Just kidding!
Thanks to a friend of mine, I realized I haven't posted on here in quite a while. Well, the reason for this is that I have switched from Blogger to Tumblr. I know, I know, I can hear the loyal Blogger fans crying out in agony. But honestly, I like the Tumblr format better that Blogger. I feel like I can post pictures, music, and interface a lot better than on Blogger. No offence.
So, if you are still interested in reading, and you bet your ass you are, come and visit the new site which is: uhthousandwords.tumblr.com
I really like it and I have been posting there for quite some time. So when you have a chance, check it out. Most likely i will close this account and only post on tumblr. So come on over and check out the new blog!
muchas gracias!
Kells
Sunday, September 5, 2010
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Truths: Part Duex
1) I have decided that I will post a "Truths" entry every month. Since that is the truth, I shall use it kick off July's batch of "truths".
2) Love is possible, but not always a guarantee.
3) With great swag comes great responsibility. Do the people of the world a favor and use it wisely.
4) It is hard to take someone seriously after you've seen them wearing nothing but a strawberry scented condom.
5) I have dreamt things and have had them come true. I guess you can call it deja vu, or rather a premonition. Either way, it has happened to me twice and has freaked me out of both occasions.
7) Never place your faith in a prince.
8) Gravity, stay the hell away from me.
9) I thank God for my girls. I don't know what I'd do or where I'd be without them.
10) After this moment I will forget all about you. I'm sorry it has to be this way, but you're kind of a jerk. Don't act surprised. What you did was extremely tacky. You know this. Next next. New new. You lost me.
2) Love is possible, but not always a guarantee.
3) With great swag comes great responsibility. Do the people of the world a favor and use it wisely.
4) It is hard to take someone seriously after you've seen them wearing nothing but a strawberry scented condom.
5) I have dreamt things and have had them come true. I guess you can call it deja vu, or rather a premonition. Either way, it has happened to me twice and has freaked me out of both occasions.
7) Never place your faith in a prince.
8) Gravity, stay the hell away from me.
9) I thank God for my girls. I don't know what I'd do or where I'd be without them.
10) After this moment I will forget all about you. I'm sorry it has to be this way, but you're kind of a jerk. Don't act surprised. What you did was extremely tacky. You know this. Next next. New new. You lost me.
Saturday, July 3, 2010
I don't know why..
but when I read this it made me cry..
"Once upon a time, there was a boy who lived in a house across the field from where a girl who no longer exists. They made up a thousand games. She was Queen and he was King. In the autumn light, her hair shone like a crown. They collected the world in small handfuls. When the sky grew dark they parted with leaves in their hair.
Once upon a time there was a boy who loved a girl, and her laughter was a question he wanted to spend his whole life answering. When they were ten he asked her to marry him. When they were eleven, he kissed her for the first time. When they were thirteen, they got into a fight and for three weeks they didn't talk. When they were fifteen she showed him the scar on her left breast.
Their love was a secret they told no one. He promised her he would never love another girl as long as he lived. What if I die? she asked. Even then, he said.
For her sixteenth birthday he gave her an English dictionary and together they learned the words. What's this? he'd ask, tracing his index finger around her ankle, and she'd look it up. And this? he'd ask, kissing her elbow. Elbow! What kind of word is that? and then he'd lick it, making her giggle. What about this? he asked, touching the soft skin behind her ear. I don't know, she said, turning off the flashlight and rolling over, with a sigh, onto her back. When they were seventeen they made love for the first time, on a bed of straw in a shed.
Later- when things happened that they could never have imagined- she wrote him a letter that said: When will you learn that there isn't a word for everything?"
Nicole Krauss, The History of Love.
This passage has everything I have been taught, both as a Theater major and an English major, that constitutes as good writing:
1. It is engaging.
2. It is well written.
3. It is beautiful, as in it touches on this notion of sweet sadness. (We will come back to this later, as it is also tied to "suffering")
Last, but not least, it tells a story. I think that's why I majored in English. It's all about the story. If you can't sell me on the story, you've done nothing but waste perfectly good paper.
Good stories are hard to come by, especially a story that leaves me wondering, "Then what happened?"
