Death by Fiction

2008-05-29T21:34:00.000-07:00

Look what I got... :)

Global Colding

2008-03-28T13:27:00.000-07:00

On the eve of April, it snows in the Seattle lowlands.

If anyone has spent any significant time in this city, they would likely know that this is a bizarre event indeed.

I did not take this photo

Life is finally happening...

2008-03-18T17:00:00.000-07:00

After a grueling 4 month wait and plenty of rejection on the way, I woke up this morning to find in my inbox an acceptance letter to the University of Washington's MFA program in fiction. I am honestly still in shock.

That being said, I need to publicly gush for a moment about the goodness of God, and how it seems that he is being extra merciful toward me lately. For the first time in 4 years I don't feel like I am flailing about aimlessly, but finally have some sort of clear direction that life is being permitted to take. This seems to be true for some of you as well. That may seem insignificant to many people, but for those of you with a Cal Poly liberal arts degree I need not explain myself. Life is finally happening.

As of now, until I hear the final word from Irvine, I am more than happy to settle into the idea of a timely return home to the land of my birth in September.

Daylight Savings and Fascism

2008-03-09T11:00:00.001-07:00

We are all slaves to time, to our watches, to these precise little seconds clicking away on the wall. And a thought occurred to me: This is an instrument of fascism. An abstraction based on fear and propaganda meant to control the masses into collective efficient behavior to promote the end of the state.

I ask you-- who controls the time? Who defines it? And yet we all accept this abstraction as immutible fact:

"Excuse me sir, WHAT TIME IS IT?"

"Well, it appears it is 8:04."

"Oh no! I'm late for W8!" (Rushes off, likely exhibiting physiological signs of stress.)

We are all slaves to an abstraction we know nothing about. What's worse is, twice a year, the time is redefined. Emails are sent out from churches on Saturdays reading "Don't forget about the time change." People say cleverly to each other in passing: "Don't forget to SPRING FORWARD!" And everyone rushes about, doing exactly such, terrified that they will somehow forget. There is the ever present fear that someone is watching you when you don't adhere to the fascist state's definition of time. For the soul that dare questions it... well, this can only bring on ridicule and public shame.

"I just woke up"

"Just? Geez, it's 10 o'clock am"

"Well, it feels like nine."

"Ha ha ha"

"Well, who decided it had to be 10 o'clock? I hate these time changes. They don't make any sense."

"Well, you see, hundreds of years ago farmers needed more daylight to plant and harvest their crops, so between March and late October the moved the day forward an hour. So everyone has to observe this. You don't have a choice."

"Well, there are farmers in Indiana and they don't observe a time change."

"They are communists. They do not participate in the perpetuation of the state."

"Oh..." (shaking with fear)

It smacks malodorously of pan-opticon, the modern prison, situated in a circular manner around a guard station with two way mirrors, where one person can at all times view the prisoner but the prisoner can never view the guard.

We all as modern people now live according this mutable abstraction called "time"-- hours and seconds and minutes and locating them and pinpointing them at certain points through out the day. We define it like this: 9:45 or 11:21 or 2:09, and we embrace and except that these symbols
as absolute, they define space and govern all our human rituals, and if one does NOT adhere to them, she is then thusly defined as LAZY, or FLAKY, or a FISH.

Well, in the name of Freedom, I urge you this year to think outside of yourselves. Do not let your life be governed by a series of mutable abstractions you have been deceived to think are absolute.

This year, we must join together, and refuse to observe the time change. Modern Luddites, break thy clocks.

You've done it again, Chairman!

2008-03-05T23:00:00.000-08:00

From an actual article on CNN.com:

WASHINGTON (AP) -- Amid a discussion of trade in 1973, Chinese leader Mao Zedong made what U.S. Secretary of State Henry Kissinger called a novel proposition: sending tens of thousands, even 10 million, Chinese women to the United States.

Chinese leader Mao Zedong, here depicted in an Andy Warhol painting, offered women to the U.S.

