đž Archived View for juhi.e-worm.club captured on 2021-12-17 at 13:26:06. Gemini links have been rewritten to link to archived content
âŹ ď¸ Previous capture (2021-12-03)
âĄď¸ Next capture (2022-01-08)
-=-=-=-=-=-=-
how I love the Big City...from the balcony of my workplace I see a boarded-up UPS store; some stranger's tidy whities hanging on a clothesline on the roof of a building; a tall 1930s looking skyscraper with a big star on top, like a hat; salesforce tower, blue with a piercing white glint; the sun setting over what was formerly known as Yerba buena, the first European settlement in San Francisco...walking up the hill up mason I was out of breath but gleeful, surrounded by the sounds of the metropolis, the millisecond faces of the downtown populace, the warmth of the December sun and the chill of the shadow...
I donned a new personality last month like a new pair of heels...listen to bladee, paint, write, lay in bed, eat takeout, watch Eva...if I were my old self I'd say maybe I was turning into chris, but my new egocentrism says its me, its all and only me(!) to fully embrace the nihilism of the world is to loose yourself of the restraints of others' opinions and desires, and I feel uniquely free in my misunderstoodness and solitude...in some ways, I feel so much like sam, but hotter, smarter, and more interesting...
in Eva they say you forget in order to keep going...that's what I BEEN saying...
up in Morrison canyon, past the tall grass, the lights of the bay glimmer as far you can see, the valley cut short only by the blackness of the bay, then of the sea. juxtaposed with the acrid nasal drip after a line of coke that appeared magically from someone's pocket, I dont know if I'd ever seen anything so beautiful. everyone for a moment was briefly silent as we looked over our beloved and hated townâgridded suburban streets turned into constellations of streetlights and lit-up bedroom windows. we'd driven up at dusk, on a whim, one fine day after school, probably in mid-winter, or maybe early spring. most of the others had been there before, but not me. I'm not sure who christened it one of the classic east bay weed-smoking spotsâwhether it predated us or whether it was discovered by one of my very own fair-weather friends. there isn't much up there at morrison canyon, except a bunch of wayward cows and an old barn at the end of the road, red but weathered with neglect. in the waning light, a bunch of the kids tried to climb a chain-link fence to get in and see what? I'm not sure, but there was barbed wire at the top and so I chickened out, along with another girl named desiree. when everyone who was bold enough climbed back down their hands were raw and bloody, reeked of rust and dirt. they promptly stuck these cut-up, red hands into bags of Doritos, donettes, and double-stuf Oreos, as we sat in a circle amid the levitated rush of the suburbs and waited for the night to pass.
stress...can't wait for the party, but also can't wait for it to be over. now, I want to paint! when painting stresses me, I distract by DJing. so it goes. I paint Catherine at don Angie, looking stylish in a houndstooth tweed jacket, sipping a cocktail with pizzazz. the faux outdoor dining-room red and suave. ori silly, Claudia on half an edible. we ate the lasagnaâI read it came with bread. the lasagna mostly ricotta, little pasta. the bread, absent. in New York I felt like a little mouse, a congested mouse, running to and fro, a mouse among rats. I crave the anonymity, the dog-eat-dog. in New York, if you aren't fast enough, you don't get your pizza. in New York you must be gruff. I think in New York the men smell like cologne. here they are too outdoorsy, wimps. somehow I am not impressed by the masculinity of climbing, or snowboarding, or diving.
I have been having issues sleeping, as usual. somewhere in the middle it got better I thought, or maybe it was because I was consuming substances on a daily basis. mom says to meditateâI read farm's sleep book and feel a little better, if wide awake at 3am. I wonder if I am going through a manic phase, and if so, what are the signs. I still feel deeply sad. to think about the tragedy of life is too much for me to bear. to see things clearly, with eyes open, would mean for us to be in perpetual anxiety, permanent panic attack. so we, ever so brightly, dull, forget, distract. such is life. yesterday I cried and cried. today I ate dip, and hot dog, and we won trivia.
the holiday atmosphere at milk bar was pleasant. I gazed out the window past the neon bar signs across the street to amoeba music, remembering when that was my holy Mecca, when I was 14 and yearning to be free. I had no record playerâonly a love for music. I listened to 169 genres this year, according to my Spotify wrapped! an eclectic taste, indeed.
the neighbor was so kind in her instagram DM, the stranger at the bar complimented my hair. how to make the words stick? it seems unfair to let them float away. Kyle sent me an article on bandcamp, turned me on to April Magazine. I listened today in the rain, a silly rain, not even cold enough to be a winter rain, only maybe 60 degrees. I dropped off my packages at UPS, someone had paid for my parking meter, I got a pair of lavender earl grey tea lattes from the coffee shop on the corner that we were obsessed with in high school that now feels dated, 2010s minimalism gone out of style these days. a quiet rainy day on haight street, Catherine said it reminded her of when she first got to the cityâhow long ago that feels now. but how short a year ago feels! it occurs to me that someone should write a song, like Stephanie says, candy saysâCatherine says...
my ego will be my fatality, my downfall, but all I would love to be is the modern Herb Caen. just like papi of hola papi Is the our chicano carrie Bradshaw, I too would love for people to read my words and feel something. to create! a most poetic beauty...
