taholah, washington & vice magazine
ohaiheidi



































the boudoir
ohaiheidi
-things to display

-"can't... dispose of... just... yet"
(cheap, disposable crap that we all knew was going to end up in the shitter, and would otherwise move on to the landfill like we all saw coming, and is not really being done all that great of a favor by being barely held aside from their inevitable fate... maybe one day the "can't... dispose of... just... yet" category of my life will reach a voluminous enough glamorous mass that it can all be put into a big giant clear plastic or glass cube that will then go into a glossy/pristine exhibit space that people will look at and think something profound of the waste cycle, that won't really change the system. yes. yes.)

-notebooks and other reading material that has no immediately salvageable/referential value, or is too heavily doused in emo childhood drama that i don't want to see it very often... these things deserve a nice wooden chest with elegant gold accents and a heavy lid

-miscellany! / "for a rainy day" ... objects whose homes are not quite so clear as the objects of these other categories of my personal life

-personally manufactured literature that does have immediately salvageable/referential value... if you devote a saturday and a half to organizing the info

-"do it naw!" homework

-crafts supplies and projects also for a rainy day...

-library books

-my books

-"office supplies"

-identification documents that validate my existence / wallet overflow

-apparel: [hats/gloves/belts/scarves] [earrings/buttons] [frilly accessories like necklaces/headbands and other hair stuff]... um, and clothes

-documents/paperwork/supplies purely for reference/adult responsibility

-free parking / a "just-in-case" open spot

-bulletin board / a special place for these kinds of current observations

dirt: the ecstatic skin of the earth
ohaiheidi
“Turds no less than rocks and roses are repositories for the energy of the sun. Dirt is where those three meet and meld, to transform the surface of the world and the air that we breathe."

-William Bryant Logan

say it like you mean it
ohaiheidi
there is this black and white cat who always comes out to see me everytime i am walking home from bus stop on the west side of conger. he or she is among the needy, cryful cats who i strongly believe, are telling us how mad as hell they are, about being a stupid cat, at the end of this stupid driveway, stupidly meowing, because that's all they can do. this cat is mad as hell and he and/or she (you can never be too careful about gender identification in olympia, washington), is not going to take it anymore. it is mutual drive-thru therapy.

"i don't have to tell you things are bad. everybody knows things are bad. it's a depression. everybody's out of work or scared of losing their jobs. a dollar buys a nickels worth. the banks are going bust, shop keepers keep a gun under the counter. punks are running wild in the street and there's nobody anywhere who seems to know what to do and there's no end to it. we know the air is unfit to breathe and our food is unfit to eat. and we sit watching our tvs while some local newscaster tells us that today we had fifteen homocides and sixty-three violent crimes as if that's the way it's supposed to be. we know things are bad; worse than bad, they're crazy. it's like everything everywhere is going crazy so we don't go out anymore. we sit in our house and slowly the world we're living in is getting smaller and all we say is 'please, at least leave us alone in our living rooms. let me have my toaster and my tv and my steel-belted radials and i won't say anything. well i'm not going to leave you alone. i want you to get mad. i don't want you to protest, i don't want you to riot, i don't want you to write to your congressmen because i wouldn't know what to tell you to write. i don't know what to do about the depression and the inflation and the russians and the crime in the street. all i know is that first, you've got to get mad! you've got to say 'i'm a human being, god damn it! my life has value!' i want you to get up now. i want all of you to get up out of your chairs. i want you to get up right now and go over to the window. open it and stick your head out and yell 'i'm as mad as hell and i'm not going to take this anymore!'"

-peter finch as howard beale
the network (1976)

spring break!!!!!!!!!!!!!!1!!!!!
ohaiheidi
show us your boobs!!!!!!!!!!!


airport castle at dallas/fort worth airport


footy foo, me love you long time


foo who and a few pairs of shoes


cookies n cream sierra mountains


hmmph


dude! where's my country?


la familia: ateh joy (right) and kaye riding along in tita carmen's lifted ford truck to drop me off in berkeley


the indigenous handle-bar-mustached mountain lion of alameda, california


sam's market berkeley, ca


this caption is excessive and unnecessary

townies are stuck up about not being stuck up
ohaiheidi
"My heart is afraid that it will have to suffer," the boy confides to the alchemist one night as they look up at a moonless night.

