I am the Beholder

I like drawing portraits because I believe that each person is unique by their eyes, nose, and mouth in three alone. Sort of a unique trinity. I like trying my best to capture that. I also believe that the eye of the beholder sees each feature just a little bit differently. Through my drawings, I like to show people what my eyes and what my hands see.

I think my next obstacle is to evoke some kind of emotion out of each figure. Smiling for the camera is one thing; but what were they thinking or feeling when they took the picture? What are the smallest lines and wrinkled around their eyes and mouth that give it away?



It's not often that I become nervous when speaking in public, but yesterday was one of those rare occasions. It was the oddest sensation -- I nearly lost my nerves by my captivation of the phenomenon. Suddenly, my audience seemed to zoom far away, as if I was now trying to reach listeners from a great distance. My consciousness seemed to rush backwards, as though further still from my intent audience. My voice and whatever part of the brain that controls what I say felt separated from my consciousness, while my voice seemed to echo back at me as though coming from some other person. I felt as though I was a part of the confused audience, waiting and trying to make sense of what "I" was trying to say, and wondering what was coming next.

My secret? I started crying in front of the audience. They all thought that I was crying because my story was so personal and touching, but I think that I started crying because I lost my nerve in the sea of eyes and ears fixed upon me.


Dancing in the Streets

Wow, my first presidential election, and it was a big one. We're at war on the other side of the world, my father is in the military and living in another country, and my parents are homeowners. Oh, and I live in arguably the most progressive city in the country.

It's madness in the streets. I'm getting calls from my roommate, boyfriend, friends telling me about the mobs all over the campus and the main streets. I can hear loud whoops and endless honking outside the apartment.

This is it. Obama is going to be our president for the next four years. I wonder what kind of changes the world is going to see by the time I'm 24?

As we watched his speech on T.V., I felt like I was watching a scene from Heroes. I mentioned this to Lenny, and he agreed, saying that it felt like watching the future. But this isn't the future; this is now.

"Yes, we can." Alright. We'll see what comes next.


College Course. Democratic Discourse.

My professor and I found ourselves in discourse about 'democracy'; for someone so against the current state of American foreign policy, I was surprised to hear his argument that "for as long as [he] felt that he deserves democracy, [he] believe[s] that [his] brother in another country deserves it as well."

Well. Not one kind of democracy will work everywhere in the world. Everyone has different cultural values.

"This" kind of democracy, this capitalism, it's accepted in America. Does it work? For a select group, yeah it works.

But America is a place of individualism, of rising that social ladder. Not all places are like that. The Philippines, the country where American democracy (and all its hypocrisies) has been "bestowed" from the oh-so-benevolent Americans, is not a place of individualism. Kinship, community, entertainment, sustenance... the Filipinos have different priorities. But then again, who knows how long those priorities will stay the way they are--maybe American "values" will cross the Pacific in my generation, or my kids'.

Anyway. Something to munch on.

Image Source: motz under Creative Commons

123 Stephens Hall

I was shaking when I walked out that door. I was shaking when I continued down the hall, and I was trying to steady my breath as I stepped into the sunlight.

Have I tapped something here? Something real?

I wouldn't go so far as to say that my life is "falling into place", but the haze sure is clearing.

Image Source: shawnbot under Creative Commons


Who is the Wiser?

I think we're both right, though. You say we need distance. I say we still need each other, a little.

Now tell me, what's up with this withdrawal? I feel it, too. I'm trying to make it go away, I think. OK, no I'm not. I'm just feeling it... and trying to cure the "symptoms". Too much chocolate. Too much flaking out on activities. Too much procrastination. Too much sleep.

Too much hiding out.

Truth? This is why I've been calling. I do want to hear about your life, I do want to catch up. But also, these feelings of meaninglessness are so reminiscent of our teenage years. I've been calling because old habits die hard.

I suppose I'm letting myself turn inwards too much when I need to set my eyes forward.

Ahh! I can't help it! I'm so bored here. And yes! I do know that it's my own fault for not doing anything, but I'm just so bored with all the options. I need a change of scenery, a change of pace, a change of one damn thing, please!

What's with all these daydreams of getting out of college and, well, settling down? I never envisioned myself to want these things so early.

I wonder if it's because "he's the one". Ugh. Scary. Yet... true. He's amazing. Sweet. Romantic. Generous. Sexy. And fallinloveable.

Time to get out of this rut.


Save Her

I wish she would let him go. She's so much better off without him, but how do I prove that to her? She and I have become so close that I consider her a best friend of sorts. Which is why when he hurts her, I'm more angry than I would be if it were me in her place. I feel helpless. I want to protect her. I want him out of both of our lives.

No girl deserves a paranoid, selfish, manipulating, two-faced, disrespectful jack-ass of a boyfriend.

If only she could be stronger and get herself out of this situation. No one else will, and no one else can. This is a story that needs to come to an end.


Steel Strong Guitar

I am a beat up, old guitar
I sit in a stand
I stand when he sits
I am a beat up, old guitar

I am a beat up, old guitar
I do not shine
I seldom smile
I hide him when he's feeling shy
I am a beat up, old guitar

I feel no pain
I sing its name
I cry the tears he cannot make

I'm warped from time
I'm out of tune
I do not know a lie from truth

Yet I watch him sink
I feel his fall
I catch his every solemn call

He presses me to his lonely heart
I am his old, beat up guitar

Dedicated to any lonely musician

In His Hands

She craves his hands
His hands that give
His hands that lead
His hands that's never made her bleed

She holds his hands
His hands that sing
His hands so strong
His hands where her own heart belongs

She's asked for his hand
His hand that loves
His hand that prays
She breathes a sigh, and in it she lays

She hopes his hands never slip away
Dedicated to Lendl San Jose


The Clock

We operated like two churning cogs
of an intricate piece of machinery.
Our voids were filled by the other's assets as we urged each other on,
making this seemingly timeless love
run like clockwork.