I will quit, and I will paint, and I will learn from the masters. I will write, and I will throw parties, and I will bring people together, to listen to music. to show myself at 13 what I have accomplished now...what I would give. she had no business being so sad, not when life is full of such surprises, some that are lovely, if some tragic.
I finished Homie last night, by Danez smithâsomething good to come of my insomnia. to dedicate your craft to your closest friends, the ones that make life worth living, what a sweet thing. I paint my friends because they are what I know, they are what I see, they are what I cherish, even if my mom says they don't care about me and I am wasting my time. like a puppy, docile, I will love them endlessly, their spirit, their marrow, the stuff of their soul I will immortalize, in my art, in my life, in my head. their imprint stays with me, molds me, infatuates me, even when I don't respond to their text messages. to be seen...another most poetic beauty.
ive been slacking on my writingâI haven't observed much of anything, recently. my sleep is weak and so I am on 50%, I feel a little dumb and slow, in my head I confused Huey p. newton with Fred Hampton, embarrassing. I don't want to get dumberâI want it to go up from here, but sometimes it is hard with so little stimulation, so little challenge. I think I need to go back to school...
I decided I won't be the type of girl who lets herself be abused, in factâI refuse! I'm ghosting the flaneur, which to everyone else seems to be the most obvious thing to do, but to me somehow it felt vague and subjective. the poison that my upbringing has left in me...the first thing is to believe that I deserve better, a tough thing to do.
I like the name April magazine. march magazine, June magazine, September magazine. October magazine. they just dont have the same ring to it. I've been listening to my high school winter playlist and it makes me :') to listen to these songs again that carry such emotional weight, I know them by heart, but haven't listened to them in years and years. a few favorites: fall of '82 by the shins; the loneliness inside me is a place by empire! empire! (I was a lonely estate); where does the good go by Tegan and Sara; bobcaygeon by the tragically hip; highway patrol stun gun by youth lagoon; you're not the one by sky Ferreira. I remember when I was sad that the tragically hip guy was going to die; I looked it up today, he died in 2017. crazy...
three pumpkins I
counted. his nob hill apartment
sparse and adolescent.
union larder on
Hyde street. overheard yuppies chatting
europe and cryptocurrency.
not very loud
but still maddening is the hiss
from the pipe.
Catherine makes dinner
as we don gold face masks
curious, meandering, young.
I 'bad texter',
you 'bad texter', we will
never meet again.
dinner tonight: a
snickers bar from my backpack
half-eaten, chewy.
'your Mac will
sleep soon unless plugged into
a power outlet.'
I
in the afternoon sun, gleaming
lofty pillars of engraved gold
sacred Bethel of st. Ignatius
II
Jesuit students amble along Parker
backpacks and books in tow
on sunny weekdays in September.
St. Ignatius towers behind them
welcoming basilica for bright young things.
III
opposite the Carmelite monastery of Cristo Rey,
bricks roseate in the early morning light,
the bastion of Ignatius, saint's stalwart temple.
IV
the 5 runs up and down fulton
I wait patiently in the chilly autumn,
gazing upwards at st. Ignatiusâbelfry, lantern, spire
V
through the nighttime Richmond fog,
the amber glow of recessed lights
guards the citadel of st. Ignatius
VI
tearful to morning dew in my parked car on Parker
the reflection of st. Ignatius graces my windshield
a beacon of hope in the nightfall black
VII
st. Ignatius, first a ramshackle construction of wood
on Market between 4th and 5th. then, brickâ
to the corner of Hayes and Van Ness, until
its untimely demise in 1906. sepulchered at Davies,
then to Parker and Fulton in 1912â in 2021,
the clock tower dings on the hour, echoing
through my Victorian bay window.
VIII
smartly-dressed retirees file through the nave
on a crisp Sunday morning, taking their seats
for a cheerful st. Ignatius mass.
VIX
I plop onto a pew at st. ignatius
ruminate on the void
greedily search for something
worthy of a shrine
X
bald mouse man, sainted Ignatius of Loyola
beatified 53 years postmortem (victim of Roman Fever)
Basque native, presides over our 48 hills
XI
white prep school kids from st Ignatius,
archidiocese of San Francisco, drink vodka sodas
out of solo cups at raucous high school parties
in gaudy mansions in pacific heights.
XII
basking in the sun on the lawn east of st. ignatius
collegiate revelers enjoy their leisure, nostalgia looming
I envy their youth and naĂŻvetĂŠ from afarâwondering
how did i get so bitter, at only 23?
XIII
sometimes the doors at st. Ignatius are open, and
no one is around. I sidle into the westerly arcade
for a faint whiff of conviction, exposure to some anonymous faith.
I pray it rubs off on meâpray it imparts some wisdom,
that I can adopt an optimism foreign to my own.