"You know, China is a very poor country," Mao said, according to a document released by the State Department's historian office.

"We don't have much. What we have in excess is women. So if you want them we can give a few of those to you, some tens of thousands."

A few minutes later, Mao circled back to the offer. "Do you want our Chinese women?" he asked. "We can give you 10 million."

After Kissinger noted Mao was "improving his offer," the chairman said, "We have too many women. ... They give birth to children and our children are too many."

"It is such a novel proposition," Kissinger replied in his discussion with Mao in Beijing. "We will have to study it."

Merry Christmas, Pervert.

2007-12-23T23:19:00.000-08:00

Today, in Payless Foods grocery store on Whidbey Island, in the bountiful state of Washington, I went shopping for stocking stuffers.
My dad told me "Get us somethin' useful. I dont want anything im gonna hafta throw away. Practical stuff ONLY."
So naturally, I went right to the aisle that has sticky hands you can fling across the room with a flick of the wrist, cap guns, and plastic U.S. and Soviet army men. After grabbing a few of each, I stuck in some dental floss and an Architectural Digest magazine for my brother's Christmas sock. I got in line with the nearest checker, a kind, matronly-looking woman with wire rimmed glasses and a few missing incisors. As she rang up all my little balsa wood airplanes and plastic bubble blowers she addressed me.

"Wuz all this for?" She asked, holding up a packet of army men.

"Stocking stuffers," I said.

"You got some liddle kid at home er somethin?" She asked.

"No. They're for my brother. He's twenty five years old."

"Hm." She smiled, and rung up the magazine. "This fer him?"

"Yeah."

She wrinkled her nose and shrugged."I'd say gittim a Playboy, but we dont carry em no more."

"That's alright," I said. "I think that would probably be a little awkward."

She raised an eyebrow and looked upward, pressing her lips into a thin line. Then she nodded slowly. "Yeahhhh," she said. "Guess yer right. Dint think about that. Welp, merry Chrismiss."

Let this be a lesson to all: Next time you want to buy porn for your relatives as Christmas gifts, don't go to Payless Foods in Freeland, Washington. They don't carry it no more. Merry Christmas, and God Bless Us Every One.

Hipster Haiku

2007-12-10T23:50:00.000-08:00

Today I was online, reading about Cornell's M.F.A. program. I was looking on their list of recent graduates for names I recognized. (Truth be told, I was looking for a name-- anyone-- I could convincingly drop into my statement of intent.) I came across Siobhan Adcock, and I thought to myself Sarah, where have you heard that name? And then I realized it. Ms. Adcock, graduate of the Cornell workshop, authored the affectionate yet sardonic Hipster Haiku.

This is Ms. Adcock's Cover-art. I appreciate the inclusion of the book in the image, which I'm assuming is something by Salinger. Probably Franny and Zooey. The Bike is also important, but would seem more hipster-appropriate if it weren't a beach cruiser but rather a bright red fixed-gear with green wheels. The bike pictured is certainly no Her Majesty the Cannondale, the fair bicycle belonging my dear friend Ribs Garner, once Hipster King of our own little town.

Ribs Garner with room-mate Paul at anonymous
non-vegetarian restaurant somewhere on the I-5 to Portland.

Hipster Haiku is rather self-explanatory. It is a book-length series of Haiku devoted to hipsters everywhere. I thought I would include a few of my favorites here for posterity:

It remains so cold
In the space between my Vans
And footless leggings

Only blazer-clad
Huddled like bees, our hands hold
hand-rolled cigarettes

My bike frame tangles
With yours on the curb outside
Clap Your Hands Say Yeah

Now, for all you my hipster blog-friends, I thought I would try a few of my own:

Dylan Bowes

With tats and mullet
I dance to Eisley and wear
Urban Outfitters

Shea Somma

Fixed-gear surfer boy
Plaigerized a hip band-name
Then did the ball dance

Haley Stocking

Scandinavian
She has brown angular bangs
And purple converse

Paul McCullough

Wardrobe quite austere,
I love philosophy but
Hate Campus Crusade

Eric Campbell Garner

Look at that young man:
Pants like they're painted on and
Carrying a purse

Kyle Wilhelm

I ride a tall bike
To the studio where I
Paint nude self-portraits

Nic Nesbitt

Unique Facial Hair
Eco-friendly, Rides bikes, and
Wears horizontal stripes

Amy Tietz

American but
She can read Hugo in six
Different Languages

Chris Shotwell

Dark-rimmed glasses on,
He listens to Sigur-Ros
And plans green cities

Anna Salamone

Vintage cowgirl boots
I loved Death Cab before you
But now they're not cool

Please feel free to add on. I love you all.

2007-12-03T14:11:00.000-08:00

Today's Lesson in Italian Postmodernism

2007-11-26T15:16:00.000-08:00

From "Travels in Hyper Reality" by Umberto Eco, in reference to the central piece ofarchitecture in our humble town.

"The poor words with which human speech is provided cannot suffice to describe the Madonna Inn. To convey its external appearance, divided into a series of constructions which you reach by way of a filling station carved out of Dolomitic Rock, or through the restaurant, the bar, or the cafeteria, we can only venture some analogies. Let's say that Albert Speer, while leafing through a book of Gaudi, swallowed an overgenerous dose of LSD and began to build a nuptial catacomb for Liza Minelli."

Publish Post
Truer words have ne'er been spoken.

Another Day in Warshington

2007-11-17T22:40:00.000-08:00

Jag Helsker Dag... or however Haley spells it.

Seattle is beautiful. Cold, dark, and heavy, but beautiful. Dad and I went to a game today at the U, and tailgated on Lake Union. Dad's friend Brad made smoked salmon omlettes and bloody marys, which we noshed on in the mud under a tarp. It poured.

We went into the stadium, ate pretzels and drank coffee. The Dogs won, we left. We walked through the quadrangle to the car, past Drumheller fountain and Suzzallo library, and headed north to Whidbey Island, where we ate sloppy joe's and drank cheap merlot in front of the fire. Then I schooled my cousins in the world's longest game of scrabble.

Everyone planning on moving to the city and LA after this year, I recommend a change in plans. Why can't we all migrate north instead?

Just think: weather, water, hip shows, cafe philosophy, and an endless supply of good looking Scandinavian immigrants. What's not to like?

Your thoughts?

GREdiculous, and Thanksgiving Hand Turkeys

2007-11-15T13:10:00.001-08:00

Yes, I know this was the title of an entry in another blog. I thought I might reiterate.

Today I took the GRE. It was 4 hours of total and complete bullshit. I guessed my way through the second set of "quantitative" problems because whenever I see something like this:

k is an integer such that (9)tothethird + 4= k

Column A Column B

The average of the prime factors of k 16

a) quantity column A is bigger
b) quantity column B is bigger
c) quantities are equal
d) the relationship cannot be determine

... My throat starts swelling and I get dizzy and itchy, like I'm going into anaphylactic shock. This happened more than a few times this morning. Halfway through my second math set, i ran out of time and just started guessing C for all remaining questions. Then i breezed through verbal, with time to spare.

So, I got my scores back.

Math was almost 200 pts higher than verbal, and my verbal score was below board for my top school. This does not bode well, and frankly makes absolutely no sense, considering the fatal math allergy and my decent writing and reading skills. I would that my scores were switched, but c'est la vie. Maybe I am destined to a life of mathematics afterall.

Is it too late to change my major?

Additionally, the Third Annual Thanksgiving Feast was Monday night. About thirty Americans and two Swedes came over for dinner. I met the Swedes at Pete's Coffee and invited them along the day before. I did not think they would actually show up. I was wrong. They did show up, wearing extremely hip Scandinavian shoes, carrying a bottle of vodka and a bag of Swedish fish.

<--- Some other extremely hip Scandinavian shoes, at a vintage store in Stockholm.