"Once upon a time, there was a boy who lived in a house across the field from where a girl who no longer exists. They made up a thousand games. She was Queen and he was King. In the autumn light, her hair shone like a crown. They collected the world in small handfuls. When the sky grew dark they parted with leaves in their hair.
Once upon a time there was a boy who loved a girl, and her laughter was a question he wanted to spend his whole life answering. When they were ten he asked her to marry him. When they were eleven, he kissed her for the first time. When they were thirteen, they got into a fight and for three weeks they didn't talk. When they were fifteen she showed him the scar on her left breast.
Their love was a secret they told no one. He promised her he would never love another girl as long as he lived. What if I die? she asked. Even then, he said.
For her sixteenth birthday he gave her an English dictionary and together they learned the words. What's this? he'd ask, tracing his index finger around her ankle, and she'd look it up. And this? he'd ask, kissing her elbow. Elbow! What kind of word is that? and then he'd lick it, making her giggle. What about this? he asked, touching the soft skin behind her ear. I don't know, she said, turning off the flashlight and rolling over, with a sigh, onto her back. When they were seventeen they made love for the first time, on a bed of straw in a shed.
Later- when things happened that they could never have imagined- she wrote him a letter that said: When will you learn that there isn't a word for everything?"
Nicole Krauss, The History of Love.
This passage has everything I have been taught, both as a Theater major and an English major, that constitutes as good writing:
1. It is engaging.
2. It is well written.
3. It is beautiful, as in it touches on this notion of sweet sadness. (We will come back to this later, as it is also tied to "suffering")
Last, but not least, it tells a story. I think that's why I majored in English. It's all about the story. If you can't sell me on the story, you've done nothing but waste perfectly good paper.
Good stories are hard to come by, especially a story that leaves me wondering, "Then what happened?"
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
You Oughta Know
I have a monologue.
A great monologue.
A monologue that I created and have been dying to say to someone for almost two months now.
This monologue is not pretty. It does not roll off the tongue like Bronte or Dickinson, nor does this monologue make you want to fall in love like Shakespeare or Keats.
Nay, this monologue was born out of sheer unadulterated confusion, anger, frustration, and, if I'm going to be honest about this, this monologue was born out of my hurt feelings.
This monologue is bitter and cold. This monologue is not intended for children or even adults, for I'm pretty sure it is laden with the F word. This monologue is meant for only one person, and one person only. This monologue is mean. This monologue is vicious. This monologue, if I ever say it to the person I have in mind, will completely crush this persons self confidence, hurt their feelings, demoralize their well being, and probably change the way they view me for the rest of their lives.
In short, this monologue is more than just a tongue lashing. This monologue is like an AK-47. Once I unleash it onto my poor unsuspecting target, they will not be able to walk away with their head held high. They will be lucky if they will be able to pick themselves off of the floor and walk at all.
I relish the day when I can say this monologue to the person I have in mind.
And then it occurred to me.....I may never get to do this. I may never get to tell this person I think they are full of shit, a coward, and a jerk. This put an unexpected "kink" in my plans. After all, what is the point of carrying around this monologue (and I assure you, it is a GREAT monologue) if I may never get to say it to this person?
Two things have become apparent:
1. There is no need for me to carry around this monologue. In carrying this monologue and wasting space in my head for it I am also carrying one HELL of a grudge. I'm sure the intended recipient of my monologue goes to sleep at night just fine and is totally unaware (....hm...maybe not "aware", actually I pretty sure they know I have a mouth full of things to say to them but they're either clueless or avoid me like the plague so that they don't have to deal with me) of this monologue I have ready for them. This is useless and does nothing for me.
Honestly, carrying around this monologue does nothing for me because in my anticipation of unleashing verbal bullets upon this person, I am also expecting something in return. What I am expecting is an apology. I know full and well that this will never happen. Expecting an apology from someone that has been both rude and tacky to you is pointless. That's like expecting an crackhead to admit they have a problem.
2. Karma has a funny way of tying up loose ends. Karma has always been good to me, I see no reason to doubt her now. (yes, I think Karma is a girl. What?)
