There is a mouse in my room.
Colour me unimpressed.
If I really wanted to, I'd use this mouse as a metaphor for everything that's pissing me off right now: small, invisible, hiding itself amongst all the books and movies and distracting crap I keep crammed in my room, robbing me of sleep and unsettling me just because I know it exists. I haven't seen the sonofabitch yet, so that adds to its insidiousness. I don't know if I'm afraid of mice, but I don't like the idea of someone living in my space, someone freeloading off my rent, without my permission.
As a metaphor, it upsets me. As vermin, it annoys me. Either way, I'll kill the fucker if it ever comes out. My policy on pest: Zero Tolerance.
Exterminatingly-yours,
Inari
If I were an animated cat, I would be...Dragon, from The Secret of NIMH. The one who ate Mrs. Brisby's husband.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Sunday, September 28, 2008
Deep End Diving
I'm exhausted which means I'm in the perfect frame of mind to blog.
So if there's one thing I've learned from three years of film school and countless sleepless nights on sets is that the biggest favour you can do for yourself is to just own up to your ignorance and not give a fuck. I figure, it's pretty inescapable...I'm never not going to know something and the fact that I don't know these things usually doesn't say anything about me except that I'm inexperienced, which is probably the best shoe-fitting definition of who I am. I'm young, inexperienced and full of desire to learn and experience as much as possible in as little time as possible. That said, this experience still hurts and it still sucks and it makes me want to just go home and blog and eat chocolate cake with whipped cream which is exactly what I'm doing right now.
I am so tired. And I can't stop thinking about how much I miss him. And how long it's taken for me to realize just how much of him I've lost. God, I get so angry sometimes.
Exhaustingly yours,
Inari
If I were inappropriate film innuendo, I would be..."Dolly in."
So if there's one thing I've learned from three years of film school and countless sleepless nights on sets is that the biggest favour you can do for yourself is to just own up to your ignorance and not give a fuck. I figure, it's pretty inescapable...I'm never not going to know something and the fact that I don't know these things usually doesn't say anything about me except that I'm inexperienced, which is probably the best shoe-fitting definition of who I am. I'm young, inexperienced and full of desire to learn and experience as much as possible in as little time as possible. That said, this experience still hurts and it still sucks and it makes me want to just go home and blog and eat chocolate cake with whipped cream which is exactly what I'm doing right now.
I am so tired. And I can't stop thinking about how much I miss him. And how long it's taken for me to realize just how much of him I've lost. God, I get so angry sometimes.
Exhaustingly yours,
Inari
If I were inappropriate film innuendo, I would be..."Dolly in."
Monday, September 22, 2008
when i was 5 i was a bunny with a fat lip
“My favorite review described me as the cinematic equivalent of junk mail.”
It's a mad house.
We're all super busy.
So. I'll be brief.
I live for this rush.
I'm only 20 for 3 more days.
I love to write. I love what I'm writing and think about it all
the time. I talk to the dead about it. It helps.
I feel that already this is probably the best week of September.
The weekend was meaningful. And this coming weekend will be
even moreso. I want there to be lots of kissing... but not
involving me. I wish to be a spectator and commentator
but not an actor in the sensation.
I'm living off of the energy from my acting class this morning
and my memories of past autumns. of your apple pie.
of my - "im a funny girl phase".
i miss that phase. I want to be joe pesci in Goodfellas.
do I amuse you? im funny?
My fingers hurt but I can't wait to touch my cello strings.
I seriously am in love with Mary Louise Parker
and wish i wrote WEEDS.
I am surrounded by sexy women and love it.
(shout out to my roomies , my sister and homegirls o and my
regular hooker. (all my bests in one big bannana boat bowl
of Thumbs Up Korean for a cool 5.95.)
My head feels light and airy.
I feel like a weight has been lifted from my shoulders
or is slowly lifting up.
Thank you for one of th most life-changing and life shaping years.
It was brilliant.
I feel alive. And that's all I've really wanted since the day i died.
xo
Lo is HIGH.
ps. If I were halloween treats I would be:
- the house that gives the orange, can of RC cola, rockets and a halloween
pencil with a black tip. o how i miss trick or treating on walts street
Steve Buscemi
It's a mad house.
We're all super busy.
So. I'll be brief.
I live for this rush.
I'm only 20 for 3 more days.
I love to write. I love what I'm writing and think about it all
the time. I talk to the dead about it. It helps.
I feel that already this is probably the best week of September.
The weekend was meaningful. And this coming weekend will be
even moreso. I want there to be lots of kissing... but not
involving me. I wish to be a spectator and commentator
but not an actor in the sensation.
I'm living off of the energy from my acting class this morning
and my memories of past autumns. of your apple pie.
of my - "im a funny girl phase".
i miss that phase. I want to be joe pesci in Goodfellas.
do I amuse you? im funny?
My fingers hurt but I can't wait to touch my cello strings.
I seriously am in love with Mary Louise Parker
and wish i wrote WEEDS.
I am surrounded by sexy women and love it.
(shout out to my roomies , my sister and homegirls o and my
regular hooker. (all my bests in one big bannana boat bowl
of Thumbs Up Korean for a cool 5.95.)
My head feels light and airy.
I feel like a weight has been lifted from my shoulders
or is slowly lifting up.
Thank you for one of th most life-changing and life shaping years.
It was brilliant.
I feel alive. And that's all I've really wanted since the day i died.
xo
Lo is HIGH.
ps. If I were halloween treats I would be:
- the house that gives the orange, can of RC cola, rockets and a halloween
pencil with a black tip. o how i miss trick or treating on walts street
Steve Buscemi
Monday, September 1, 2008
Singapore Sling
Chapter One
They say there are two sides to every story. I agree with “them” who ever they may be - assuming “they” is actually a small and highly secure unit that controls and directs the tides of popular culture. I also assume that “they” were born in bland business suits and use a profuse amount of Depp styling products, all the while planting such all-purpose universally recognized truths and idioms within society for the masses to adopt, and later reference at their convenience (like I am doing right now.)
I argue however that there are more than two sides to every story given the obvious factor that a “story” usually involves a number of characters each with their own set of experiences resulting in burgeoning stories that shoot off of the main branch. “Spin-offs” one might identify them as. A story can also focus around a single event that affects a group of characters related or otherwise. This single event may be one individual’s experience, but in turn stirs the pot of so many people’s daily grind. Explicably becoming a smorgasbord of story as opposed to one serving of a single dish from one restaurateur.
A woman gets cancer for the second time. This time however she does not respond to any of her treatments and thus lies in a hospital bed on New Years Eve hooked to an IV drip, eyes half closed, jaundice skin the color of squash and sunken cheek bones that remind her youngest daughter of the animated crypt keeper from the YTV television series she watched as a child.
This woman is surrounded by the closest members in her family, all paying hyper attention to the sound of her breaths, the acute rise of her tummy up and down -- the slightest pause making each of their hearts skip a beat, sometimes in unison. At this point the members of the woman’s family present, are all dumbfounded by the mystery of life, death and the lottery of disease -- lost in the silence of thought, memory, prayer, all of which are too ideal for the current and seemingly expected inevitable dooms of the woman’s ill-fated reality.
The heart rate monitor beeps.
The woman’s youngest daughter rests her head against the woman’s chest, feeling the bump of the mastectomy scar from 9 years earlier through the thinning fabric of a hospital gown washed a batch too many. She hums Day Dream Believer by the Monkeys as finally, the woman’s body succumbs to the evil unknown invading her cells, traveling her veins – reaping her of her old age, her motherhood, her every last desire on Earth that could have been (should have been), and catapulting her into an entirely separate unknown. This unknown being the second of two sides to this woman’s story. The story that ensues while on the “other side.” Hence there are two standard sides of one person’s being. One while alive on Earth and one that carries on after that person has passed on to whatever and wherever the other side may be. In any case, after the woman passes on, her being perpetually affects and crafts the stories of all those she touched as she goes on to live inside the hearts of each of them all at varying degrees but really to a fucking immeasurable level.
Chapter Two
This is not the woman’s story. This is the result of the woman’s story on her youngest daughter’s being – whom of which just happens to be me.
Cocktail anyone?
xoLO
They say there are two sides to every story. I agree with “them” who ever they may be - assuming “they” is actually a small and highly secure unit that controls and directs the tides of popular culture. I also assume that “they” were born in bland business suits and use a profuse amount of Depp styling products, all the while planting such all-purpose universally recognized truths and idioms within society for the masses to adopt, and later reference at their convenience (like I am doing right now.)
I argue however that there are more than two sides to every story given the obvious factor that a “story” usually involves a number of characters each with their own set of experiences resulting in burgeoning stories that shoot off of the main branch. “Spin-offs” one might identify them as. A story can also focus around a single event that affects a group of characters related or otherwise. This single event may be one individual’s experience, but in turn stirs the pot of so many people’s daily grind. Explicably becoming a smorgasbord of story as opposed to one serving of a single dish from one restaurateur.
A woman gets cancer for the second time. This time however she does not respond to any of her treatments and thus lies in a hospital bed on New Years Eve hooked to an IV drip, eyes half closed, jaundice skin the color of squash and sunken cheek bones that remind her youngest daughter of the animated crypt keeper from the YTV television series she watched as a child.
This woman is surrounded by the closest members in her family, all paying hyper attention to the sound of her breaths, the acute rise of her tummy up and down -- the slightest pause making each of their hearts skip a beat, sometimes in unison. At this point the members of the woman’s family present, are all dumbfounded by the mystery of life, death and the lottery of disease -- lost in the silence of thought, memory, prayer, all of which are too ideal for the current and seemingly expected inevitable dooms of the woman’s ill-fated reality.
The heart rate monitor beeps.
The woman’s youngest daughter rests her head against the woman’s chest, feeling the bump of the mastectomy scar from 9 years earlier through the thinning fabric of a hospital gown washed a batch too many. She hums Day Dream Believer by the Monkeys as finally, the woman’s body succumbs to the evil unknown invading her cells, traveling her veins – reaping her of her old age, her motherhood, her every last desire on Earth that could have been (should have been), and catapulting her into an entirely separate unknown. This unknown being the second of two sides to this woman’s story. The story that ensues while on the “other side.” Hence there are two standard sides of one person’s being. One while alive on Earth and one that carries on after that person has passed on to whatever and wherever the other side may be. In any case, after the woman passes on, her being perpetually affects and crafts the stories of all those she touched as she goes on to live inside the hearts of each of them all at varying degrees but really to a fucking immeasurable level.
Chapter Two
This is not the woman’s story. This is the result of the woman’s story on her youngest daughter’s being – whom of which just happens to be me.
Cocktail anyone?
xoLO
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