North bound monarchs

I was cycling back from school today and there were monarch butterflies abound all headed in the opposing direction. Normally, butterflies are a pleasant addition to a sunny spring afternoon, but these little buggers were a hazard.

A few bugs flying at your face while you're cycling briskly on a downward slope is an annoyance, but when heaps are flying at your face its slightly painful. I mean imagine a bug hitting your windshield at 20-25 mph. Now imagine that windshield...is your face. The beauty of spring and rebirth is lost at impact.

This reminds me of the time I went barreling down the steep steep Bond Street in Auckland New Zealand late one night when I huge moth flew into my mouth just as I was yawning. The little bugger almost choked me.

On a more positive note- clearly summer is around the bend and after two winters I couldn't be more pleased. I am so excited- especially with how much cycling will be had! Even with all the bugs.

wtf

I don't know what the hell is going on here, but I would say since I got back to America men I know have been randomly offering me sex. WTF is wrong with my life? People don't feel they need to woo me anymore? They think mid conversation they can blurt out I am hot offer up their body in case I am ever bored and I will shrug my shoulders and say, "Sure why not?"

How can I be simultaneously hot and so hard up for sex that I will gleefully accept any crotch that comes my way?

I don’t know why I even try with the blog world. I keep them so poorly. This little guy was dead on arrival and yet I tend to it occasionally. How pointless. I feel like a crazed mother carrying around a still born.

But I have come to a revelation this very moment as I am putting off studying for my biology exam. Perhaps I could use this blog to babble daily about things that are bothering me or things I find interesting and then others can choose whether or not they want to know all the random thoughts in my head rather than me forcing these thoughts on others conversationally. And so here it is…one big brain fart for people to voluntarily smell.

Hizzah!

Another post...finally!!

I don't know about me and this blog. My maintenance is so sub- par it's almost shameful. I have been living in New Zealand 9 months and I barely have 9 posts. I figured I'd break the cycle with a blog babbling about my life as it is, was, and shall be.

First off, I can't believe it is June. Christ, time flies! It's very odd to be ushering in the winter months when your system naturally tells you that summer is a comin'. I haven't been on a vacation since April, though March and April were some heavy travel months. First, I went over to Australia for a few weeks, mainly with the goal of making it up the Gold Coast to dive at the Great Barrier Reef- which by the way was awesome. I quite like Australia, because of three main reasons 1) that shits hot and sunny and I love hot and sunny weather 2) things are way cheap there. Maybe not US cheap, but compared to New Zealand the goods seem almost free (even after the exchange rate!) and 3) there are lots of outdoor adventure activities to do, and while there are also a crap load of deadly animals lurking within close range as you do them it is still loads of fun.

While I was in Australia I visited some wild life reserves, shopped at all the wonderful shops in downtown Brisbane, visited Cairns, dove at The Great Barrier Reef, sand boarded (this involves riding a snowboard of sorts down a huge sand dune and then crawling back up the sand dune to do it again) on Morton Island (one of the only two Islands made entirely of sand!), and snorkeled among ship wrecks.

After Australia I came back to New Zealand and embarked on two rather "pricey" more "upscale" trips as Julie's parents were coming into town. First stop- Nelson and Abel Tasman National Park located in the northern most point of the beautiful South Island. The trip to Nelson was about a 1hr45min flight on the smallest plane I have even flown in. It was a 24 seater plane and because it is so small has to fly much lower. Flying lower has the upside of being closer to amazing scenery and the downside of being more turbulent.

Nelson is the sunniest spot in New Zealand and an artsy little town. I hope to one day live there, after I garner a highly lucrative career. We visited Julie's friend Ben and fortunate for us, came down during his birthday weekend - which meant a delicious birthday dinner. Then we made our way to Abel Tasman National Park. Getting around the park required a lot of high speed water taxis which lead to bumpy rides and some nauseas looking faces. I don't get motion sickness and thus was having a blast. I am certain my joyful laughter and large smile made all those barfing off the side hate me.

We picked a great time to visit. Summer was ending and thus there were far less tourists. With the weather cooling down it meant the powerful NZ sun wasn't as dangerous, though it was still warm and sunny. We spent the first day sea kayaking and paddled out to a seal colony a few miles offshore. The second day we went on a small day hike which resulted in us waiting almost two hours for low tide so that we could cross and get back to our lodge. I passed the time catching little crabs in the mud and then we all attempted to say the states in alphabetical order. The final day Julie, Nico, Julie's dad, and I all decided to hike back to civilization. It was a 26 mile hike and took about seven and a half hours. It would have been better had we packed more water. Half way through we ran out of safe water to drink so we were all dying of thirst by the end. We made it out alive and returned to Nelson for a lovely farewell Indian dinner with Ben and his family.