Don't get it twisted though. Just because I let it go doesn't necessarily mean I forgiven them. Letting something go and forgiveness are two completely different things. It just means that life goes on, and I don't have time to be stressin about your punk ass.
"Life is too short and grudges are a waste of perfect happiness. Life is too short to be unhappy. Laugh when you can, apologize when you should, and let go of what you can't change. You have to take the good with the bad."
Let the church say, "Amen."
A great monologue.
A monologue that I created and have been dying to say to someone for almost two months now.
This monologue is not pretty. It does not roll off the tongue like Bronte or Dickinson, nor does this monologue make you want to fall in love like Shakespeare or Keats.
Nay, this monologue was born out of sheer unadulterated confusion, anger, frustration, and, if I'm going to be honest about this, this monologue was born out of my hurt feelings.
This monologue is bitter and cold. This monologue is not intended for children or even adults, for I'm pretty sure it is laden with the F word. This monologue is meant for only one person, and one person only. This monologue is mean. This monologue is vicious. This monologue, if I ever say it to the person I have in mind, will completely crush this persons self confidence, hurt their feelings, demoralize their well being, and probably change the way they view me for the rest of their lives.
In short, this monologue is more than just a tongue lashing. This monologue is like an AK-47. Once I unleash it onto my poor unsuspecting target, they will not be able to walk away with their head held high. They will be lucky if they will be able to pick themselves off of the floor and walk at all.
I relish the day when I can say this monologue to the person I have in mind.
And then it occurred to me.....I may never get to do this. I may never get to tell this person I think they are full of shit, a coward, and a jerk. This put an unexpected "kink" in my plans. After all, what is the point of carrying around this monologue (and I assure you, it is a GREAT monologue) if I may never get to say it to this person?
Two things have become apparent:
1. There is no need for me to carry around this monologue. In carrying this monologue and wasting space in my head for it I am also carrying one HELL of a grudge. I'm sure the intended recipient of my monologue goes to sleep at night just fine and is totally unaware (....hm...maybe not "aware", actually I pretty sure they know I have a mouth full of things to say to them but they're either clueless or avoid me like the plague so that they don't have to deal with me) of this monologue I have ready for them. This is useless and does nothing for me.
Honestly, carrying around this monologue does nothing for me because in my anticipation of unleashing verbal bullets upon this person, I am also expecting something in return. What I am expecting is an apology. I know full and well that this will never happen. Expecting an apology from someone that has been both rude and tacky to you is pointless. That's like expecting an crackhead to admit they have a problem.
2. Karma has a funny way of tying up loose ends. Karma has always been good to me, I see no reason to doubt her now. (yes, I think Karma is a girl. What?)
Don't get it twisted though. Just because I let it go doesn't necessarily mean I forgiven them. Letting something go and forgiveness are two completely different things. It just means that life goes on, and I don't have time to be stressin about your punk ass.
"Life is too short and grudges are a waste of perfect happiness. Life is too short to be unhappy. Laugh when you can, apologize when you should, and let go of what you can't change. You have to take the good with the bad."
Let the church say, "Amen."
Saturday, June 19, 2010
Who will you suffer for?
Today, I met up with a man that I consider to be one of the kindest people I've ever encountered in my life. He has helped me, and is still helping me, through an interesting period in my life; and for that I will be eternally in debt to this man.*
I met with him today and told him quite honestly, I'm not sure what I'm doing or even where my life is going. I have this education behind me, and now it is my burden to do something with it; both for good and for bad. After four years of ruthless pursuit of education, and countless spontaneous dance sessions, margaritas, football games, and bouts of self confidence, I look at the world through a set of lenses that cause me to both care deeply and question everything around me.
In response to this he said: You and I are the same. We're both weird. Not weird as in something is wrong with us, but weird as in we suffer more than others do. Maybe it's the way we are wired or what has happened in our lives but, we see things differently. And consciously or subconsciously, because of that, we suffer. You think that because you don't know what you want to do with your life it puts you a step behind the rest, when really you're not. We're all in this mess together. We're all just onions and carrots floating around in the broth of life.
This struck a chord with me, mainly because I thought the whole soup analogy was funny, but also because I had never pondered what was at the core of his statement. Do I suffer? And, if so, why? There's always the saying that artists suffer for their art, hence the whole starving artist stereotype, but this theory had never really been presented to me in such a way. Upon further pondering on the notion of suffering I decided that there are, of course, many kinds of suffering; but what causes us to suffer? What causes me to suffer? I guess if I had to pick an overarching theme, I'd say my diagnosis has caused me to suffer greatly. My sanity, self confidence, education, personal safety, relationships, my pride, and even my vanity have all suffered at the hands of my diagnosis. I classify these issues as "big things". These take their toll on me, but aside from the suffering that stems from that particular source, there is also the suffering that I, as well as others, endure on a day to day basis. It is the suffering we endure daily that truly challenges sanity.
The daily suffering I speak of is knowing you have something to contribute to the world, but have no idea how to do it. The suffering I speak of is seeing injustice but remaining silent out of fear of the consequences of speaking out. The suffering I speak of is seeing something that is culturally or morally wrong, and pointing it out only to be ridiculed for "taking it too seriously".
Suffering.
Maybe there is some truth in that. Maybe I do suffer. I suffer due to the fact that I know I'm sensitive and will try my damnest to hide it in moments where I feel my temper beginning to get the best of me or when my eyes become glazed with the evidence of tears. I suffer when I am in the presence of someone I believe to be ignorant and want nothing more than to unleash verbal bullets upon them. I suffer when I see theater I don't like, but don't want to say everything that was wrong with it out of fear for being labeled pretentious.
However, I suffer the most due to the fact that I am sensitive to those who are ignored. All through high school, and even as a child, I craved nothing more that to simply be heard. So, when I see people who are not being heard and whose wants and needs are being ignored or written off as unimportant, it puts me back in that place and I feel like I am being suffocated and stifled just like them. Maybe that's why I have no tolerance for people or institutions that stand in the way of civil rights and justice. Maybe that's why I voted no of Prop 8.
I especially suffer when I run into someone I used to be romantically involved with only to become painfully aware of how I still feel about that person and how they feel about me. I suffer because I know there will probably never be a moment in time where both of us will be able to put aside our egos, let go of our insecurities, banish self consciousness, and tear down the invisible walls we built around ourselves as a means of protection, and honestly ask each other "what happened?"
I suffer because instead of taking a leap of faith and saying something to that person, I smile politely while I secretly die on the inside. I suffer because I am not as brave as I like to think I am.
A few weeks ago, I came across a quote that struck me in an odd way:
"Truth is, everybody is going to hurt you; you just gotta find the ones worth suffering for."
--Bob Marley
My question is, how do you decide who is worth suffering for? And, more importantly, how do you tell someone that you would be willing to suffer for just for them?
*After telling the person I referred to at the beginning of this blog that I had mentioned him in my blog he insisted that he didn't mind if I used his name. The person I speak of is Ken Parker. He is located in Berkeley and I reccomend him to any and everyone. E-mail me if you would like to contact him and gain infinite words of wisdom :
I met with him today and told him quite honestly, I'm not sure what I'm doing or even where my life is going. I have this education behind me, and now it is my burden to do something with it; both for good and for bad. After four years of ruthless pursuit of education, and countless spontaneous dance sessions, margaritas, football games, and bouts of self confidence, I look at the world through a set of lenses that cause me to both care deeply and question everything around me.
In response to this he said: You and I are the same. We're both weird. Not weird as in something is wrong with us, but weird as in we suffer more than others do. Maybe it's the way we are wired or what has happened in our lives but, we see things differently. And consciously or subconsciously, because of that, we suffer. You think that because you don't know what you want to do with your life it puts you a step behind the rest, when really you're not. We're all in this mess together. We're all just onions and carrots floating around in the broth of life.
This struck a chord with me, mainly because I thought the whole soup analogy was funny, but also because I had never pondered what was at the core of his statement. Do I suffer? And, if so, why? There's always the saying that artists suffer for their art, hence the whole starving artist stereotype, but this theory had never really been presented to me in such a way. Upon further pondering on the notion of suffering I decided that there are, of course, many kinds of suffering; but what causes us to suffer? What causes me to suffer? I guess if I had to pick an overarching theme, I'd say my diagnosis has caused me to suffer greatly. My sanity, self confidence, education, personal safety, relationships, my pride, and even my vanity have all suffered at the hands of my diagnosis. I classify these issues as "big things". These take their toll on me, but aside from the suffering that stems from that particular source, there is also the suffering that I, as well as others, endure on a day to day basis. It is the suffering we endure daily that truly challenges sanity.