Like Indians for pilgrims, we showed them how to survive in America, eating turkey, mashed potatoes, and pumpkin pie, and finally how to draw thanksgiving hand turkeys. (In which one traces ones hand and then writes what she is thankful for on each feather, duh.) They found this custom strange, and commented that when they saw American college parties on television, this is not what they had envisioned.

The hand turkeys were hung on the wall. Viktor's turkey stated he is thankful for the following things:

--Vanner (friends)
--Kalifornien (California)
--Musik (Self-explanatory) An example of a thanksgiving hand turkey by Sam:
--Min Syster (My sister)
--Resor (traveling)
--Sommar (summer)
--Varme (Heat)
--Hav (Ocean)

Johanna's said :

--wine
--trees
--music
--Swedish fish
--snus (yeah, I'm not sure either)
--Love
--Family
--American college parties

As for me? I am thankful for Fiskmos, Hokifrila, and Ludefisk.

Oh, and that the GRE is over.

Some Mongrel Thing

2007-11-12T00:35:00.001-08:00

"I find that most people know what a story is until they sit down to write one. Then they find themselves writing a sketch with an essay woven through it, or an essay with a sketch woven through it, or an editorial with a character in it, or a case history with a moral, or some other mongrel thing."

-Flannery O'Connor, Mystery and Manners

This quote, in all its truth, is making me rather cranky.

Today I found myself in the middle of an existential crisis-- the one Dr. Trice, Dr. Steenson, Dr. Cotkin, and Dr. Morris all insisted I would have one day, inevitably. Recently, joy, pleasure, and purpose all drained from my work and disappeared. I postulate this happened after I discovered that my latest pile of fiction is mongrel indeed. It is 19 pages long. It is called "Applesauced." It betrays me with every metaphor and relationship and turn of phrase. Its language is flat and its content perverse. This is my critical writing sample, for grad school. In my hatred for this piece, I had to ask myself: Why do I do what I do? What is the point anyway? Is it all meaningless? Is it only meaningful when it brings me pleasure? Am I that self-centered? To what end am I dooming myself by applying to MFAs?

What if the manuscript, unbeknownst to the author, were good? Would there be meaning then? What if by some fluke it were good enough, for example, to snag her an MFA, and that MFA snagged her publication in some journal, and that publication snagged her a book contract, and a novel was born? With the way I am feeling today, even then I project I would hate every single word that I wrote. And if some reader found meaning in my book, I would merely disrespect her for having such poor taste.

Was it meaningless the whole time, or simply after my loss of joy? Was the loss of joy the catalyst God used to help me realize that its meaningless? (And yes, I still believe in God, who is the only concrete, immutable meaning I see in anything.)

Several years ago, Dr. George Cotkin wrote a book on existentialism in Woody Allen films. He hit 400 hundred pages and realized a fatal flaw in the manuscript: It was full of lies all lies. He didn't believe his own arguments anymore. He was a fraud. In an act of defiance, he threw the only copy of the manuscript into a bonfire. He then turned and wrote Existential America, a most famous, personal, and well-respected work among intellectual historians. This, to me, makes him a bad ass.

Dave Schwartz told me James Joyce gave himself an artists' enema as well, burning all works to clear his mind for the creation of his masterpiece, Ulysses. This, according to my friend Kyle, makes Dr. Cotkin fairly unoriginal. Either way the idea intrigues me.

When I read Nausea last year during my tropical vacation, I tried to imagine what Sartre was feeling, but it failed to resonate with me. Gnashing my teeth at his silly questions, I left the book on the sand, and went to track down a Mai Tai. Hedonism, for all its discontents, is a far more pleasant philosophy for the beach.

I don't know if Jean Paul can help me. I don't know if a bonfire can help me. I'm pretty sure a Mai Tai wouldhelp me, at least for an hour.

For now, I am laying all this to rest. Tomorrow is Thanksgiving. Well, our version anyway. Big questions can wait a few more days to be answered. There's a turkey to make!

Good night. May you find meaning in everything you do this evening.