuate inspired contents without seeking audience approval.  Why don’t I get a diary if I’m so cool for not being an attention whore?  Because I’m too lazy to drag my fat hand across diary sheets and I enjoy the benefits of digitally quilting multimedia into a chronicle where I am the author.   

What it boils down to is that I’m here minus the fame and money because I have nothing else better to do and I like being able to store private moments of mind activity.  My tumblr blog is my dark, often sad, often philosophical, but mostly cerebral playground that I don’t have to cement a huge sign with my name in it.

So, to all you online prophets ruling your own little virtual harems while silently hoping some corporate entity gives you money for your “individuality”, keep it up.  It’s your freedom to take advantage of the free press but while you’re basking in your glow, ask yourself who you are in real-time and challenge yourself to interact with the “idiots” next to you.  I bet they’re happier and much more confident than you are as you sit behind a screen wondering why your offline persona can’t match up with the charisma of those you sneer.

Idealistic personas cultivated before a medium of pseudo interaction.

Logging into the void, inspired rants are fired into obscurity.

Glimpses of potential build and crash like waves against the shore, receding back into an ocean of anxiety.

Preferring simulation before sensation, surrendering to hesitation.

Hiding from others, hiding from yourself.

Where are you and how did you get here?

Unveil denial.

Burn and heal.

Resume your relationship with Reality.

“Log Off” by Paul John Moscatello

But there’s a bad man in everyone
No matter who we are
There’s a rapist and a Nazi living in our tiny hearts
Child pornographers and cannibals, and politicians too
There’s someone in your head waiting to fucking strangle you.

"People II: The Reckoning" — Andrew Jackson Jihad

My mind goes blank when I need it to process things that most normal people instinctively react to.  Instead, I settle with looking nowhere.  Maybe I’ll have better luck if I see some poor son of a bitch who has it worse than my privileged stuck-up ass.
Demons turn my tears into cold ambivalence while my lips belch out sentiments of apathy.  
I’m afraid I can’t carry my face.  
It’s too heavy.  

My mind goes blank when I need it to process things that most normal people instinctively react to.  Instead, I settle with looking nowhere.  Maybe I’ll have better luck if I see some poor son of a bitch who has it worse than my privileged stuck-up ass.

Demons turn my tears into cold ambivalence while my lips belch out sentiments of apathy.  

I’m afraid I can’t carry my face.  

It’s too heavy.  

From puberty on, I felt like me and my friends were always running. From abusive dads, men on the streets, abusive boyfriends, or even from mean things men would say to us that got stuck in our heads. But running meant we thought we were worth saving for the right one.

Kathleen Hanna