Then we returned to Auckland hopped in a car and drove up to the Bay of Islands for our 3 day sailing trip. This trip was awesome! We lived aboard a 72 foot yacht and had all our delicious meals made for us by the skipper Jochen and his first mate Steven. There was also an adorable dog named Moby aboard. We caught all the fish we ate, went free diving in the ocean were we wrestled muscles off rocks (those things are very hard to rip off rocks and you can easily cut your hands) which we later threw on the BBQ, snorkeled, and hiked. The best part was that the Bay of Islands is loaded with sea life. We had penguins, ordinary dolphins, and bottle nose dolphins swim alongside our boat. Had we made this trip in September we would have also seen Orcas (Killer Whales.)

There is much more I hope to elaborate in person. If you want to see photos and some video visit the links below.


Australia
http://www.flickr.com/photos/melfonseca/sets/72157604218919779/

South Island Abel Tasman
http://www.flickr.com/photos/melfonseca/sets/72157605166762248/


North Island Bay of Islands
http://www.flickr.com/photos/melfonseca/sets/72157604520977378/



As for what I am doing now- I am gearing up for backpacking across New Zealand. Shelly (my friend from UC Berkeley) is coming to New Zealand! I had given up any hope on having a visitor, but bless her heart she is coming. I will be spending the next month exploring this amazing country even further. First, flying into Christchurch, located in the South Island, and then who knows! I do know it will include hiking glaciers and snowboarding in the lovely ski resort town of Queenstown, but really we shall just be winging the trip. Then it's back to the North Island for some hikes to find natural hot pools and hopefully a trip to the Waitomo caves.

I have decided to stay in New Zealand longer than planned. I would apply for a two year visa, but grad school is calling. Instead the plan is to leave New Zealand when my visa expires and re-enter on a visitor's visa. Thus, in September I will spend two months backpacking across South East Asia. I am going to Thailand were I will live on an island and getting my diving license, travel around Thailand, explore Cambodia, and make my way across all of Vietnam.

Finally, I will return to New Zealand, granted immigration lets me back in. And hoping there is no troubles along the way- a run in with a land mine in Asia or problems with immigration, I will be stateside in November. Then it is goodbye life of travels and hello grad school. Well- I may travel a bit when I go to Washington DC in January for Barack Obama's inauguration. On that blissful note I say. Farewell, see you soon, and most importantly OBAMA 2008.

Another crazy ass dream

I am sleeping on an international flight. The cabin is a completely dark except for a white light bordering the door of the cockpit. I am awakened when I feel the plane begin to descend. Looking out the window it’s nothing but dark clouds, bolts of lightening, and flashes of red. The pilot announces on the loudspeaker that because of the storm we will have to fly rather low and though the plane begins to spiral, the decent is calm and I feel safe.

The plane is forced to land and proceeds down an empty street, what looks like London only the roads are rather wide. Narrowly missing power lines the pilot announces the plane has been taken over by Satan and suddenly we are thrust into a cold icy river by the devils rage. I remember that my sister and my grandfather are also somewhere on the flight and realize neither can swim, but that I can only search for and save one. My grandfather (by the way I have never met either of my grandfathers- one died long before I was born and the other left my parent long before they were born) is an old white man, and in realizing he is old I recall he has lived his life fully and that it is my sister I am meant to save. Unfortunately, I cannot find her.

Suddenly, I find myself on a sunny boardwalk at an ANZ cash machine. I need $400 to help me as I try to find my sister. I am not certain if she has drowned, and even though I have no proof she is alive I hope that, like me, she is trying to find her way home and perhaps if I also head home she and I will cross paths. The cash machine sadly does not give me any money. Instead it gives me a note. The note appears very old- it is typed out using a type writer on paper that has turned brown with age. It tells me to go to a shop at the end of the boardwalk to collect my money. Frustrated and confused I run to the end of the boardwalk and enter a small shop full of knick knacks. An old bell signals my entrance and a taxidermy owl resting above the doorway stares down at incoming patrons. The store is cluttered with stuff, a woman tries on a skirt in the corner, while the setting sun tells me its twilight and I am losing precious time. An old woman sits behind the counter. She wears a long tight dress made of black lace the cuffs of her dress are long and flowing over old wrinkled hands with long nails. I give her the note. She goes the register and produces two vouchers. “Visit the website to get your money” she tells me.” “Visit this website to get my money? What the fuck! I don’t have time for a scavenger hunt I just want my money so I can go home.” “Visit the website to get your money” she repeats looking down at some paper work. “Fuck!” I say before leaving the shop.