"Tell your heart that the fear of suffering is worse than the suffering itself," the alchemist replies. "And that no heart has ever suffered when it goes in search of its dreams, because every second of the search is a second's encounter with God and with eternity."

-The Alchemist
Paulo Coelho

willful infringement? fair use!

the last nine pages of the short story "insomnia for a better tomorrow" by tao lin (xoxo)
ohaiheidi
there were moments when you knew for sure that you would never be happy. you thought, "nothing's going to happen this year. ten years, sixty years. that's right. of course." and you felt all those years, there, inside of you, wandering the institutional corridors of your bones, playing ping-pong in the unkempt gameroom of your heart, not keeping score, not even using the paddles--but playing stupidly a kind of handball table hockey. but not even doing that, really. just standing around. all the years, just standing there. waiting to happen.
you thought, "well then..."
and you imagined being dead. you imagined it might be something like a gasp. a normal gasp, but sustained, and forever--and maybe outside of you, sucking at your air, the suffocation and discomfort increasing without end. the mouth-faced animal of death--flying, taking, wanting always more, like something intelligent and sane, but delinquent and two-years-old. the mouth-headed gliding lung of death. "of course," you thought. because these things were possible. they were. there was even a thing called anti-matter, brian knew. and black-matter, which was inivisible. eighty to eighty-five percent of all matter was actually black-matter. brian had read that in a book. there had been an enormous question mark on the opposite page.
for a long time, there was the sensation of life becoming smaller.
life lost gradually the things of itself. the peripheral items wandered amnesiacally off, and then flew away, not amnesic at all, just too optimistic and quixotic to stay. you became meeker and less opinionated through all the small maintenances of yourself--the self-aware, mid-day toothbrushing, the splashless handwashing. and the one eye of your soul--the angrysad cyclops of your soul, with its spiked club, its dark and forsaken cave, its island routine--began to squint, to slowly close.
life became a puny, disassembling thing.
something that needn't be paid any attention to--that you could just leave there.
brian found that he did not need much to get through each day. decent chinese food, a jean rhys novel, iced coffee. that was enough for one day. that was enough for one day. it helped if he stayed in his room and slept more than 14 hours a day, which he did; the peculiar, detached success of being in bed--it was like the padded practice of a thing before the real hurt and triumph of the actual thing.
his fantasies became less masturbatory and more about time-travel and childhood.
he grew content in a leveled and agrarian way, like a grass.
still, though, once, unable to sleep, he had, in one dilapidated night, allowed himself to search out an adult story and buy two porno magazines and some other items. he read them front to back, stopping carefully for the photos. later, he looked in his bathroom mirror, pointed at his reflection, and said "born alone, die alone." he was giddy with shame and despair after that. then he wasn't giddy anymore, and he went to sleep. when he woke up, it was night again. he wrapped the pornography and the other items in three plastic grocery bags, tied it up, put it in a mercer street used books bag, tied that up, carried it six blocks in a direction he hadn't been before, and shoved it in someone's trashcan.
it was important, he knew, not to become one of those irrecoverable persons.
one day he was looking out his window, staring at people who were climbing onto each other's backsides laughing--and he began to think that if he got a job, he could meet people. he seemed to realize this. he needed a job. he needed to join clubs. water polo, yoga, bowling.
in manhattan, he had coffee.
he walked up sixth avenue. he turned toward union square. the streets seemed to have recently been blasted clean. "nice job," brian thought. he was impressed. he felt good. he went through the park, looking and smirking--not in an entirely unfriendly way--at people, and continued uptown.
around 33rd street there was a strip club or something. it had a sexy-lady sticker on the door. it said "live girls." brian thought of maybe going in. maybe not, though. he would no doubt affect gauntness, perversity, desperation, and condescension. the other patrons would somehow affect virtue and dignity, a kind of nordic diplomacy. they would be enterprising and pressed for time.
brian walked into times square.
there was a brazilian steak place here that he liked.
he used to go all the time with chrissy.
he walked back downtown. he didn't feel at all good anymore. "because of the coffee," he thought. the caffeine was no longer doing what it would do. he sat in washington square park. he had never liked chrissy, he guessed. had never really liked anyone, probably. "that's it," he thought. his shoulders and neck were cramped from trying too hard for good posture, which he knew was important for confidence, bones, self-esteem, mood, attractiveness, etc. a young man wanted to sell brian some drugs. brian shook his head, and looked at the ground. the young man stayed to talk. he sat. he made some distinctions between psychologists and psychiatrists, and then complimented brian's teeth. "he says that to everyone," brian thought. next, your teeth would be pulverized into a fine powder. "thank you," brian said, and the young man left.
it had become very dark outside.
brian stood and walked in some vague direction, into a bookstore.
he moved himself around the aisles. he tried not to look too lonely. he opened a book but could not concentrate. everyone else, he felt, was one a choicer plane of existence. everyone else, he felt, was on a choicer plane of existence. they all seemed very confident that the world was a good and auspicious place. brian's face had gone hot and severe. the clam-meat of his face. people could see. his neck tremored a little. that kind of inchoate weeping that would always happen to him if he stayed in public too long, it happened now.
"this is... unreasonable," he thought.
he bought and ate a cookie the size of his hand. he felt like vomiting. he went into the city. it seemed louder than before. trucks the size of small buildings were coming down the street. a team of men were jackhammering the street. there was a group of drunken people with glossy heads.
brian walked slowly around, then came to a stop. his mind went blank. time moved around him, like a crowd. "walk," he thought. "move, go...."
he thought that he would see a movie, then.
he bought a ticket for 12:45 a.m. ad the union square theatre. he had one hour. he walked in a direction, but saw an acquaintance across the street and turned and walked in another direction.
from a deli, he bought a 16 oz. beer and a soy drink that was also a tea drink.
outside, he made sure to look far into the distance. if an acquaintance confronted him, started questioning him, he would have no choice but to run away. he sat in a dark area of union square park.
he drank his tea drink.
he looked absently at the label. "2000% vitamin c," it said.
in the movie theatre, there were a few other solitary people. some had a kind of space-time enlightened gaze, a beatific vacancy about their eyes that made them look very confident, but in a bionic way, as if they were truly--scientifically--simultaneously in the future, at home, eating something with a large spoon. after each blink their focus would be on a different area outside of their heads. they looked as if under attack, which was because they felt as if under attack.
brian went into the bathroom and stood in a stall.
he locked the door. he took his beer out of his bag, looked at his beer, put his beer back in his beer bag. he stood there until a few minutes past the start-time of the movie. he splashed water to his face, left the bathroom, went into the theatre, and sat in the back row.
after a while, he took his beer out of his bag and opened it. the beer said, "kushchhhch." it was tall, silvery, and cold. on the screen, a beautiful girl who was natalie portman was taking an aggressive interest in a depressed, monotone man whose mother had recently passed away.
brian almost shouted, "bullshit," but was unable to control himself.
"my hair is blowing in the wind," said natalie portman, whose name was sam.
brian began to think, "if i were as beautiful as her..." he stopped himself and drank his beer. his face soon became warm. there was an asphyxiative pleasure to it, like a kind of choking or crying. his heart was beating fast. the movie was wide and calm on the screen. cool air was coming down. brian leaned back into his seat and put his feet up. there were moments when you were not afraid of anything anymore. these moments it became clear that all things were arbitrary, that everything was just made of atoms, or whatever, and therefore everything was, firstly, one same, connected thing, a kind of amorphous mass wherein areas of consciousness moved from place to same place--or maybe did not move, but, because all places were the same, were just there. guilt, fear, meaning, love, loneliness, death. those words, you realized, were all the same. everything was all the same. there was what there was, and that was all there was; there was you, and you were everything. those moments would last seconds, minutes, or maybe an hour, and they were euphoric. they could happen from reading, looking at a painting, from music--from any kind of art, really, or from witnessing or experiencing something startling or strange; but never from other people. these moments you could almost cry. life was simply, obviously, and beautifully meaningless.
brian in the theatre that night, drinking beer, felt this.
these moments would end, though, when you realized that all that amorphous mass stuff was, well--bullshit. was good on paper, maybe, but in real life was impossible. unbelievable. something only a philosopher, a paid one--a philosopher that received cash for what he or she did--would benefit from. things weren't connected, not really. you were one person alive and your brain was encased inside a skill. there were other people out there. it took an effort to be connected. some people were better at it than others. some people were bad at it. some people were so bad at it that they gave up.

afternoon brownie homer simpson drool fest
ohaiheidi
a good livejournal username that i thought of on the bus today: good_condiments, or even great_condiments

somalia. what do i know about somalia?

modern technology and i suppose geo-politics leads me to frame the country of somalia somewhere within my distant periphery, though it has no other place for me individually, at least to my recollection, as anything but a country that exists in africa.

somalia: country. africa. somalians. that's it. that's all i can legitimately claim based on my knowledge of africa.

i don't know somalia's capital. i don't know somalia's culture, somalia's people, somalia's food, social structures, stigmas, standards, customs, international relations, allies, resources, history, political ties, language, or really somalia's location. i don't know what somalian people look like or sound like or act like, what they believe, how they think of themselves, their way of thinking about themselves and people around them, their opinions and attitudes about all of the people, places and things that we (people of developed nations, with maps to point to places such as somlia) seem to stress having a background and an opinion about.

should i know these things? yes, probably, maybe. it would be valuable to know these things, rather than to have somalia being some dangling blank nation.

whether or not it is my will to recognize somalia, and invite the reality of what somalia may be into my life, it exists as an active nation, an active culture, in a modern world. and there are many more "somalias" to learn of.

what does it do to put all of these places on a map, lay them all out, and point out that these places are real places real people, real histories, real social circles.

opening education to the totality of world knowledge seems kind of well, overwhelming. because now it's on the table that there are ~193 countries, 7 continents, 5 oceans, who knows how many histories. it's all there. active cultures. modern world. the can of people has been opened.

ceramic bluebird-charlie brown knuckle sandwich
ohaiheidi
amber, i know you're just about the only one who reads this.

i'll get better at living up to my goal of not keeping my thoughts and ideas in a deep, dark underground cave. i sit outside of the doorway entrance with a machete in one hand and a yellow legal pad and marker in the other, secretively scribbling along with my head huddled low to the notepad.

maybe i'll even start to believe in myself after putting it all out there, and become more comfortable with articulating my observations, rather than coming to a coversational halt with the words "whoa" or "that's crazy."

today, while tommy and marina were talking about the suspicious attitudes of faculty members towards electronic media student workers, i had a personal photo shoot, which i think you will find to be quite self-explanatory.

oh god, public image!!!!

p.s. rosie perez is my new life rolemodel

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dyDWNT0TnZE

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=80Azzct5iM0&feature=related

peace to the inner beast

heidi



ok fine
ohaiheidi
dr. bronner's rose scented soap is on sale at the co-op. i've been paranoid that maybe i actually shouldn't have been washing my hair with castile soap this whole time, and that my hair is going to slowly but surely fall out in larger and larger quantities because castile soap proteins are incompatible to the proper proteins of shampoo. it has seemed like a formula for disaster that i've gone along with out of frugality and out of fighting against dollar store cancer shampoo. i finally read every single fine print passage on the 2 oz. bottle of soap, and realized that it can be used for hair. actually it said scalp but what kind of product would be for your scalp and not for your hair? anyway, the rose liquid soap smells strongly of lychee candy and that brings back some memories. these candies were pretty popular when i was growing up. they're sold in giant bins in china town with maybe 100 in each. the candy is kind of like the single serving creamers that you see in diners. you peel back the foil top and the candy is a thick solid gelatin that you squeeze into your mouth. they're really sweet, fruity candies. i finally tried the actual lychee fruit for the first time a few years ago, not even knowing that lychee was the name of the fruit and not the type of candy, and it turns out that the fruit is exactly like the candy. so i'm not sure if they just take the fruit, grind it up and put it into a little plastic container or if its some really fake gelatin with a lot of actificial lychee flavoring. i'm guessing its the latter because the candies have a freakishly strong scent to them, the way that a fully ripe overflowing basket of fruit could never smell the way that a bag of skittles smells.

?

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