The daily suffering I speak of is knowing you have something to contribute to the world, but have no idea how to do it. The suffering I speak of is seeing injustice but remaining silent out of fear of the consequences of speaking out. The suffering I speak of is seeing something that is culturally or morally wrong, and pointing it out only to be ridiculed for "taking it too seriously".
Suffering.
Maybe there is some truth in that. Maybe I do suffer. I suffer due to the fact that I know I'm sensitive and will try my damnest to hide it in moments where I feel my temper beginning to get the best of me or when my eyes become glazed with the evidence of tears. I suffer when I am in the presence of someone I believe to be ignorant and want nothing more than to unleash verbal bullets upon them. I suffer when I see theater I don't like, but don't want to say everything that was wrong with it out of fear for being labeled pretentious.
However, I suffer the most due to the fact that I am sensitive to those who are ignored. All through high school, and even as a child, I craved nothing more that to simply be heard. So, when I see people who are not being heard and whose wants and needs are being ignored or written off as unimportant, it puts me back in that place and I feel like I am being suffocated and stifled just like them. Maybe that's why I have no tolerance for people or institutions that stand in the way of civil rights and justice. Maybe that's why I voted no of Prop 8.
I especially suffer when I run into someone I used to be romantically involved with only to become painfully aware of how I still feel about that person and how they feel about me. I suffer because I know there will probably never be a moment in time where both of us will be able to put aside our egos, let go of our insecurities, banish self consciousness, and tear down the invisible walls we built around ourselves as a means of protection, and honestly ask each other "what happened?"
I suffer because instead of taking a leap of faith and saying something to that person, I smile politely while I secretly die on the inside. I suffer because I am not as brave as I like to think I am.
A few weeks ago, I came across a quote that struck me in an odd way:
"Truth is, everybody is going to hurt you; you just gotta find the ones worth suffering for."
--Bob Marley
My question is, how do you decide who is worth suffering for? And, more importantly, how do you tell someone that you would be willing to suffer for just for them?
*After telling the person I referred to at the beginning of this blog that I had mentioned him in my blog he insisted that he didn't mind if I used his name. The person I speak of is Ken Parker. He is located in Berkeley and I reccomend him to any and everyone. E-mail me if you would like to contact him and gain infinite words of wisdom :
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
Quote of the Day
When I was a freshman in high school, I started a book of quotes. Already you can tell I was kind of weird. While everyone else was collecting Jordan's, charm bracelets, boyfriends, hickeys and even a few STD's I collected quotes.
One of my favorite quotes came upon me during a class with one of my favorite English teachers, Mr. P. We were reading Stephen King short stories (i.e. Stand By Me, Rita Hayworth and the Shawshank Redemption, etc..) I came along a quote that was written as the prologue to his story The Body. Normally, I don't read prologues. I like to skip them and get straight to the good stuff. However, for some reason (possibly due to the urging of my teacher Mr. P), I found myself reading the prologue.
In the Prologue, Mr. King talks about what it is like to be at a total loss for words. Basically, what it means to be left speechless. This is only my third post on this blog, and already you might be noticing a theme. There have been few times in my life where someone or something has left me speechless; hence my obsession with photographs and their value being placed at uh thousand words : )
The truth is,I have always had difficulty explaining myself to someone. I'd like to give myself some credit and say that I am a very articulate individual, but when it comes to things that are dear to me like secrets or, I dare say, affairs of the heart, I can never quite find the right words to say what I want to say. I am essentially speechless. This has been an ongoing problem of mine that I doubt will ever go away or be wholly fixed.
Until my Junior year of high school, I had never really been able to put into words why it is so difficult for me, or people like me, to pour out their heart, ideas, fears, hopes, and even dreams to those who are genuinely interested. Mr. King's answer to why verbalizing what is in our hearts to others is difficult is simple. The things we keep locked inside of us, whether it be a secret, a fear, a hope, or a dream, are too important and mean too much to us to even try and put into words. He argues that we are afraid to share our most private aspirations and secrets with people not because we are cowards, but because we fear we will not be understood.
Read on:
"The most important things are the hardest things to say. They are the things you get ashamed of, because words diminish them - words shrink things that seemed limitless when they were in your head to no more than living size when they're brought out.
But it's more than that, isn't it?
The most important things lie too close to wherever your secret heart is buried, like landmarks to a treasure your enemies would love to steal away. And you may make revelations that cost you dearly only to have people look at you in a funny way, not understanding what you've said at all, or why you thought it was so important that you almost cried while you were saying it.
That's the worst, I think. When the secret stays locked within not for want of a teller, but for want of an understanding ear."
Maybe Moulin Rouge was wrong. To love and be loved in return is wonderful, but to love and be loved by someone who understands you even when you don't understand yourself....that's amazing...just amazing.
One of my favorite quotes came upon me during a class with one of my favorite English teachers, Mr. P. We were reading Stephen King short stories (i.e. Stand By Me, Rita Hayworth and the Shawshank Redemption, etc..) I came along a quote that was written as the prologue to his story The Body. Normally, I don't read prologues. I like to skip them and get straight to the good stuff. However, for some reason (possibly due to the urging of my teacher Mr. P), I found myself reading the prologue.
In the Prologue, Mr. King talks about what it is like to be at a total loss for words. Basically, what it means to be left speechless. This is only my third post on this blog, and already you might be noticing a theme. There have been few times in my life where someone or something has left me speechless; hence my obsession with photographs and their value being placed at uh thousand words : )
The truth is,I have always had difficulty explaining myself to someone. I'd like to give myself some credit and say that I am a very articulate individual, but when it comes to things that are dear to me like secrets or, I dare say, affairs of the heart, I can never quite find the right words to say what I want to say. I am essentially speechless. This has been an ongoing problem of mine that I doubt will ever go away or be wholly fixed.
Until my Junior year of high school, I had never really been able to put into words why it is so difficult for me, or people like me, to pour out their heart, ideas, fears, hopes, and even dreams to those who are genuinely interested. Mr. King's answer to why verbalizing what is in our hearts to others is difficult is simple. The things we keep locked inside of us, whether it be a secret, a fear, a hope, or a dream, are too important and mean too much to us to even try and put into words. He argues that we are afraid to share our most private aspirations and secrets with people not because we are cowards, but because we fear we will not be understood.
Read on:
"The most important things are the hardest things to say. They are the things you get ashamed of, because words diminish them - words shrink things that seemed limitless when they were in your head to no more than living size when they're brought out.
But it's more than that, isn't it?
The most important things lie too close to wherever your secret heart is buried, like landmarks to a treasure your enemies would love to steal away. And you may make revelations that cost you dearly only to have people look at you in a funny way, not understanding what you've said at all, or why you thought it was so important that you almost cried while you were saying it.
That's the worst, I think. When the secret stays locked within not for want of a teller, but for want of an understanding ear."
Maybe Moulin Rouge was wrong. To love and be loved in return is wonderful, but to love and be loved by someone who understands you even when you don't understand yourself....that's amazing...just amazing.
Sunday, June 6, 2010
You Know It's Summer When.....
You can't remember the last time you went outside:
You can't remember when you really stopped to truly smell the roses. Or any flower that might come your way. Whether they be orange:
or pink:
or even yellow:
Smelling the roses/flowers is good and all, but I must confess. For me, I know it's summer when I have the time to create crazy creations on my nails:
I can't even begin to describe how many fricken coats of that shimmery gold I had to apply to get it to look like that. And then I went to Sephora and they had this gold polish that simply put mine to shame. Going off the whole "smell the roses" theme, the nails are now red. For now, summer is in effect and I am doing my best to use it to my advantage.
I still don't know what I'm doing.
I am still nothing like Tinker Bell.
To be honest, I always identified more with Tiger Lily anyway.
I still don't know what I'm doing.
I am still nothing like Tinker Bell.
To be honest, I always identified more with Tiger Lily anyway.
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