Its getting dark outside, and I know its not safe, after all for some reason Satan is pissed off at the passengers aboard my flight and so I know I have to quickly find a place to stay. I remember I know someone in the area. A friend of mine who lives here with her mother and so I run to the house before it gets dark. The friend turns out to be Anna Carloni from my days living in the UC Berkeley cooperative Hoyt Hall. Anna has a spare bed in her room. She says I can stay the night and I can also use her computer to visit the website to get my money.

The room is small and pink with no windows. I feel miserable inside it. A visit to the website tells me that cashing out on my vouchers equals a donation of 30% of the withdraw amount to the US Military. I am pissed off. I need the money, but I certainly do not want to fund the US Military, but it appears that if I want to access any of my money a donation is required. “Perhaps,” I start to think, “I can earn money as I go so I don’t have to take money from my account.” I decide to sleep on it.

The following morning as I am getting dressed I feel as though I am being watched and I notice from the corner of my eye a very strange doll, about a foot high, is watching me. Sitting upright its body is covered in thick black fur, but it has the hands and feet of an infant. The face is also human, but it is that of a young man, handsome and in his mid twenties with black hair and blue eyes, wearing something that resembles a gas mask of sorts. His face, hands and feet are plastic, but his piercing blue eyes are distinctly human. As I turn to make eye contact his eyes suddenly shift and freeze to stare into space directly ahead of him. Half dressed I walk over to the doll, lean into his face and say, “ I know you are alive so you may as well talk to me.” His eyes blink and stare into mine. Suddenly he blows out a gust of air to push the mask off his face to rest on the top of his head. This, and all future movements, suggest that he can only move his head, but something tells me he has the ability to move his entire body. For some reason he chooses to hide this from me. I am immediately suspicious, but I decide to talk to him to emphasize the fact that I know he is alive, and cannot catch me by surprise.

“Have you watched many women change?” I ask as he turns his head almost 180 degrees to keep eye contact with me as I walk to the other side of the room towards my bag. “Yes,” he explains in a calm unnerving voice, “I have watched many women dress and undress.” His voice is kind, but he sounds slightly bitter and hateful. “Any real horror stories or have most been pleasant?” I ask. “Most are young women so everyone has been relatively attractive.” “What are your thoughts of me?” I question starring directly into his eyes. He pauses for a moment, looks towards where I was sleeping, and answers, “You look very peaceful when you sleep. You have beautiful lips.” “I get that a lot,” I reply. Then I take up my bag and keeping eye contact with the doll I exit the room and find myself on the street.

At this point, I was woken up by a noise in my flat (this is in real life), and I am awake for a few seconds before I go back to sleep. I return to the same dream. I am on the boardwalk again, walking and hoping that my sister has not drowned. Then in the distance I see her. She is alive and smiling, and the last bit of my dream that I can remember is of me crying because I am so happy. I am laughing and crying as I walk towards her. Then I officially wake up.

Obama’s race speech aired while I was traveling around Australia and since I didn’t have access to a computer with sound I was left reading the transcript. Both read and heard the speech is powerfully moving and reminded me of my American experience of being biracial in a country with a background as culturally diverse as my own.

It seems a lot of people are puzzled by my physical appearance and I can see in their skewed faces that they are trying to place the source of my DNA. Most eventually ask and when I mention my ethnic background the response is always the same, “That’s an interesting mix.” I never know how to respond to this comment. I usually simply say, “Yeah, I guess so.”

“That’s an interesting mix.” It sounds like something one would say after eating vanilla ice cream with Tabasco sauce. “This food combination seems improbable, but now its existence is merely interesting.” It’s not to say I mind the comment. It could very well be a positive statement, “It’s interesting that people from such different countries came together and had you.” Yet, when it’s uttered I can’t help imagine someone looking down and saying the same phrase to an interesting looking dish. “That’s an interesting mix.”

A few years ago my friend asked me if I ever run into “problems” being mixed race. Do I identify as Latina or do I identify as Asian (Filipino)? I never thought about it before, because, in my own heart, I never felt the need to connect more with one than the other. I told him I felt a connection to both. When I hear Spanish I feel safe, when I see a cluster of Filipino women at the market I feel welcomed. I don’t lean towards one side over the other because when I look into a mirror I see both. When look back on my life I see it through the lens of both cultures. I am Nicaraguan just as much as I am Filipino. I speak Spanish, but have slanted eyes.

However, socially these sentiments do not universally ring true. While I connect simultaneously with both cultures there are others who feel I should bend more towards one than the other. When Latinos realize I am Latina they are excited and welcome me. When Filipinos realize I am Filipino they kiss me on the cheek and invite me to future events. People who have never met me suddenly feel a seemingly unbreakable connection with me. I am valued and trusted because we share a similar genetic code. