an open space

cheer up, emo kid

2012-01-03T13:26:00.004-05:00

I used to have a button that said this very phrase, pinned to my backpack freshman year of high school, laughing at the ridiculous and successful attempt society made on basing a scene on exaggerated stereotypes, teenage drama, and sensitivity. Yet, every once in awhile, I need to remind myself to breathe, not take my life so damn seriously, and tell myself when I'm acting like an emo kid. Ha.

+ I have a pretty decent job, related to what I studied, in a time where work is hard to find in our country. And I'm making enough money to pay the bills and then some.
+ I live in a town where I have a few friends around, that is also close enough for weekend trips to other cities that I like, where more friends live.
+ I have a roof over my head, and a bedroom and a space that I like.
+ I have a boyfriend that I like a lot, with a good heart who is responsive when I tell him how I'm feeling.

It's ok…
+ that my job right out of college isn't my dream job. I can always work my way up, transfer after I get enough experience. I have the rest of my life to work and be happy, there really is no rush, right?
+ that my housing situation is a bit messy. It's only temporary.
+ that my boyfriend lives far away and we don't see each other much, or always understand one another. I'm young, and life will be alright no matter the details.

2011-11-29T16:57:00.025-05:00

"Some people look for a beautiful place. Others make a place beautiful." {-Hazrat Inayat Khan}

I realize the older I get, the more I don't know who I am at all.

A designer/illustrator named Karl sits at the desk across from me at work, and when our workspace becomes oddly silent he'll use the whoopie cushion app from his iphone in his pants pocket to mysteriously eject loud farting sounds into the room, and after erupts into laughter. Karl is in his 50s, and I came home from work one day to tell my boyfriend, Tyson, that I appreciate how Karl isn't much more than a overgrown kid, with a balding head and a perverted sense of humor. And we asked ourselves if we'll reach some age where we'll just grow up, thinking of our polite and conservative parents, relatives, professors, etc. "Did my parents ever laugh at a penis joke?" Tyson asked aloud, and we both wondered if one day we'd just roll out of bed, all grown-up and and as serious as trolls, scoffing at pranks and jokes about feces.

But nevermind the non-sequitur comparison of seriousness equalling adulthood, or adulthood equalling knowing who you are. I feel I'm a fairly stable person most of the time. I show up to work on time, I pay my bills on date, I maintain stable friendships without too much drama. But my feelings about life and the future are about as volatile as Walla Walla weather.

And the way my scattered brain all connects these things (quote and work story) is that I have long been on the fence about the idea that contentment equals maturity - knowing your role, knowing which dreams are fluff or worth pursuing. And every other day, I want to live so many different ways, not sure which route is realistic, or more importantly, which route would make me happy: in expensive sadness (yeah, The Kills! if you got that reference, I'm in love with you), married to my work and ambition, all around the fucking globe never stopping to have a home, or simply, with no more money than i'd really need, with a few bicycles hanging in the garage, with meals cooked from farmer's market produce on the table every night at 6 pm, with a husband and mischievous children, with friends who like to play scrabble on a Saturday night. Small instances like flipping through a travel magazine, a phone call that didn't seem to go quite right, or an off-handed and hurtful comment from my father about how my life has taken a rather unfortunate/different path from the plans he made for me in his head, making me violently sway one way or the other.

But I need to breathe, embrace my surroundings, realize that while I may feel occasionally suffocated by overbearing phone calls, condescending remarks, or the redundant 8-5, I live on my own, in my own house. I buy, eat, wear, and travel where I want, and when I take things one day at a time, content without answers, making small choices and smiling at little things, I feel pretty okay, maybe even happy.

[sigh]

I'll end with a quote by Rainer Maria Rilke, because I can never say as eloquently, the things inside my very own heart as someone else can or has.

"I beg you, to have patience with everything unresolved in your heart and to try to love the questions themselves as if they were locked rooms or books written in a very foreign language. Don't search for the answers, which could not be given to you now, because you would not be able to live them. And the point is to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps then, someday far in the future, you will gradually, without even noticing it, live your way into the answer."

friday inspiration : whimsy, oddness, and color

2011-11-18T14:51:00.004-05:00

Iceland, Northern lights = unreal!

2011-11-15T13:53:00.001-05:00

I really love the harp :)

2011-11-15T13:50:00.001-05:00

Got to do a bit of letter press :)

welcome to the working world

2011-07-03T23:12:00.028-04:00

Two weeks ago I started working as a graphic designer at a company called Coffey Communications in Walla Walla. We do hospital marketing and I work in CES (Client Editorial Services) laying out newsletters and magazines for different hospitals and healthcare centers, etc.

A big part of me was elated and relieved to have a stable job related to my major, offered to me before I even graduated, in a place that's cheap to live, close to NW cities I love (Portland and Seattle), and where I have some friends around. Also, the demand for health care promotion doesn't waver much unlike American economics. But the dreamer/idealist/quixote in me was reluctant to accept such an un-wild transition to adulthood, working the 8-5 indoors in a cubicle, where I wouldn't be spending each day worrying about how I'd pay for my next meal from inside of my treehouse. And the silly naive fatalist inside felt doomed for un-excitement, devoid fairy tale endings and anxious twitter-pated stories involving danger or stress or adventure.

But the longer I work here, the more I find the people warm, professional, and hardworking. And the more I find the publications I work on to be meaningful, sensitive, and purposeful. My friend Chelsea got a job in Africa where she was hired to write stories for the newsletters for ADRA. Yet, from what I know from ADRA (which has one of the most selfless, wonderful, and respectable mission statements I've ever heard), she was probably overworked and under-resourced, didn't have enough time to make the stories feel in-depth, and while the idea sounds amazing and heartfelt, I'm sure it wasn't without its sacrifices, frustrations and flaws. And while international stories of world poverty are so important, the less glamorous and often overlooked stories of American ghettos, teenage pregnancy, domestic violence, and fetal alcohol syndrome are so prevalent, right in our own cities and neighborhoods, happening to people we know, see, and most-likely interact with on a daily basis.

A magazine we put out called Winning Health was explained to me by its Art Director named Shara. She explained our demographic: teenage mothers from lower income homes, often minorities. So the layout is simple, the models match accordingly, and the stories are written for people with no higher than a 4th grade reading level. While some of our other publications are geared toward higher income doctors, surgeons, or drug reps, etc. And something hit me there, that what we do is purposeful and intentional, and very humane.

At the desk across from me is another designer named Maureen. She's a runner and has a quote cut out from a page of Runner's World Mag tacked up on the bulletin board behind her desk, reading: "Some people follow their dreams, while others hunt theirs down and beat them mercilessly into submission." And this made me smile, and feel okay that I work the 8-5 and life keeps on going, contradicting the idea I read in an article in 07' about M.I.A. in Resonance mag and never could forget. Or that I'm heartbroken and missing someone in a city away, wanting to fall asleep each night thinking I shouldn't have worked a bit harder to make it work, or learn to believe that everything happens for a reason.

Instead it makes me excited to have a stepping stone, and that maybe after a year or two, I could move to New York, open a publishing company with Emily, or work on an organic farm in South America, and look back and say "SUCKAH! I made it on my own! Not everything is perfect, but I'm damn happy, because this is my life and my story, all on my own." And it's not even close to over. No, not yet.

This year ...

2011-05-05T18:59:00.009-04:00

I've done more mischievous things than ever, and haven't written a single thing down.

I'm not even sure where to start.

ideas brewing

2011-03-12T13:04:00.002-05:00

You like any of these?

an ode to creative living in the Northwest

2011-03-10T13:31:00.004-05:00

HTTP://TRINAYEO.COM/FLANNEL

Battle of the Sellouts

2011-03-07T12:16:00.006-05:00

This is really interesting to me, not the stats themselves, but just that we find this kind of information really important and interesting.

I just read an interview with David Sedaris in Relevant Mag about the difference between living in the United States and living in Europe (because he lived in France, and now lives in England, but he grew up in North Carolina). He said one of the main differences was how common and acceptable it is for us to talk about money. It’s regular small talk in America to discuss occupations, and more specifically, their salaries. But in Europe, nobody talks about that.

I went out to sushi on Friday night with some friends and a few friends of friends, and I almost found myself asking an acquaintance how well his new job paid in comparison to his old one (he’s a nurse, but got his dream job of working in the dark room of an analog camera store). Although he probably wouldn’t have cared, I remembered that article and held my tongue.

Before I die...

2011-03-06T23:20:00.016-05:00

from: http://iartu.blogspot.com or http://www.ignant.de/2011/03/03/before-i-die/

Someone made this art installation in New Orleans, where people can come and write in their own note(s). They even provided chalk! I think that this interactive installment is fun, interesting, and meaningful. I'd like to set one up on my college campus somewhere before the end of the year. I love that the notes are and can be anything: honest, funny, sincere, and most of all, anonymous.

Before I die ....
Before I die I want to find success in a career that feels creative, purposeful, and meaningful.
Before I die I want to be at peace among my doubts and apprehensions.
Before I die I want to love, and love, and love.
Before I die I want to build a treehouse in my backyard.
Before I die I want to enjoy myself.
Before I die I want to backpack the trails of Grande Randonnée in France.
Before I die I want to skydive.
Before I die I want to travel a LOT.

Psalm

2011-03-02T16:36:00.007-05:00

by Reed Whittemore

The Lord feeds some of His prisoners better than others.
It could be said of Him that He is not a just god but an indifferent god.
That He is not to be trusted to reward the righteous and punish the unscrupulous.
That He maketh the poor poorer but is otherwise undependable.

It could be said of Him that it is His school of the germane that produced the
Congressional Record.
That it is His vision of justice that gave us cost accounting.

It could be said of Him that though we walk with Him all the days of our lives we
will never fathom Him
Because He is empty.

These are dark images of our Lord
That make it seem needful for us to pray not unto Him
But ourselves.
But when we do that we find that indeed we are truly lost
And we rush back into the safer fold, impressed by His care for us.

----------------

I first read this poem last year when my friend Brittany lent me Good Poems by Garrison Keilor. I wondered then and I wonder often where Reed was at when he wrote this, and where he is now. If he's agnostic, or bewildered, and the healthy balance of naivety and doubt, honesty, and searching.

plan a, b, or c

2011-01-26T13:09:00.008-05:00

When I'm in a horrible mood, the things that sound like good ideas differ a lot from what would on a normal day.

Lighting things on fire.
Eating lots of things my stomach will regret.
Napping through my classes.
Using my non-existent savings to buy a one way ticket to Amsterdam.

I remember once feeling crappy for a reason that was far from worth it, and calling my friend Scott, wailing on the phone, "Can we just blow some things up?"

We only had an hour before I had to politely smile at a dinner party later that night, which was not enough time to build the elaborate bomb I had hoped. So he dropped everything, and picked me up, just him and a baseball bat and golf club in the trunk of his Subaru. We went to Walmart and just grabbed everything like mad men off the shelves: vegetables, pop cans, melons, and the biggest and messiest fruits we could find. Then we drove out to an empty field, where we proceeded to smash the shit out of everything.

I arrived a few minutes past the hour to my polite dinner obligation, my legs and face splattered in fruit and vegetables, whip cream, and sticky soda syrup.

Everyone gave us strange looks and asked questions, but we never said a word.

easy ...

2011-01-26T12:35:00.002-05:00

[Beauty is] suspiciously easy. The visage of a beautiful woman or a handsome man is so perfect and formalized and it has such an immediate, galvanizing effect on the viewer… I’m very suspicious of that. And the more and more I think it over, I’m kind of interested in the opposite of that - finding meaning and value in ugliness.“

—Sufjan Stevens

vous êtes un étrange une trina, mais c'est pourquoi je vous aime

2010-12-15T12:07:00.015-05:00

I got up at 5 a.m. this morning, hours before the sun came up.

I finished a test at 9 a.m., came home, pulled off my clothes, and got right back in to bed. Here, I’m lying on my back with my keyboard on my lap, my tired eyes glazed over, wondering (for only a fleeting moment), if it will benefit me again later in life to know about Henry VIII. It’s doubtful.

On my walk home from the ad building, I passed by a guy I know through some mutal friends named Tyler, whom I first met at the barn party back on Halloween. While everyone else was dressed like a fireman or a cowboy, he wore a black velvet unitard, boasting unusual tricks like lifting his leg behind his head, and thriving off the attention. My friend Darcy works with him in the theater, telling me once, “I heard he’s an actual contortionist, and his parents made him come to college so he wouldn’t join the circus.”

And as I stood at the crosswalk, hitting the silver button again and again, waving at him from a distance, I hoped so much in that moment that life would take me somewhere unconventional, to a ridiculous job that few others could have, and most would never appreciate. Like design sets where robots wrestle bears, write about esoteric hobbies (that we’re half ashamed we care about), or become a Thai boxer in Bangkok. And when/if my name comes up in random conversation, they’ll say, “I remember Trina Yeo, I can’t say I know her well, but she certainly never seemed boring …”

Shelby.

2010-09-20T01:31:00.011-04:00

When I was 7 years old, we got our first dog, Shelby. She was a year old Keeshond, an energetic pup who jumped on us, begged for our food, and pooped in the living room. We couldn't love her more!

Google tells us the average Keeshond lives 12-14 years, but 15 years later, Shelby's still here.

In the last year, she's become very fragile. She now has terrible arthritis. When she once used to drag us around our neighborhood block, it now takes her over an hour to walk the half mile loop. Her fluffy tale, once wagging and curled tightly onto her back, now droops down towards the ground as she limps around the house. And when she used to run across the entire house the minute anyone accidentally dropped food on the floor, she now can hardly see nor smell food only a few feet in front of her face.

I came home late Thursday night to my mom crying on the floor of the garage, holding Shelby's wet panting body in her arms. While puppy Shelb used to scramble and fuss in the bath, this time she held still, her tired eyes whiting with cataracts. Her arms and legs collapsed in the tub, and she just laid there, helplessly.

I grew up with this pet being a part of our family. Our goldfish came and went, down the toilet and out of our memories, but Shelby was always there. Even as a animal, she put off a laid-back, silly, and free-spirited vibe, where people use to tell us that she somehow fit our family so well. Something about seeing her so fragile feels unnerving and violating.

You don't have to be a spiritual or religious person to know or believe that death is a natural part of the cycle of life. But often times, even when they tell us the timing is "right", we just aren't ready for it.

lately

2010-09-13T20:46:00.007-04:00

I just read in ReadyMade Mag that, contrary to popular belief, the magazine industry is flourishing. Even with youth’s current fascination with technological social media, such as Twitter, Facebook, and Youtube (and the Newspaper industry tanking), magazine readership and subscription sales have actually increased. Young people make their own Youtube videos, upkeep their Facebook page at constant, and subscribe to their own favorite magazines via web.

I love the fast-paced culture of entertainment, media, and magazines, therefore I’ve been planning my senior project: a prototype culture magazine about creative living in the Pacific Northwest. Been trying to think of a good name! Any suggestions?

Our latest idea is: Flannel —- like a down-to-earth/Seattle grunge/farmer version of Nylon?

I’d love for any and all of you guys to contribute, if you’re willing and/or interested. I want the stories to be relevant, whimsical, funny, practical, and smart. You don’t even have to write a story or provide any artwork, but just, as a consumer of creative culture, pitch me a story idea, and i’ll make it happen!

Like
+ buying local
+ tips on easy vegan living
+ ugly art collecting (the horribly wonderful)
+ oregon coast surf spots
+ the best social and cultural documentaries
+ the weekend guide : a saturday well-spent in Portland or Seattle
+ pros and cons of derelict couture
+ the best of northwest street food
+ biking portland
+ DIY ideas
+ NW local artists
+ or anything else you got!

Lakes

2010-09-03T20:53:00.019-04:00

When I was a preteen, my cool older brother was into the local punk rock scene. It was pretty small in my little beach town of Pismo Beach. But we still managed to get ourselves pumped up and thrash around empty Rec centers, and still have blood stains on old t-shirts from being punched in the face to prove it. I wore studded belts and pink converse shoes and let my long black bangs hang over my eyes. This phase didn't last long, but it was real, alright.

One of our favorite local bands was Watashi Wa, which meant "I am" in Japanese. Who went softer as each album passed. I still have a hoodie from when their album "The Love of Life" came out on Tooth and Nail. My brother took their album to boarding school in WA, and being as strangely offbeat and charismatic as he is, got all his friends stoked about it. More than a decade later, and with a few genre shifts, they're still making wonderful music.

Last night Amy and I went to their CD release party. Split up into different bands, the former lead singer Seth Roberts, is now fronting a band named Lakes.

During setup, we laughed as we discussed our wondering about if our childhood crushes and infatuations would resurface as we would watch him onstage. And he was very much the same as he was a decade ago, warm, funny, passionate, and unassuming. Their music was a bit darker this time, twinged with a more bluegrass feel, and Roberts was pitchier than I've heard him since he was 16, he appeared weathered, and almost sad.

But I'm excited to hear their album in its entirety. I think Seth is a wonderful and unique musician, who produces music you can grow up to, sing along with, and dance to.

Weathered or not, I sure smiled a LOT last night.

Lakes - The Agreement from Lakes on Vimeo.

endless summer

2010-08-27T22:33:00.006-04:00

I got home to CA a few days ago.
I'll be here until late September.

I mostly lay around the house, bake muffins, watch tv shows on HBO via the internet, and read books from the library.

I won't even begin to pretend that I'm exciting.

1. I spend a tremendous amount of time in the day searching design blogs for whimsical illustrations that most of the population could care less about like this.
2. I get my news from twitter feeds
3. I go to farmer's market with my mother
4. I count my change to buy a cup of coffee
5. I wake up before 9 am, but don't get dressed until someone asks me to run an errand for them

I'm bored, and I'm happy.
Real summer has begun.

people & things currently cracking me up

2010-08-25T16:23:00.007-04:00

Jason Schwartzman in Bored to Death on HBO - http://www.megavideo.com/?d=UOS7RK1M

I llloove this book too, Tracy Morgan.

Scott Pilgrim is the nerd girl's dream - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7wd5KEaOtm4

Jason Sudeikis from SNL, as always

Washington D.C.

2010-08-20T09:54:00.006-04:00

New York, I love you.

2010-08-19T10:42:00.011-04:00

New York has been wonderful. Let me tell you.

We went to some really adorable flea markets in Williamsburg, where I wouldn't mind ending up living in.

(Here's proof).

Went to hear music.

And even ventured out to Pratt Institute (which is an art institute in which I have contemplated going to Grad School), which was pretty shut down when we showed up to campus. Luckily, a couple of painting students on their skateboards were trying to go to the library, and showed us their studio space.

And their sculpture garden.

We walked around the city at night.

Ate food in West Village.

We also went to Central Park.

Saw the John Lennon memorial, and went outside of Yoko's apartment building.

Went to the Union Square Green Market, which turned out to be quite a bit smaller than I thought it was going to be.

And just chilled at coffee shops, played a little chess, and enjoyed the city.

what's next

2010-08-12T18:14:00.003-04:00

It was the last day of my internship today, and I'm exhausted. I'm trying to pack my belongings and put the heaviest things in a box to ship home, so I won't have to carry all that weight with me when I spend next week in New York and D.C. Jenny's flying in on Saturday, and I made a list of all things I want to see.

Expect a crapload of photos soon!

food poisoning

2010-08-07T15:06:00.019-04:00

It's my last weekend in New Haven, and I've spent most of the day throwing up my breakfast, drinking hot jasmine tea, watching YouTube videos, and looking online for the cheapest bus fare to D.C . This is the prettiest Elvis cover I've ever heard.

After decadent dessert w Nicole last night, I was tossing and turning until 3 am last night. Marilyn picked all of the interns just before 11am, and brought us to a farewell brunch with Kathy at a place called Bella's. Unfortunately, E.G. White taught me not to eat bacon, and she means it. It doesn't taste great the second time around. TMI!

I can't believe I only have one week left! I will honestly say am I relieved to be returning home so soon, excited to laze around on the beach, see my parents, and read anything I please. New Haven is nice, but it isn't home.

I have to little to say, only because I almost have too much to share, and trying to sort it all out in my head starts to make me feel a bit dizzy. It's exciting and humbling to get a glimpse of what the future could be like.

To make this post more exciting, I'll post my favorite photos of the week.

by Simon Filip, if I had poles for legs, I would wear socks like this too

by Lenaah, I'm pretty sure she can't play a single note on that instrument, but I still love it

by The Selby, a tea and tofu taco stand in Rockaway Beach I want to go to next week when I'm in NY, woohoo!

My Summer in Lists

2010-08-05T15:22:00.012-04:00

Best summer music -
1. Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros - ignore pretentious pitchfork reviews, this band makes you want to crap sunshine
2. The Roots - hip hop for the sad and the thinkers
3. Jenny and Johnny - Jenny Lewis is back, with warm chord anthems and cynical lyrics
4. Arcade Fire - 'The Suburbs' is offered in its entirely on npr.org
5. Rooney - just saw them play at this bar down the street, feel good summer music that the masses never appreciate

Best summer food -
1. $5 monday burger nights at Heirloom
2. new haven thin crust pizza
3. the cupcake truck
4. mamoun's Mediterranean pitas
5. Miya's experimental sushi

Best netflix summer movies on instant watch
1. Girl with the Dragon Tattoo - best selling novel made-movie in Swedish, dark, intelligent, surprising
2. Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs - the most adorable, inventive children story ever, + Bill Hader = love
3. Paper Heart - it's refreshing to see someone as warm and weird as Charlene Yi in American comedy
4. The Royal Tenembaums - Wes Anderson's best
5. Eternal Sunshine of a Spotless Mind - always a classic, with such inventive cinematography

Best Netflix tv shows on instant watch
1. 30 Rock - the best comedy sitcom ever
2. Hey Arnold! - makes me nostalgic for my childhood, embraces the culture of inner city youth, ethnic diversity, heist, poverty, and freeing animals from the zoo
3. Saturday Night Live - I could waste my 20s away completely entertained with the enormity of the instant watch SNL library
4. Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip - I can tell why this show never got popular, people don't care how television is made, they just want to watch it, however I still l love it
5. Arrested Development - all 3 seasons, woohoo!

Best NH places to unwind
1. 3rd floor of the Yale Art Gallery - the modern art section, its nice and quiet up there
2. JoJo's - best latte I've had in the east
3. Blue State Coffee - always guaranteed to have blaring air conditioning in the east coast humidity, also open late
4. Book Trader Co - the outside deck when the weather is nice, an afternoon well spent
5. Cafe Romeo's - if only it was closer

uninspired

2010-08-03T17:51:00.012-04:00

I've felt a bit uninspired for the last couple of weeks, which is a bit worrisome, in that my livelihood depends on my ability to be creative. What do I do when I hit a creative block? I go home, eat peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, watch episodes of Saturday Night Live online, then complain about it on blogger. Here's all I managed to make today. I'm making a couple more samples, but any thoughts?

a few things

2010-08-01T23:00:00.029-04:00

At the end of the last academic school year, I was feeling quite fidgety. I felt claustrophobic by expectation and tradition and Adventist conservatism. I wanted to define my own borders and have the space to do so. Yet, only one day after moving to Connecticut, settling into my one bedroom apartment, I wandered the city for hours on foot by morning, only to return to an empty apartment by early afternoon, with nothing to do.

A week passed, and I started work. I liked what I saw, what my organization stood for, even the way these people went about solving problems and interacting with one another. But I missed the community of Adventism, of being part of a group that understood my background. I was invited to a Vineyard church that met on Sunday evenings, that was started by the U.S. Prevention & Advocacy Director and her husband at my work. But instead of attending there, I googled the closest address to an Adventist church, and walked just shy of 2 miles to the outskirts of downtown, in the humid heat of America's east, dripping sweat when I arrived at the entrance of the brick church building. It was mostly filled with elderly people, people smiled to themselves, and even awkwardly in my direction, but never a word was spoken to me. We sang hymns lifelessly in the pews, and I found myself slipping out early to join my fellow interns on a bus trip out to beach. The next week I went to the Vineyard church, and found myself preferring this environment much more, a non-denominational community made up of Yale students who sang contemporary worship music.

My days and nights here are quieter than my rowdy college nights, of collective study groups, and midnight trips to Taco Bell. Of blaring music on drives, and staying out past 2 am. But I realize that this might just be part of growing up, in general. College doesn't last forever. Here, I might go out for a late dinner with a few friends, and then come back home, to fall asleep on a couch to a movie playing in the background. I was talking to a friend earlier about how she is mentally preparing herself to be lonely this coming year, as she is graduated and plans on teaching in a foreign country. And while I could, in no way, compare this experience with that of when I lived a year in Cambodia, it is similar in the way that I took a risk, and went to a new place, to experience something different on my own. I stop and think about my days and nights here. And while they are quieter, and maybe even more lonely, I don't feel unhappy. They aren't in any way less fulfilling, and here, doing what I do, they might be even more so. The things I've learned are quite substantial. I find myself hypersensitive to media, anything making light of exploitation or prostitution or corrupt culture and social justice. But ignorance is NOT bliss. I am happy to know these things, and I think they bring about self-betterment.

plans

2010-07-27T12:48:00.013-04:00

I only have a couple of weeks left of my internship, and then I'm going to spend a week traveling around NYC and D.C. with my best friend Jenny, and I'll come home for a few weeks before my last year of University begins. It's all pretty mundane, but for the most part, it's been everything I've expected, and even hoped for.

I know it makes me incredibly nerdy, but I picked up some guide books at the public library, while perusing for Lethem novels and design books. Zagat rates the top 1,350 bars, clubs, and lounges in NYC, which even the worst of them stomps the Walla Walla and San Luis Obispo scene to the ground. I'm stoked to go to hipster music clubs and art bars, horribly themed dives, and wait in hideous lines to get into pretentious new hot spots with rumored celebrity sitings, to maybe even be turned away at the door. I think we'll just invest in some pepper spray and a rape whistle and maybe even one of those tasers, if necessary.

A youth pastor from Albany raised $10,000 for an event that him and his youth group call: Run for Love. It's nice that we're a public charity, but our work is very humanitarian, which is very embraced by the Christian church, but also respected by the atheist and agnostic community. We're not concerned with pushing our beliefs on anyone, but we would like to protect and restore exploited and trafficked children. And you're very welcome to help us. The Run for Love team is running from Albany, NY to New Haven, CT which is 150 miles, in 5 days, 30 miles a day. Some are breaking it up into relays, but Mark, the youth pastor, is running all 150 himself. Amazing. We're having a party for him when he arrives at a restaurant across the street in a few minutes.

Then, at 3pm, Elizabeth and I are going to promote Love146 at the Paramore show on the Honda Civic Tour. Hayley donates a substantial amount to our organization every month. She's amazing! I designed some postcards that we'll hand out at every show for a contest we'll be having. The tour will have a slew of those pop punk bands that are huge at Warp Tour, making me nostalgic for my teen days of black eyeliner, studded belts, jagged bangs and bad highlights.

Gonna be good day.
Best wishes.

the "i'm fun, and i work hard, so please hire me" website

2010-07-23T16:10:00.000-04:00

one four six

2010-07-16T21:22:00.001-04:00

I figured that now is as good as time as any to write about my internship, and that my resistance to write about what actually fills my life is pretty silly.

I've interned, for the last 4 weeks at a international human rights organization called Love146. We are a small non-profit. Last year our budget was about $1.8 million. I know this mostly because they had me write their wikipedia page. Our hired U.S. staff seems to be about 20 people (we have much more international staff and collaborative projects we are always working on), and 4 current interns.

The interns that I work with are some of the most intelligent and driven girls I've ever encountered. And this, I find, is wonderful, because over the past 4 weeks, they've become my friends. After work we go to coffee. On the weekends, we take the bus to the mall and to the park. We do our grocery shopping together. We go out for dinner at least once a week, and there is always our daily lunch. It's a relief, that living in my own apartment for the first time in my life has not been so bad.

My boss, Rob, the president of the organization, is one of the most unique and warm human beings I have ever met. He's tweets probably 10 times a day. He has crazy wiry thinning gray hair that he spikes straight up, and two big tattoos on his forearms. He is a father to 6, and has lectured and taught in over 30 countries on issues of justice, compassion, and human rights. You can hear him talk in the video I posted below.

I share an office with the Creative Director, Desirea, who is soft-spoken, but is also extremely articulate and down-to-earth, a writer and photographer who is married to a musician who opened up for every famous rock band in the 90s, (and John Mayer actually opened for them). Also, in the Comm office, is one of the two graphic designers, Marilyn (the other works long distance from Colorado, and just had to move back home for family reasons), who has the most amazing hipster house on the planet, which looks like it is straight out of DIY/vintage magazine. I'd take pictures of it, but her and her roommates might think that's a bit weird.

So far, I've designed for the fundraising team for some sweepstakes we are doing with Paramore. I've made a bunch of t-shirt samples that Desirea wants to refine, which she said, we'll start selling in our online store. Also, Paramore is rumored to be shooting a commercial for us, where they'll be wearing our clothes, and posting it on their website, which could potentially help raise awareness for our company and boost our sales. I've also done promo projects for some music festival at the end of the month we are promoting at in Colorado, more Paramore stuff, some e-cards, and other projects.

Andrew is in charge of all dealings w/ musicians, athletes, entertainers, etc. , and is in a Van Halen cover band called Van Gaylen. They have a show next Wednesday at Cafe Nine.

We have intern discussions every monday, and staff meetings every Wednesday, where we often discuss different aspects of Social and Restorative Justice, watch documentaries, and get updates on various company projects. The thing I like best about this office, is that our meetings are so open. Everyone's input seems to be equally valued on every level, which shows the insurmountable amount of respect these people have for one another. Maybe it is the fact that our organization is so small, that their isn't the pressure to "know your own role/job" and stay within those boundaries. But this characteristic, I hope never changes, because its flexibility is so refreshing.

Working with an organization like this has been an entirely new experience for me, and thus far, I'm happy doing it.

A rhyme for the summertime

2010-07-11T15:34:00.000-04:00

so many freaks geeks rats
cool cats and fat girls
i'm that kid lounging in my own world
{g.love}

Ways we should get our news . . .

2010-07-05T22:16:00.001-04:00

1. watch the Daily Show
2. Stephen Colbert
3. in a slow jam

New things to look at . . .

2010-07-01T12:54:00.000-04:00

Well, they aren't ALL new, really.
Most of them aren't actually, they're just newly organized. Finally.

Travel Photos: here
Graphic Design: here
Portraits: here
Culture: here

The mystery

2010-06-26T22:15:00.004-04:00

During my internship, I’m staying in a sublet apartment, fully furnished, of a Yale Law student, who is gone for the summer, working somewhere further south.

When I’m home, other than dancing to The Roots in my pajamas, eating ice cream out of the quart-sized container, or watching episodes of 30 Rock on Netflix online, I’ll peruse through the CDs, books, cupboards, etc. of my new apartment, wondering and guessing, only with the stereotypes that go along with certain things we possess, what he might look like.

The fact that I found half-drunken bottles of white wine underneath the TV, cuban cigars, handmade Vodka in the freezer, a signed football poster, pearl earrings in the drawer that a girl might have left when she was over, along with a record player and vinyls by Schubert and Bach, with a magazine clipping stuck on the fridge that says: Make War, Not Love, makes me think he looks like Jack Donaghy.

But then I found a pair of Ray Bans in the drawer, along with CDs by everyone from Obie Trice to Radiohead to Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros, with a cupboard full of Whiskey, and framed prints of Roy Lichtenstein (American pop artist from the 60s), hanging above his bed, which makes me think he looks like this.

But also, the only DVDs he owns are TV show seasons of Futurama, movies with ninjas, or Kurt Russell, which makes me think he could also look like this.

There are no pictures of himself or anyone in his family in his apartment at all, so I'm thoroughly confused. Oh, the mystery.

Pancakes.

2010-04-27T04:30:00.001-04:00

It's funny, and exasperating, our patterns of behavior that come to define us.

Everyday I learn more about myself.

Like . . .
I sleep in horribly inconsistent patterns.
I am wonderful at daydreaming.
I always procrastinate (and the use of superlative is completely valid).

Or . . .
I think pancakes taste best at midnight.
I like to bake chocolate cupcakes in ceramic mugs.
It might be good for me to cut others the occasional bit of slack.

Misgivings

2010-04-17T14:59:00.001-04:00

My senior year of high school, I had a friend named Nick. We all knew Nick. He was funny, outgoing, athletic, and one of the warmest people you’ll ever meet.

My sophomore year at WWU, he was attending a community college in his hometown, and I was working in Cambodia. That winter, he drove on to black ice, and fell into a coma.

I got sent chain emails with updates, prayer chains that extended entirely throughout the American Adventist community, or possibly beyond. Nobody thought he would survive, but he did.

When the accident occurred, I hadn’t seen Nick in 2 years. 2 years after his accident, I saw him hobbling up the stairs, his father holding him beneath his armpits, doing his best to steady those quivering steps.

There and then, I cried.

He spoke for vespers, and afterwards, I approached him, and he smiled at me, the same smile as always. I was relieved. I was scared he wouldn't have remembered me, because he suffered from brain damage in his accident. He spoke deeper, and slower. "Trina," he said, "I haven't seen you in years. It's like you fell off the face of the earth. Where have you been?"

For argumentation class, I am writing a paper on why prostitution should not be legalized. I got a few books from the Library, even went to Whitman, and was overwhelmed with the amount of sources I had to choose from.

Reading them made me feel sick to my stomach.

Reducing any woman to a "cunt" makes my heart hurt.

This world is a dark place.

I think often about the day I went to Toul Sleng prison in Cambodia, a historical museum that once was used to store prisoners, tortured by the KR regime. Near the gate, a beggar took off his hat, and extended it towards me, asking silently for me to spare a bit of money. His face looked as though it had been melted with acid, he was missing an arm, and walked with a severe limp. I looked away so he wouldn’t see me cringe. It wasn’t at him, as much as everything else. He looked like one of those comic book villains, who lives underground, seething and scheming in the sewage tunnels. But this isn’t a summer blockbuster movie, and in the end, nobody applauds when he dies. Instead, he’ll be lucky if anybody even knows.

Because We Are Human.

2010-04-09T12:20:00.000-04:00

Last weekend, a man offered to buy me a drink. The first thing he asked me was if I was over 21, and when I answered "Yes", he put his finger underneath my chin and pulled my face close to his. I turned my face away and his lips brushed the side of my cheek.

"You look young," he said, "Not even 18."

"If I don't even look legal, then why are you offering to buy me drinks?" I asked.

I had a conversation awhile back with some friends, about our cultural progression of sexual orientation, in what is acceptable, and appropriate in modern society. While statistically, it covers a rather low rate of the population, it is generally acceptable in modern society to be homosexual, or is becoming more so. But still, a surprising and horrifying amount of people are attracted to all variations of ages and creatures, from children to animals (zoophilia). I read a statistic that 20% of all pornography is child pornography. Yet these forms of sexual orientation are never talked about, or even acknowledged that they exist.

I just recently accepted an internship for the summer with Love146, a non-profit combating child and human trafficking. I read an article about how much extra money we spend on airfare by doing humanitarian fieldwork (short term mission trips), and that the cost alone for one plane ticket could pay for several children's complete educations. And while this is wasteful, unideal, and somewhat counterproductive, we want to feel emotionally connected and involved in the charity we give and do. And this is not so unreasonable.

This summer, I am going to be only a few blocks from Yale campus, which I hope is full of interesting book stores, libraries, venues, and coffee shops. But also, I'm glad to be living a normal American existence, where I am not flown across the world, away from my family and friends, and/or putting my education on a temporary halt. Yet still, I will be in an environment where I am connected and dedicated to helping solve these social injustices.

I am not saying this to validate or promote my righteous behavior or character. Rather, it is a sigh of relief that when I spend copious amounts of time and money consumed by superficial social networking, coffee, concerts, and clubs, I can take some form of a step towards finding a purpose and balance: that place that makes us seethe and bloom and ache, because we have hearts, and because we are human.

2010-03-31T18:18:00.000-04:00

Although I hope you only find it endearing, I am easily excited about rather silly things.

Like:

Yo Gabba Gabba!

A kids cartoon obviously made by hipsters, where eccentric celebrities give you dance and beatbox lessons. And indie bands tell you via song to form good habits. Chromeo reminds you to wash your hands. The Shins tell you it's okay to try again. Mates of State encourage you to include everybody. And MGMT reminds you that art is everywhere, where they dress up like vikings and travel in a bird-shaped ship and paint the sky. I'm not allowing my children to watch anything else.

Roller Derby

I might just like Ellen Page and Kristin Wiig, and have a secret guilty pleasure of girl-empowered chick flicks, but I loved the movie Whip It! and want to join a roller derby team. I'm tougher than you'd think, roller skates are coming back, and they are pretty bad ass. This is one of Texas's few redeeming qualities.

Thai Boxing

Someday, when I move to Thailand, I'm going to be one of those chicks, in the black leather dress, spewing my beer as I cheer and shout at the ring. Actually, that's a lie, but I'll be at the ring, and I'm hardcore, alright?

2010-03-24T14:42:00.000-04:00

spring break
Sitting in my favorite SLO coffee shop, listening to Massive Attack. I got in to central CA just after midnight last night from Orlando, where I spent the last 5 days with my brother, Ry, and his wife, Monica.

We went climbing, to the art festival, to Cocoa Beach (home of Kelly Slater) and saw Blue Man Group at Universal Studios, which, despite the seared image the name evokes in my mind of Tobias Funke in blue paint and cut-offs (Arrested Development fans, please?!), they still are both bizarre and really amazing.

On Sunday afternoon, it was monsoon weather in FL. Yet, somehow, we still decided to pile metal canoes into the back of Austin's orange truck, and canoe down the river in the middle of a thunderstorm. Lightning + water + metal canoes = a dangerous damn good time. We even tipped the canoe in the first 10 minutes, and had to stop a few times to empty our canoes out with rain water. Nonetheless, Florida is beautiful, gators and all.

Now, I have absolutely no plans at all. Except for working on a t-shirt design for the engineering department, going running with my mom when she gets off work, and remembering to call and text a few friends that I'm now in town. They all have full-time jobs like chumps and respectable college graduates should. So I have the morning free to peruse record and thrift stores and paint my nails in hideous colors, and decide that I still would rather not fix my hair.

Did I mention I got offered an internship in New Haven, CT for Love 146, and have another interview on Thursday with Disaster Accountability Project, where I could be placed either in Brooklyn, NY or DC? Maybe you should plan your summer around mine, and find yourself in the east coast as well? I don't know anyone out there, other than a girl I used to do competitive gymnastics with when I was 12 years old, who is attending Yale. Although, I'm reluctant, because it is likely that her ivy-league self might find my Bohemian disposition rather silly.

I'm both terrified and excited.
Wish me luck.

2010-03-22T21:40:00.000-04:00

I'm not interested in money. I just want to be wonderful.
{Marilyn Monroe}

2010-03-16T16:24:00.000-04:00

Just a few miles from WWU, there is a liberal arts college called Whitman, known to be filled with liberal, granola intellectuals.

After reading some student run publication, called Secession, that is edgy, smart, well-written and also, completely ridiculous, involving stories making fun of hipsters, or defecating in your pants, told in convoluted esoteric dialogue, I instantly became enamored.

Out of sober curiosity, we crashed a party last weekend in one of the grossest frat houses I've ever seen. At 1 a.m., the floor was so wet with beer and puke and sweat, that I kept finding pieces of wet paper and cardboard stuck to my shoes. There was a mural in the basement, and a scoreboard for beer pong written all over the walls. The winner of the night went by Dean Moriarty, Sal's best friend from Kerouac's On the Road, and I just laughed to myself that even their fake drinking game names came from literary figures.

Beside us were some of the best dancers I've ever seen not via youtube, doing those isolation, pop, locks, glides and break moves, creating an uncomfortable moment where I was displeased to be both uncoordinated, and Adventist (conveniently blaming 50% of the reason I can't dance on the fact that I grew up just never doing it).

And I am completely enraptured with this free-spirited and intellectual subculture of grungy hipsters who ride around town on their fixed gears and look like bums on the street, and contemplate Proust in their free time.

I met a guy on Sunday at Whitman Library, named Russ, who told me as I was leaving, that I could and should study at their library anytime. And I left beaming.

More than most things right now, I want to be a Whittie. ♥

1

2010-03-08T16:03:00.001-05:00

Warning
by Jenny Joseph

"When I am an old woman I shall wear purple
With a red hat which doesn't go, and doesn't suit me.
And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves
And satin sandals, and say we've no money for butter.
I shall sit down on the pavement when I'm tired
And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells
And run my stick along the public railings
And make up for the sobriety of my youth.
I shall go out in my slippers in the rain
And pick flowers in other people's gardens
And learn to spit.

You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat
And eat three pounds of sausages at a go
Or only bread and pickle for a week
And hoard pens and pencils and beermats and things in boxes.

But now we must have clothes that keep us dry
And pay our rent and not swear in the street
And set a good example for the children.
We must have friends to dinner and read the papers.

But maybe I ought to practice a little now?
So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised
When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple."

-----------

I first read this poem, when my friend Heather posted it on her blog, writing her own variation. Since then, the idea has inspired us so much, that my friend Brit and I have done our best to write our own applicable variations, of the ways we wish we one day have the courage to be, devoid societal or family obligations. :) Here's mine:

-----------

Warning
by Trina Yeo

When I am an old woman,
I’ll stop brushing my hair for months
and let it air dry slowly in the summer wind,
brown and tangled from too
many afternoons spent in the sun.
I shall spend my allowance on bread and smelly cheese,
white wine, cake, scarves, and new guitars,
and say we’ve no money for TV.
I shall stain my pants with the green of the grass
in the park,
where I’ve spent too long staring at the clouds.
I'll dance, wild and unapologetic,
for friends and strangers,
to make up for the insecurity of my youth.
I'll learn to play new songs
from bands on the street.
And bake tarts with the berries
I picked from inside the neighbor's yard.

I can wear oversized scarves that hide my belly fat,
and gaudy earrings to dress up my unkempt hair.
And eat hot dogs from street vendors for weeks.

But for now, I must show up to work right on time,
attend class, pay the bills, meet all of my deadlines;
cross my legs politely in the pews of the church,
so as not to offend my friends or professors.

But maybe I ought to practice a little now?
So people who know me are not too shocked or surprised.
When suddenly, I am old, and never brush my hair.

2010-03-05T23:16:00.000-05:00

friday afternoons amount to happiness, fatness, and futility
Where I take a nap and then bake boston cream cupcakes with chocolate ganache glaze, and make plans to dance til' morning time.

This is what the weekend is for. To worry about nothing, and smile at everything.

2010-03-02T19:36:00.001-05:00

list making
Why do we second guess our decisions days after we make them? Counting pros and cons on our fingertips like first grade math problems. Because so much of life already consists of adjusting and readjusting, assigning and reassigning, faking, forgetting, and starting over from scratch: when these moments occur, I have the urge to act solely in rashness. I want to take my college savings and book the soonest flight to France. Where I imagine I'll roll jet-lagged into the first coffee shop I see, finding myself agreeable to do things I would be normally be extremely uncomfortable with, like posing nude, throwing my arms up in the air proclaiming, "Hell! Why not?!" for some ragged, Bohemian painter. We'd talk extensively about our life goals and outrageous ideals, then l'd leave his studio, never bothering to hear his last name. In France, I'll stroll around parks and write lists of my favorite gelato shops, what I guess might be in these fantastic pastries, or my favorite park benches where I sit and watch the sunset.

Or instead . . . in Walla Walla, I could sit, exhausted on my bed, eating cupcakes Summer made with white fun-fetti frosting, making lists of simple things that make ordinary life still whimsical, worthwhile, and wonderful.

Like:
1) brunch at T Maccarones with Brit
2) drinking cool water from a mason jar on a hot day
3) spending the afternoon in a treehouse, with my feet dangling over the edge
4) haribo gummy bears
5) folk rock
6) calamansi gelato
7) NPR
8) cozy wine bars
9) swimming in the sea
10) ceramics
11) international street food
12) riding my bike
13) mid-afternoon barbecues
14) open mic
15) open markets
16) polaroids
17) used book stores
18) baking
19) creative film
20) Bohemia

2010-02-28T18:56:00.001-05:00

This is what love is.

Nothing negates a bad night quite like brunch at T Maccs.
With good company, of course.

2010-02-24T13:19:00.001-05:00

restlessness and matted hair
These days, I shower as little as possible, further confirming my brother's accusations of being gross. Yet somehow, I feel beautiful, liberated, and unkempt, hiding behind gaudy earrings and matted hair, oversized scarves, with spandex pants tucked into my boots. Instead of the caffeinated, busy college life, I'd like to sit around all day on the patio, writing poetry, drinking wine, and reveling in silly conversation. Moments occur, when I become mildly concerned, when I succumb to insecurity when I receive perplexed looks for my appearance. But those pass quickly, and I wander from classroom to classroom, taking notes, making plans, meeting deadlines; with a smile on my face, and knots in my hair. Thinking that the meetings will end just after the hour, but I can always be just as happy and unkempt as I make my mind up to be.

2010-02-13T05:10:00.000-05:00

2010-02-07T21:37:00.001-05:00

coffee and cigarettes
Based on a story I'm reluctant to tell, my car smells like coffee and cigarettes.

Though often times I feel entirely too safe and bland, I do occasionally try to make my life sparkle with a bit of artiness. I love a series of short films made by Jim Jarmusch, titled the same: Coffee and Cigarettes, which are mostly of eccentric people conversing in old diners while drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes. Which to me, makes the fact that my seats temporarily smell like wine flavored black and milds feel mildly glamorous.

I'm working on a project for Flash class, which might require a lot of work but could potentially breed one of the projects that I am most proud of. This project includes collecting artwork, writing, photography, or any form of creative medium from all of my friends that can be made into an online magazine. Someone asked me if there was any certain theme, and I felt too scared that the project wouldn't come together in time if my requirements were too specific. And at the same time, I also felt scared responding that if their wasn't, the pieces I would receive would be quality but not cohesive.

We'll see the outcome of an attempt at expression. Earl Nightingale once said, "Your world is a living expression of how you are using and have used your mind." I'm ecstatic to see the way my respectable friends have chosen to use their minds, and catch a glimpse of what that world might be.

I have a feeling it's going to be good. Really good.

2010-02-05T20:49:00.000-05:00

capturing a moment
My fingertips smell like chemicals.

Although it's tedious and time-consuming, it's wonderful to have a required film photography class, with a 3 hour lab, fumbling to wind and unwind my film in the the dark room.

My teacher is horribly rigid, and so I love reading quotes by Ansel Adams, that say things like, "There are no rules for photographs, there are only good photographs.

There is something oddly fascinating and fulfilling about exposing a white sheet of photo paper with light, and then waiting patiently as you slide it into the plastic tub of liquid. For seconds you feel on edge, wondering the outcome, and then before your eyes, it changes. Like magic, over or underexposed, an image develops from nothing.

I love Imogen Cunningham, who went to UW from 1901-06. One of her first photographs was supposedly a nude self-protrait, which she took in an isolated spot on the UW campus with a mail-order camera. And while she established herself as one of the very first professional woman photographers, when asked if photography was a "feminine art", she pertly replied, "No indeed; photography is a matter of individuality, not sex."

2010-02-03T12:33:00.000-05:00

irritations that even chocolate croissants can't cure
I am alone and exasperated in a noisy coffee shop, studying a list of 45 exam terms, required that we write a full paragraph defining each battle and philosopher with dates, details, and a clear explanation of its/his/her historical significance, so my teacher can randomly pick a mere 12 of them, in which we choose to define 5. That eliminates 40 terms that I've spent the last few hours writing lengthy paragraphs on, and digging frantically in my minimal notes for any scrap of useful information. Especially when I work all afternoon in the marketing department, and til' early morning for Collegian. If my blog involved me expressing myself without any sort of filter (which my roommate Emily tells me I still often let too much strain through), I would be calling my college education filthy names that are offensive to women.

2010-02-01T16:36:00.000-05:00

the weekend.
I had the most wonderful weekend.
I went and saw my dad in Portland, and stayed with my cousins and aunt and uncle in Vancouver.
I have the best family, who are thoughtful and smart and sweet.
I love them.

2010-01-27T13:30:00.001-05:00

I cried watching this video yesterday.
It's so sweet and wonderful =).

2010-01-26T16:13:00.001-05:00

EB: And that put paid to it . . . I wonder who first discovered the power of poetry in driving away love?

D: I thought that poetry was the food of love ?

EB: Of a fine stout love, it may. But if it is only a vague inclination I'm convinced one poor sonnet will kill it stone dead.

D: So what do you recommend to encourage affection?

EB: Dancing. . . . even if one's partner is barely tolerable.

2010-01-21T22:31:00.000-05:00

simplicity and solutions
At 5:45 pm, I came home from work to an empty house. By empty, I mean, that both of my roommates were not at home. But the house itself was far from empty. I only had 15 minutes to grab some dinner before my 6pm class, and I put some hot water on the stove to boil some noodles to eat before I had to take off.

I kicked off my shoes, and the living room floor was already cluttered with stray shoes, some with a pair, and others without. The carpet on my bedroom floor was hardly visible, underneath stacks of dirty laundry, power chords, chargers, dresses I decided last minute not to wear, blow-dryers, books, jewelry, and half-empty bottles of hair products. The kitchen sink was overflowing with dishes, plastic tupperware stacked in the fridge with leftovers, and the counter was covered with old mugs of half-drunken coffee. And while I thought we lived rather modestly on noodles and beans, our mess was in excess. We've got junk, and too much of it. We don't need all these things.

Today, I had, what we call "Philosotea", which is something my friend Elise dreamt up once while we were in Powell's books in Portland. A group of us girls get together once a week and drink "tea" and discuss "Philosophy". Elise loves the formality of titles, and couldn't help but "name" us, and while some old guy friends of mine used to joke and call us the "Enlightened Ovaries" club, we enjoy ourselves pretty well, and without too much pretension. Last weekend, WWU had an event called Shelter for Freedom, raising money and awareness to help combat human trafficking, and we discussed different viewpoints on solutions to such a prevalent monstrosity.

Although realizing and discussing things doesn't breed change, winning solutions, or guarantee action, it still is a step forward. We must acknowledge things. Few things are unlearned and truly forgotten.

I don't want my house to be filled with junk and clutter that I don't need.
I don't want to forget that Haiti is the poorest nation in the Western Hemisphere.
I don't want to only be concerned with such a place when it is struck by a natural disaster.
I don't want millions of young women to be trafficked and sold.

I want change.
I want simplicity.
I want a life well-lived.
I want to know how to fix these things.
And courage to do them.

2010-01-21T02:20:00.001-05:00

when they really get to know you, they'll run
put on whatever makes you attractive
if it's not you then do it for
the sake of fashion
your friends like a certain you
that's who you've got to be

i don't like girls the way they are
so shave their legs
and make them look like movie stars
then we can pretend it's natural
{pedro the lion}

I am tired and sad and frustrated that certain circumstantial truths exist, against all my wishing and hoping. I wish that everything was easy and normal, uncomplicated, and wonderful. That everything was beautiful, and nothing hurt.

2010-01-17T06:10:00.001-05:00

Keep Portland weird, please.
My friend Tyson is a bit of a weirdo. Last year, I used to hate the ambiguity of that word. But this year, I've seemed to accept that often times, the leftover words that fit into no other category, can be articulated in no better way than "weird". Tyson was, at one point, the nation's best unicycler. He likes folk, and while his musical taste is impeccable, he loves the cheesy angst of Placebo. He makes belts out of old tires, and is wonderfully resourceful in the most bizarre of ways.

Today, he mapped out all of these odd places he wanted us to see in Portland, and we rode our bikes from place to place, unsuccessfully finding the alien museum, and running out of time to see an old drawing Matt Groening did of Bart Simpson in the concrete when he was still in high school. But we went to the Velveteria, a quirky museum of velvet paintings, which Anthony Bourdain visited once on No Reservations, featuring Anderson Cooper in a speedo, unicorns, naked women, and dozens of Elvis's. We also got lattes from Stumptown, burgers from Deschutes, and of course took our mandatory visit to Powell's books.

After awkward parties, good DJs, ganache brownies at Palio's, and getting pruny skin from sitting in the hot tub for way too long, I'm finally falling asleep, dreading the windy drive back to the double walla, for the busyness of each week to start all over again and again.

2010-01-13T14:17:00.000-05:00

God bless the history that doesn't repeat
More and more this phrase resonates with me: that humanity is not doomed to act upon expectation. We're all subject to change, and in the best of ways.

I am sitting at work, exhausted just thinking about all the things I have to do today. Not that each thing takes an insane amount of focus or intellect, yet they are all tedious tasks in which take time and require attention to detail. And I realize more and more how awful I feel relying on little sleep and extra shots of espresso.

Emerson wrote, "It's not the length of life, it's the depth of life."
I want my heart to be full, useful, joyful, examined, explained.

2010-01-10T03:45:00.000-05:00

this city, that i love
1) Summer loooooooves the Voodoo ( the magic is in the hole? )
2-3) Portland lights
4) Sasha and Emily
5) Stumptown with the wonderful T Hallock

2010-01-05T13:17:00.001-05:00

Let's all buy plane tickets and gggggooooooooo!

Sydney International Food Festival

2010-01-05T00:11:00.000-05:00

Haggard.
Productivity takes a LOT of energy.

PS. I kick arse.
It's been a llllloooooooooooonnnnggg day.

2010-01-03T13:18:00.001-05:00

downtime
It's my last afternoon at home, and I'm sitting alone in my favorite coffee shop.

My parents drove my brother and his wife to the airport in Santa Barbara, but I have enough of my own traveling to do today, so I stayed home, to run a few last minute errands by my lonesome.

I've been staying in a madhouse for the last few days, which is nothing I complain about, anyways. It's nice to have family around. If I had had my own bedroom to sleep in, I would have slept through the noise of my rowdy cousins, and certainly would've missed out on a lot of early morning fun.

Family christmas was wonderful. My suitcase back home is loaded with heavy cookbooks. And my brother bought me brand new climbing gear. I also got a Bodum french press, a telephoto lens, scrabble slam, and new boots.

I'm truly blessed to live with such comfort and joy.
[deep breath] Next quarter is gonna kill me.

2009-12-31T13:36:00.000-05:00

big sur
My brother and his wife are visiting home from Florida, so my family went camping together up north in Big Sur. I have camped here once before, but only have vague memories from childhood. It's the name of a book I started reading by Kerouac and never finished. Not because I didn't like it, but because I had, and still have the bad habit of getting too many books at a time at the library. I remember camping late summer with the Ashburns, and swimming in the river.

The northern CA coast is colder than what I am used to, but it's greener, and more rustic, rugged, and untamed. As we rode in the car, windy roads on the coast that made my stomach feel sick, it looked like videos I'd seen of Ireland.

So beautiful.

We ate well by the fire, biked around, and went climbing and bouldering. It rained in the night, and I woke up cold and achy, smiling underneath the trees.

2009-12-28T01:11:00.001-05:00

nostalgia, and cold, winter beach days
The cure for anything is salt water - sweat, tears, or the sea. {isak dinesen}

♥!

2009-12-26T18:13:00.000-05:00

food and love
One day, if I decide to marry, my husband might be a fat man. If not before, then certainly after.

If we're well off enough to buy proper groceries, I can see myself being gluttonous with the produce, and cheeses, breads, and pastries.

I want to be a baker.
I am still wearing an apron over my black dress.
I made spinach lasagna for lunch.
It was delicious.

I am going to make cranberry coffee cake, and brown butter cornbread muffins with fresh blueberries and apricots, creme fraiche quiche, and red velvet cake.

I am going to eat it and laugh, with flour in my hair, with sugar on my face, with warmth and love in my belly.

2009-12-24T17:56:00.001-05:00

a duty to heal
by pius kamau

Growing up in the grinding poverty of colonial Africa, America was my shining hope. Martin Luther King's nonviolent political struggle made freedom and equality sound like achievable goals. America's ideals filled my head. Someday, I promised myself, I would walk on America's streets.

But, as soon as I set foot in America's hospitals, reality-- and racism--quickly intruded on the ideals. My color and accent set me apart. But in a hospital, I am neither black nor white. I'm a doctor. I believe every patient that I touch deserves the same care and concern from me.

In 1999, I was on-call when a nineteen-year-old patient was brought into the hospital. He was coughing up blood after a car accident. He was a white supremacist, an American Nazi with a swastika tattooed on his chest.

The nurses told me he would not let me me touch him. When I came close to him, he spat on me. In that moment, I wanted no part of him either, but no other physician would take him on. I realized I had to minister to him as best I could.

I talked to him, but he refused to look at me or acknowledge me. He would only speak through the white nurses. Only they could check his body for injury. Only they could touch his tattooed chest.

I still wonder: Was there more that I could have done to make our encounter different of better? Could I have approached him differently? Could I have tried harder to win his trust?

I can only guess his thoughts about me, or the beliefs he lived by. His racism, I think, had little to do with me, personally. And, I want to think it had little to do with America, with the faith of Martin Luther King and other great men whose words I heard back in Africa, and who made me believe in this nation's ideals and equality of freedom.

My hands--my black hands-- have saved many lives. I believe in my duty to heal. I believe all patients, all human beings, are equal, and that I must try to care for everyone, even those who would rather die than consider me their equal.

2009-12-23T03:30:00.000-05:00

awkward situations
Tonight I went to dinner with some friends at Big Sky cafe, which serves food made with only local organic produce, welcoming foodies and smug hipsters and "all natural" hippies and lesbians with unshaven pits and vegan diets.

I walked into the bathroom, and saw a pair of women, mid 30s, pull quickly out of an embrace by the door. As soon as I saw them, one of the women, abashed and bewildered, stumbled into the front of one of two stalls and out of my way. She leaned against the metal door, with an embarrassed look on her face, trying her best to look nonchalant. She stood in the doorway, arms stiff, just looking at me.

"Are you going to use that stall?" I asked.

"Oh, no," she said.

Panicked she leapt back into the center of the bathroom. I walked to the toilet, and then both women slipped into the stall next to me, reserved for the handicapped, and closed the door behind them.

I exited the bathroom as quickly as I could.

Aaawwwkwwwarrd.

2009-12-21T19:28:00.000-05:00

home and other things

good people
I spent all sunday afternoon Christmas shopping for everyone in my family, except for my mother, who was by my side, so I couldn't ruin the surprise. After racking my brain for the perfect present: a trip to the Greek islands (just in my price range!), she told me all she wanted was for me to make a donation to ADRA in her name. We're going to pick out a cause together later this week.

While I'd like a Lomo Diana, a new dress, and countless other things, I remember the Christmas before last where I spent most of my time and stipend perusing the Russian market for fake rolexes and pashmina scarves for my family, and returned back to Cambodia with a suitcase full of books and stuffed animals, and an eager heart to see the looks on my students' faces as I placed a present of each on their desks. Most of them carried these gifts everywhere they went, even until the time I had left, and possibly longer.

Kristin and her entire family are volunteering at a soup kitchen in San Francisco on Christmas morning.

I believe it. I see it. Love is all around.

2009-12-18T02:58:00.000-05:00

she decided to start living the life she imagined
There are plenty of things that I've never done, or rarely do, because I feel uncomfortable, or just haven't gotten around to it, or I haven't had the time to save up for, but I do think would be really wonderful.

Like . . .
Skydiving
Traveling to new places
Blowing things up with nitroglycerin
Waking up often to watch the sunrise
Backpacking across Tibet and Nepal
Going ice camping
Climbing at Smith Rock
Sneaking into Sasquatch
Learning to bake pastries
Playing my music for more people

I drove with Tina, Emily, and Summer to Spokane and back for a concert, and we talked in the car about certain goals we had, far in the future, or even for next week, next quarter, or next year. Things like getting into law school, PA school, art school, getting a job or an apartment in Portland or the East Coast. We talked about hitch-hiking, or driving across the U.S. using only public transportation! And ideas like that tickle my soul, thinking of all the stories you'd have to share, both disappointing and exciting, stimulating, stretching, uncomfortable, and/or liberating. And its moments like these that fill me with contentment: how wonderful people are, and how life is full of possibilities, and how every person could teach you something, if only you let them.

2009-12-13T17:01:00.000-05:00

the empyrean, noah gundersen + the courage

i wouldn't need much of anything, if caroline were mine
Last year, I never felt quite like myself. I was afraid of burning food, or putting the wrong mix of spice, so I never cooked. I was afraid of singing the wrong note, or striking the wrong chord, so I never sang or played guitar. I was afraid of missing a beat or looking silly, so I never danced. I didn't do a lot of things that I really love to do.

This year feels different.

While not every moment is full of contentment and assurance, it is filled with freedom, and the desire for courage.

Open mic night was one of the most fun nights of the quarter.

Yesterday we drove down to Spokane and saw Noah Gundersen and Karli Fairbanks play at the Empyrean. I am a sucker for musicians who love what they do and express themselves well.

I'm starting to feel like myself, and it feels wonderful.

2009-12-10T03:43:00.000-05:00

God bless the history that doesn't repeat
I wrote a song once when my heart was broken. It was a lot like Sark: about sadness and solitude and all the ways in which we try to make ourselves feel better, and once again fill ourselves with hope and peace. The other night, I played it for almost a stranger, in the house of a mutual friend. And the way that he looked at me made me feel frightened, and am very wary of those that might fall for the idea of me.

He expressed that he was very moved, and I felt my insides churn, because I hardly ever feel that vulnerable. Perhaps it helped that he was a stranger, with no knowledge of my background, or stubbornness, or insecurities.

Tonight we set up our basement for an open mic we've been planning for tomorrow night. We moved the couches, made a makeshift stage area, and covered the floor with blankets and cushions, placing dim lamps on the floor, and strings of white lanterns by the ceiling. Emily demands we preface our pieces with brief anecdotes and personal explanations, creating closeness and community in the room. But I wrote a string of songs in the start of the school year that reveal far too much of my unprotected heart, which the Bible shuns. Guard your heart above all things. And opted for a Noah Gundersen cover, that, like Bazan, is effortless and inelegant and achingly profound.

God bless the history that doesn't repeat . . . is a line from Bazan that Alex posted, that fills me with a tingly hope. That we do learn from our mistakes, that we are capable of recovery. That we do struggle, experience discomfort, pain, sadness, grief. But these aren't always permanent, and we're better people for it.

2009-12-07T02:44:00.000-05:00

quirk and its appeal
Tonight, my roommate Emily drug a Christmas tree into the living room that she cut down with her dad this weekend in Spokane. We decorated it with ornaments she purchased that morning from the thrift store: white lights and red bows and plastic strings of icicles that smelled like drugs. There is even one ornament of plastic grapes, and a piece of sheet music folded into a hat, with a gold instrument glued to the front, resting on top, which serves as our star. Its funny and eccentric and beautiful, just like Em.

Em has certain quirks that only she could pull off, which are only endearing and amazing: that she functions with such humor and grace and warmth.

Once she made me lunch, opening a can of vegi links, draining it of its juice and dumping it into an already spinning kitchen aid, made to stir batter for cakes. The dull white blades cut the links in half, tossing them out of the high-lidded bowl. Emily tried catching several, but instead picked them up off the ground as quickly as she could and threw them back in, mixing in relish and onions and mustard. She then spread it onto toasted hot dog buns and drizzled ketchup over top, which is essentially the same ingredients as a normal vegi dog, just a bit more mashed up. We still have a big bowl of boiled carrots and hummus mixed into mush in our refrigerator. She made it as a thanksgiving dish, which didn't do so well in our bowels. And once filled our entire kitchen with smoke, by microwaving a small piece of bread for 3 minutes.

Yet Emily has the amazing gift of sincerity and unpretention, making everyone feel at ease in her presence.
I look at our tree with warmth in my heart. I approve of it, as long as I don't have to eat it.

2009-12-06T02:57:00.000-05:00

oh, that's alright
The dynamic of college relationships and social interactions is quite interesting. I use a word as vague as "interesting" as a copp-out, probably because I'm uncertain of how to properly articulate the complexities of people and relationships.

I was baking a batch of cookies to bring to the second dinner party I planned on attending yesterday evening, and short on ingredients and time, snuck into my neighbors' house, empty with the lights turned off. I know they leave the side door unlocked, so I went in and took two eggs from the refrigerator, ran home and cracked them into the kitchen aid, arriving to both dinners on time.

It might make more sense to explain that my neighbors consist of a house full of boys I befriended in boarding high school. Many of which I was very close to at one point, and have had slow and painless falling outs with over the years due to girlfriends, or gradual changes in values or friend groups. But many of them still invite themselves over for dinner without reservation, and expect me to hem their pants upon request, maintaining a wonderful level of comfort and trust.

Yet familiarity and history doesn't always mean closeness, and the experimentation of forming new relationships has its own advantages and disadvantages.

Yesterday I danced with a boy whom I know through some mutual friends. His hands slid up and down my waist, and when I removed them altogether, he was too distracted with the buzz of consumption to notice or react. He smiled at me, and yelled in my ear, above the blaring music.

"I ask you this question with hesitation . . ." he said.

"What?"

"Do you smoke?" His spoke slow and loud, speech slurring.

I shook my head.

"Do you want to? After this we can leave together, and you can try it. I am so happy that I saw you here."

After politely declining his offer, I arrived home around 2 am, looking at myself in the cracked full-length mirror on my bedroom door. The blue glittery make-up that my friends had applied had smeared on my tired eyes. And I fell into bed, exhausted.

Sometimes I feel all of this pressure to have everything settled and stable and figured out.

I don't think everything happens for a reason, but I do believe that people are the way they are, for a reason. And that the same might go for in a relationship. The dynamic and the level of trust is a direct result of both peoples actions and values, and can be rationalized to reasons, as vague as one person's insecurities, or an unconscious choice or sacrifice one might make for fear of discomfort or avoidance of pain, or love, or security, or commitment.

It's okay to not have all the answers, or maybe to never even have them at all. If I had them now, I might never understand the process. And so the answer in itself would be meaningless.

Life is an adventure. And patience is a virtue.

2009-12-02T14:52:00.000-05:00

put music to our troubles and we'll dance them away
"To dance is to be out of yourself. Larger, more beautiful, more powerful." {Agnes De Mille}

In my house, we think it unwise to suppress ourselves. So whenever someone feels as though they're pent up or broken, we try and think of ways to productively rid ourselves of these feelings. Dancing has proven to be one of those ways. If you've walked by our house the past few nights, you've probably heard the speakers blaring, heavy basslines, warm chords, chick-empowered radio songs, and danceable drum beats. I am going to refrain from explaining what and why, but lately, we've been feelings LOTS of things . . . so we've been dancing A LOT.

You should join us.
I need to make the perfect dance playlist.
Can you help me?

"Please send me your last pair of shoes, worn out with dancing as you mentioned in your letter, so that I might have something to press against my heart. {Johann Wolfgang von Goethe}
(that was for my goof of a roommate EW, she's a nutcase who knows how to shake it, ha ha ha)

2009-11-30T17:32:00.001-05:00

i love ♥
1. falling asleep underneath the stars, after hours of laughter and talk and childish wishing
2. eating street food, and the amusing and spontaneous risk of possibly getting poisoned from a cart in a foreign country
3. the rare pleasure of being included and understood in the pretentious and esoteric world of art and music
4. the silence you experience when awake before sunrise
5. the haste, hustle, and smell of an open marketplace
6. things packaged beautifully
7. film that is creative, equivocal, entertaining, moving, and provokes meaningful thought
8. effortless friendships with firm foundation
9. fighting for a good cause
10. being spontaneous, joyful, filled with light

2009-11-29T14:10:00.000-05:00

safety and self-intervention
My brother wrote a story once in middle school titled Charlie the Chair, personifying the leather chair that seats patients in the dentist office. He used to whisper words of encouragement to my brother as he sat, blurry-eyed and mouth open, syringes uncomfortably poking at his gums. And while that made my brother most uncomfortable, I personally remember, dreading that plastic gummy tube they put over your nose. The one that came in neon colors and attached to cans of nitrous oxide, as the dentist, muted behind his medical mask, told you in hushed tones, to "breathe slowly, and just relax." I would begin to feel light-headed as I struggled to take in breaths, and I remember feeling once as though I had floated outside of my body and was watching myself from up above, laying helpless and indolent, on Charlie's leather exterior.

Sometimes, I metaphorically attempt to look "outside" of myself, at how a close friend might interpret the motive of my actions, or what a stranger might conclude as they observed me from afar. And I think about how often we act according to how we are expected to, rather than how we would like.

Last night Jacob and I stayed at Tyson's house. His roommate Mark was gone away at the coast, but I am always tickled to see what books he is reading, or what music he likes, or what shows he is going to, because the life he seems to live is very purposeful, and full of expression. He shoots a lot of photography, solely manual, with an empty closet in his house serving as a makeshift darkroom. His photo prints litter the house, and I love to thumb through them. This morning he had a book lying on his couch titled: Meetings with Remarkable Trees, which made me laugh, and I loved. And as I stood in the shower, I thought, terrified, about how invisible so many of my actions are, how thoughtless they are, and how motivated they are by lethargy and complacency and safety. Though I might have the same stated values as Mark, I settle and strive little to fulfill these purposes, for excuses like time or money or courage. This struck some innate chord, that I needed to create my own form of proactive self-intervention, because when I observe the history of my actions, and the potential of my heart, I am often pretty uncertain of where I'll end up, and worry about myself a tremendous amount.

Jekyll and Hide surely have it easy. Sometimes the voices in my head become so numerous and dissonant, that I revert to a state of paralysis. But this morning, instead, they stood around me, opening the curtain of the shower, facing me naked and in my most vulnerable state. Some of the voices in my head are full of strength, motivated by love, have been fed and grown by striving after selfless and worthwhile things. And they wrapped around me, much like a memory I have, months ago, of sitting in a crowded hotel room, a planned intervention, expressing concern for another troubled friend.

"Trina," they said," "we worry, we love, we believe . . .".

2009-11-27T01:40:00.000-05:00

evenings at pismo pier

meals
It's a bit ironic, because words like "portion control", and ideas, like eating cake in the middle of the night, are things I worry little about. So a day like today: a national holiday to spend time with family and over-eat guilt-free is something I love to participate in.

Yet, this morning, I ate nothing before putting on my cleats to play flag football with old family friends at VVA, laughing and running myself winded all over the field. I came back home 2 hours later, around 11am, to my grandma cooking in the kitchen, announcing the turkey was almost done roasting in the oven, and thanksgiving lunch was going to be served at 1pm. I hadn't eaten all day and have had problems since birth with asthma/post nasal drip/odd indigestion. So my grandma told me to eat part of a leftover pastrami sandwich left in the fridge, as a "snack". I ate a quarter of it, and threw my guts up, so much so, that towards the end, I felt as though it was straight stomach acid slopping into the toilet bowl; with it also coming out of my nose, finding chunks of food in the tissue as I blew my nose later on. Exhausted, I brushed my teeth, blurry-eyed, and collapsed on the couch and fell asleep, sleeping through thanksgiving dinner.

Despite that sad story, preventing me from eating another big meal, my family biked to the beach, and I made plans for a bonfire with Jason and breakfast with Amy and Nikki at Sally Loooo's, and took these pictures at the pier, and swung on the swings in the cold CA beach air with my mom and Chris and Jacob G. Alane and Mia called on a whim and said they're heading up as we speak, and I love the warmth and company of those who know everything about you, and love you anyways.

2009-11-25T13:58:00.000-05:00

small talk
I'm not busy enough.
I'm not tired enough.
I have too much time to sit around and smile and cry, laugh, breathe, think.
I want there to be no room left in my heart,
brimming with passion and worries, appointments and obligations.
I want to be exhausted.

It's quite known that I'm a bit unconventional.
I don't think I expend much effort to be this way, and can't help it.
"Trina is quite serious and consumed by her studies."
"Trina is getting married, and has stability in her high paying job."
"Trina is paying the mortgage on her house, with a perfectly tended garden, and a pretentious cat."
Do these things sound like me?
They could. But maybe not.

When my family speaks through the grapevine about me.
To my grandparents, or to strangers sitting across from them on the plane. How about this for small talk?
"Trina, just opened an orphanage in Myanmar, and loves what she does with all of her heart."
"Trina moved to South America on a whim."
"Trina wants to better the world in many ways, and I think she can, and she will."
"Trina goes her own way, and we are proud."

2009-11-24T19:47:00.001-05:00

Is this too girly Emily?

these things are true
1. I wish I were more FOB than I am.
2. I'm a doubting Thomas.
3. I can't wait to climb with my bro + Mon over Christmas
4. I wish I were brave and tough enough to take on thai boxing
5. I can kick phil gray's arse
6. I love these photographs
7. I need more projects to be hopeful about, invested in, busy with
8. I love ceramics
9. I can be quite the materialist, and every once in awhile,
have the urge to run away and live in solitude in the SE asian jungle
10. I want to go to an east coast art school
11. I wish my roommates liked fish
12. Jack thinks I'm a hippie
13. I don't read enough
14. I never get tired of sangria and fish tacos
15. I'm tired of uncertainty, and waiting

2009-11-24T02:55:00.000-05:00

paralysis
These days, I am a bit stifled, and not quite my usual self.
I am: mostly, always . . . restless.
In a hurry:
+ to go nowhere
+ to love no one
+ to be filled with purpose and hope

2009-11-22T18:52:00.000-05:00

art and misery
When I was 12 years old I took piano lessons from a woman named Vivian Bryan. Her husband, Mark, was an artist and a carpenter. They owned a house on a hill they made themselves, with property covered with eucalyptus trees and a studio in the back, painted in bright colors. Their house was filled with his furniture: hand-painted table tops and unconventional cabinets and grandfather clocks. Their daughter Hope would let me visit her room if I came early before her mother was ready, and I remember she had a loft in her bedroom, full of books. Their family was always warm and artistic, unconventional, adept, and cultured.

This morning we saw Mark at the beach. He's been a regular at my restaurant for years, coming in with old friends he goes kayaking with at the pier. This time he gave my father a postcard for an art show he has at Steynberg gallery, titled: Hard Times. He explained that he was getting a divorce. And the card that he handed out pictured a modern family sitting around a giant dinner table, gaunt in figure, with skeletons as faces with sinister smiles. The mother was carrying a large platter, with only the bones left of the turkey, as the children leaned in eagerly for her to set it down.

Today, Emily and Amy and I went to Sally Loo's, and after drove over to Steynberg to see his display. His style is very distinct and easily recognizable. Yet being an artist entails being in a state of constant vulnerability, where your heart and insides are always on display. Every piece reeked of satire and cynicism and a deep sadness. And I ached that a man, so brilliant, is so brimming with misery.

2009-11-22T01:07:00.000-05:00

road trip : washifornia

Today, I ripped a hole in my favorite black dress. I was climbing over the fence by the highway, and the edge got caught on the barb of the wire. We climbed over to take pictures of an abandoned yellow train car in an empty field, and Emily and Jacob both had the courage to pick cow pies up off the ground with their bare hands and throw them at both me and each other. I sort of have a phobia of feces, so to me, this was pretty horrifying.

Last night we left College Place around 5pm, and stayed in Roseburg with Neil, whose family manages a hotel in town. They are some of the most hospitable people I’ve ever met, and after arriving after midnight, they let us stay free of charge in a vacant room, and even woke up early to cook us an authentic Indian breakfast.

I am home at last. My house was full when I arrived, with family and old friends who brought trays of sweets, gallons of ice cream, laughter and hands for playing cards. I am exhausted, and in my room with the door shut tight with Emily. The walls are thin and I can hear their voices loud and clear in the next room, but despite the noise, I feel wonderful and warm, like I can finally rest for the first time in awhile.

2009-11-18T16:12:00.000-05:00

Wheels for Wiggins
My friend Abby is wonderful and thoughtful, driven, discerning, critical, and astoundingly intelligent. When she was in High School her older brother fell off the roof of their house, and is now paralyzed. He was the star of the track team, class clown. And now, he's graduated from Gonzaga, bitter and cynical, soaking up as much sympathy as he can obtain. I remember first meeting him. We made small talk in the living room and he asked my major, which at the time, was Occupational Therapy.

"Oh," he said, unintentionally making a face of disapproval as the words fell from my lips.

He paused for a minute, gripping his hands on the wheels of his chair. "Can I give you a word of advice?"

I nodded, apprehensively.

"When you graduate and get a job, treat your patients like they're people. Not just another number, or another appointment."

"I will," I said quietly.

***

Abby gave a sermon for Week of Prayer about doubts, rationalism, and being angry at God. Life is unfair, unjust. Why do these things happen to such undeserving people?

***

One of our brightest math professors, Ken Wiggins, received some sort of injection in which he had an allergic reaction to, leaving him paralyzed. One day, as he was in Tri-Cities at Abby's house, he saw a hand crank bike that belonged to her brother. Wiggins expressed casual interest in the bike, so Abby, president of the Math Club, created a fundraiser event called Wheels for Wiggin, which was a run/walk, raising money to buy him his own bike.

***

I made the poster at the top weeks ago, without knowing the story.
The event had a wonderful turnout.
He wrote this letter to the collegian, and I cried.

It is no secret that WWU students are exceptional in many ways, including the way in which they care for others. It was at first astonishing to me that the Mathematics Club chose me as a project and set about raising money for a handcycle. It was also at first astonishing that anyone would respond to this project in a positive way. But then, as I thought more about this community, I realized that this isn’t at all surprising. Helping others is at the heart of what we are about. Still, I am almost overwhelmed when I think of what was done for me.
If you are curious about these bikes, go to http://bike-on.com/dir/955/files/TopEndForceBrochure08.pdf. The Force G with the upright seat is my choice.
I ordered the bike today, and it should arrive in about 5 weeks. It will be painted dark green, and the Mathematics Club members will be invited to sign the green frame with an orange pen. I don’t want to forget, even for an instant, who provided this bike for me. The bike will become an important part of my fitness program, just as my bicycle was 3 years ago. I wish to thank the club President, Abby Higgins, the club members, and all the others who supported this project!

Ken Wiggins
P.S. Let me know when you want to go for a bike ride!

2009-11-15T02:21:00.000-05:00

Portland
I'm in Portland for the weekend. Ptown is nice. My trunk is finally loaded with my things, boxes of books and scarves and shoes that I left in storage in Vancouver at Andrea's after my accident, so I can finally be warm and clothed and entertained during the double Walla winter.

Phil and I are staying with Tyson. We went to Francis cafe for breakfast because Portland Monthly mag said they had the best biscuits & gravy in the city, and I got chorizo hash with eggs and mozzarella and avocado. Tyson got the biscuits. They were amazing. We went to Powell's, and I cried reading Post Secret, and we ran into Thomas Freeman and played Rummy at Stumptown and walked sleepily around the Saturday market.

After waiting in an enormous line that wrapped around the theater and down into the parking lot, we finally neared the ticket counter, where they announced that the movie we planned to see (The Informant) had sold out. We got thai food and rented Brother's Bloom, and if we are up to spending even more money in the morning, we plan on eating Dim Sum before the drive back to WWU.

The city is magical, full of bums and hipsters, bikers, and hippies. And I wish I lived here instead of in a tiny town where all the restaurants are closed monday evenings and there is nothing to do. Next year, PAI, children's art museum manager, 8 bedroom apartment, here I come! The future is for discovering.

2009-11-10T20:53:00.001-05:00

patience . . .
It's raining in College Place, and my feet are wet, because I have holes in the bottoms of my flats. Some things never change.

I am more assertive than I would like to let on, and keep trying to fix everything. I have yet to come up with a rational excuse as to why patience is the least important of virtues, and why I shouldn't just let things be. But slowly, I'm becoming distracted or exhausted enough.

I have somewhat of a psuedo-date later this week. Or so Emily tells me that that's what it is, while I prefer to think I'm just going to spend a bit of quality time with a new friend. Exchanging of numbers felt sort of awkward, as he stood slumped over my back cubicle in the library. But he was sincere and polite and sweet. The next day I saw him in Kretchmar. I was wearing spandex pants and my unwashed hair was starting to dread, but he looked at me with warm eyes and told me I looked nice. I didn't. I don't feel any big spark, but he's sincerely nicer than almost anyone I've ever met, and maybe these things just take time.

2009-11-09T12:54:00.001-05:00

dream one
I have such a sweet tooth.

I love to travel and eat desert, and daydream about opening up an international desert cafe with black asian teas, ethiopian espresso, paleta de mango (with chili), soursop, and european pastries.

I'd doodle in my journal the way I'd design the menu board, and hire Phil Gray as my baker (because he only works part time in the lab)! :)

I'd name it: Sreywin's, pronounced: Seiy-vin's, after my sweet, bright girl in Cambodia.

dream two
I'd start my own version of Egger's Might Magazine, or 826 Valencia. That's bad A, right Alane? This makes my heart dance.

dream three
Chelsea Patten, from what I've heard, has the most amazing job in Tanzania next quarter titled: Story Teller. Correct me if I'm wrong, but from what I understand, she travels Africa and takes photos, builds relationships, and writes stories for the rest of us to be inspired or angered enough to help. Sounds to me like a worthwhile challenge, and the perfect job for a Mass Comm major interested in journalism and humanitarian work.

dream four
Sometimes I find myself filled with jittery misgivings, feeling as though going out and seeing things would answer or settle these questions of discontent. The contrary has only proved to be the case, yet the mystery of searching is only growing, stretching, amplifying. The less my life seems to fall into the path I always assumed (out of naivety), the more I itch to fill my far-off dreams of wanderlust, in which my family always shrugged off as just a phase. I might just WWOOF in South America, live with Ann again in Phnom Penh, and be that crazy Aunt Trina, who lives in Myanmar with the monkeys, and brings you durian and a fake rolex for Christmas.

2009-11-08T14:09:00.000-05:00

take pictures, make plans

I like to make plans.

Nothing too concrete, or unchangeable. But something a bit exciting, and feasible enough, with a quick explanation attached as to why and how.

This weekend is girl's weekend at the Wilkens' in Spokane. And while we sat drinking Chai (from the Chocolate Apothecary) down in the basement, we talked about all ending up in Portland next year. We immediately went online to pretend as though it were completely feasible and logical for all us. Alex Heaton found us an 8 bedroom apartment in a 10-story complex in downtown Portland, and Emily perused craigslist for job opps, finding me one as a children's art museum manager. We found a few affordable places to live within walking distance to the Portland Art Institute, and the girls' gasped, "It's a sign!", in which minutes after I found myself creating an account to apply online.

Last night we went to a $1 concert at some small venue called A&M (art, music, and more) filled with high school kids and their families sitting in the audience. Jordy and I talked til' 1 a.m. in the hot tub, going to bed with pruny skin. And I woke up with a sore back, falling all night inbetween the cracks of the mattresses laid out on the basement floor.

"How we spend our days is how we spend our lives. {annie dillard}

2009-10-30T12:08:00.000-04:00

this is for emily wilkens, click it em

the unbeliever

Sometimes I feel irritated when friends say things like: Happiness is a choice. Or, everything happens for some profound reason. Because I don’t think we are solely products of our experiences, or ruled by the mystification of fate. Nor do I think that I am gluttonous, or unsatisfiable, and I do think that contentment is highly circumstantial.

Now I wouldn’t say that I am in anyway, currently discontent. Although often times, I will wake in the morning and feel that there were definitely times in my life when things felt a lot closer to ideal. Sometimes I feel quite old, to still walk down the hall of familiar faces, generally disinterested in anyone of the male persuasion. Or my arms will feel heavy as I pick up my books for another class that doesn’t feel my tuitions worth of relevancy. And in those moments, I feel discouraged. Because I want to wake with purpose and zeal, and instead, I walk through the day, smiling at little things. At the warmth of children, the thoughtfulness of my friends, the kindness of strangers, and the uncultivated beauty of the wild flowers that grow in the next lawn. In school, your teachers tell you: “Every good story has a conflict, climax, and resolution.” And I’m here, somewhere in the middle of it, in a place where the reader might just want to set the book down. Because its moving, but slowly. Very slowly.

2009-10-26T16:45:00.000-04:00

with darcy, friday, in her backyard

I am very tired. I slept 14 hours last night, exhausted from an afternoon of sitting indian style in the basement, writing song after song on my guitar that Brian says sound like Akron/Family, and eating corn straight out of the can. 2 coffee breaks later, with a splitting headache, here I am.

This sickness is getting the best of me. It is also giving me too much time to think.

my new house

2009-10-23T15:53:00.000-04:00

2009-10-21T02:52:00.000-04:00

Last weekend I drove to Tri-Cities with my friend Cassie to pick up some things at Costco for a VCC event. We made small talk about people, relationships, ambitions. And she told me about her recent switch from studying design to OT. I thought it was ironic, because I did the exact opposite thing my second year of college. Yet she went on to tell a story about applying for an internship with Tom’s Shoes. “Every project I did, every hour of work I put in, was all with intentions to getting closer to this internship,” she explained. The reps flew out to WWU, and she co-planned an event with ASWWU. They saw her work and told her that the internship was hers if she wanted it. Later she talked to her father, where she said, he replied: “Cassie, our love actually is quite conditional.” She’s not one to embellish stories, and so I listened, earnest and sad. He threatened to stop paying tuition, insurance, even saying, “if you take this, you’re on your own, give back all the clothes we ever bought you.” And so, she turned it down.

Maybe I don’t know her quite well enough to know when she’s faking it. Or maybe time jades her more quickly than others. But she shrugged nonchalantly and hummed along to the radio, saying “Maybe I’ll really like OT. I’d like to fast-forward two years into the future and see where I’m at.” And I thought about myself making such decisions, back when I was around the same age, and how for me, two years, hasn’t provided much more clarity at all.

Earlier this week I was feeling discouraged, because I applied to an art institute in NY, and found out that the design program isn’t taking spring applicants like I’d thought, and would instead just hold my application until next fall. I was frustrated with an unhelpful officer for a design project I was doing for math club, and instead skipped the drama and took the initiative of doing a bit of extra work myself, talking directly to the printer’s at enrollment. This resulted in me getting a job with marketing for next quarter with Chris Drake, which might just shape up to being a pretty sweet job opp. It’s funny how slowly, I realize, that even when things aren’t exactly how I planned them, they still seem to turn out okay. Maybe all the hurt and confusion in my heart will unravel to blessings. Or maybe they won't at all. Only time will tell. For now, I need to just keep praying, and breathing. Lord, please give me patience.

the difference

2009-10-15T19:21:00.001-04:00

The other morning, I checked my inbox, to find a picture Fay sent me of the Rong family. Naro and his 3 brothers and 2 sisters, prim and proper in their brand new school uniforms. Thanks to the wonderful Dennis ♥!

Naro has gotten taller (furthest to the right), and he looks stoic, and almost sad. And I remember the funny way that his hair smelled, and the way his nose crinkled when he smiled. I remember when he first learned to read, and how he hugged me so tight. Once, he had run a race around the track, coming in lengths ahead of the rest of his peers. He came back into the classroom, beaming, beads of perspiration on his forehead. "Teacher!" he yelled, "Did you see me run?" I nodded, and he gently grabbed my hand and placed it on his chest, so I could feel his heart beating.

Some moments I'll wish to feel wild and unattainable and wander courageously and independently through life, not wanting to feel any obligation to do the laundry and bleach the grass stains off their shirts, or drop the dry cleaning off, or own a mini van. And then other moments, embarrassed at how conventional this sounds, I'll think, silently to myself, about how wonderful it would be to love a man, and take care of a child. And how it might be okay if the stains never quite come out, and we don't own any clothing that needs to be dry-cleaned, and how maybe I can get one of those seats that attach to my bike, so I can take my kids with me when I decide to buy groceries from the farmer's market. And here we can laugh when juice from our peaches dribble down our chins, and they draw on the walls with crayons. One moment I'll feel exhilarated at how the future is filled with so many possibilities, and the next, I'll feel discouraged, that everything is so unsound.

Last week, I expended a small amount of effort to show a few discouraged friends that I cared about them. Yet, preparing dinner and making a hot cup of chai, and writing a card is nothing. Yet these people seemed wonderfully appreciative, and surprised that anyone was willing to be there. This made me sad. The battles here are different. Here, we might have clean water and new shoes, but we also have loneliness and apathy, and the misconception that the edges must always be tucked away nicely and neatly folded under. And that failure and public speaking is worse than death or poverty. That it's better for them to just not know that you're secretly a mess, and an embarrassment to the standard. I want to live well, and with balance. I wish I knew what that meant.

already, not yet

2009-10-13T18:43:00.000-04:00

It’s raining in College Place. You must be careful as you walk down the street, in and out of buildings, classrooms, coffee shops. If you aren’t, you might step in a puddle, splash your tights or jeans, or get water in your shoes. And the discomfort of wet pant cuffs and soggy socks is annoying and distracting. I’m drinking a latte, staring out the blurry glass windows, pelted with raindrops. My roommate Emily is writing a story, and Iron and Wine is playing over the speakers. And I feel nostalgic.

I don’t return phone calls, because it’s too much hassle, and I make plans in my head to lay in my bed, futile and warm. Tonight we’re going to make soup, and invite friends, and laugh. And hopefully, my anxiety will all melt away.

I walk through the halls filled with a foolish hope, that the life I’ve always wanted to live is going to begin any day now. I hum songs and smile at everything and think to myself, “Maybe, it already has.”

friday

2009-10-10T04:04:00.000-04:00

Friday has potential to be either futile or exasperating. I try my best to busy myself.

Went class in the morning. Then Cassie and I went to Tri-Cities in the afternoon, lost for a long stretch of time searching for Costco, prepping things for VC (Visual Communications) Club events. Realizing the more I get the know her, the more I find she's wonderful and one of the most interesting and articulate and unpretentious people I've ever been friends with. We came home not long after 7pm, and I went to vespers, late. After I walked in the door, found a seat, filled a row, I got a call from a needing friend, and rushed home to make him dinner, and grab coffee. After that, I went, reluctantly, to Elise's for crepes, and I found myself only and always smiling the entire night, in a room full of noisy, crazy, happy people.

Just before midnight Brian and I came back to my house, listened to old playlists on my itunes that I made in Cambodia, and wrote lists and drank Chai. This finally feels a bit more like home.

This is tonight's wishlist:
1. unlimited produce to cook ALL day with
2. a swing in my living room
3. Anthony Bourdain as a travel buddy
4. to see my Chard in Cambodia, and give him a kiss on the head
5. my own folk indie band
6. a mango tree in my backyard
7. to sail across the atlantic
8. warmer weather in College Place
9. Peter Lacey back and in all of my classes
10. to start my own publication about culture, travel, environmentalism, art, etc.
11. a blurry, busy weekend trip to Tokyo
12. a tree house in some southeast asian jungle
13. time and money just to travel and write
14. to marry Sufjan Stevens
15. a lamp for my table in my room
16. wonderment and contentment
17. bravery and peace

wishlist

2009-10-08T22:20:00.001-04:00

1. a plane ticket to Nepal
2. more love in my heart
3. a free ride to Parsons school of design
4. a studio in NY with brick walls
5. free rent and gas
6. more time to make soup with my roommates
7. final cut pro
8. a house with a vineyard in Italy
9. furniture from Anthropologie
10. a french press coffee maker
11. a good turn out for our art opening
12. warm weather for sunday brunch in the park
13. a ride in the shaggin' wagon
14. NO more online video program tutorials!

go slow

2009-10-06T19:33:00.000-04:00

Most people I've talked to have told me that in the night is when they feel most vulnerable. The night makes their feelings come alive, or exhaustion is known to lower inhibitions, and that is when you're more likely to feel elegiac, or irrationally emotional. Emily came up with a house policy that we're only allowed to cry at night. But I found this mostly works for me the other way around. In the morning, I like to rise up with hopeful breath. That even as I take those automatic, invisible steps, out of bed, brushing the teeth, taking a shower, heading towards class. That everything I do has intentional purpose, meaning, and is going towards a general goal for an ideal future.

Lately these days, I haven't felt that. I sit in classes, feeling barely present at all. My heart feels resistant to make the adjustments it knows it should. And I wake up feeling discontent with the things I know I should do, and am going to do.

But slowly, slowly, as I go through each step of the day. I realize these early dawn feelings slowly fade away. I sit in front of the screen, intentionally focusing on creating something beautiful, and this week has proved, that, I can. That when I look into my heart, that when I try, I am capable. That when I show friendship, and ask for the same in return, what I receive is compliance, and concord. That I am still in control of my own destiny, and that the future will be hopeful. Slowly, slowly, one step at a time, I realize I'm not quite as far off as I think, and everything, while it isn't easy, is still worthwhile, still okay, still exciting, amazing, satisfying.

art opening!!

2009-10-02T13:44:00.001-04:00

october 14 at 8pm, in the melvin k west fine arts gallery

four

2009-10-01T18:21:00.000-04:00

ffffound.com

It's ironic how the advice you need most to swallow is one you've probably sputtered from your own mouth, and too many times at that. Might sound cheesy, because I might just be your quintessential quixote. But more than ever, I believe that life is what you make it. Not everything happens for a reason. The few who believe they've gotten everything they've wanted, without settling, by waiting with pure hearts for everything to fall into place, is either in denial, or much braver than they realize.

Take a deep breath. Stop and think intentionally about what makes you happy, what brings you joy, and fills your life with purpose and meaning. If I stop and think about these things, I realize life is pretty substantial.

ONE I have a wonderful family who constantly shows me in unique and different ways that they have my best interest at heart, and love to take care of me.
TWO I have specific interests and love what I do. Everything I write and express, I care deeply about. It matters to me, therefore it matters.
THREE I have good friends and wonderful roommates who constantly reassure me that what I have to offer is pretty damn worthwhile.
FOUR I find everyday that uncertainty and searching hardly feels empty. That mystery is thrilling, stretching, amplifying.

walla walla work

2009-09-27T01:22:00.000-04:00

Welcome Back Bash food prep.
I'm pretty tired of dipping crap in chocolate. Not gonna lie.

comfort food

2009-09-26T20:32:00.003-04:00

Nothing mends a troubled heart quite like huckleberry pancakes.

moving into my first house

2009-09-25T21:29:00.001-04:00

When I was younger, I used to think life was a fairytale, and that 'happily ever after' was just a given. A pure-hearted girl with naive and wonderful intentions would strive, with conflict, for life, love, and why. Achieving it soon after the right decisions were made and the correct amount of effort expended. No added words. None taken away.

There are days, that still occur, when I believe it’s important to be un-jaded, to have the heart and the passion of your teens and your twenties. Yet the older I get, the more pragmatism and realism sets in, the more I realize that my ideal life does not exist, and that every direction I could turn is still scary and difficult and imperfect.

I love run-on sentences. I don’t know what I want at all.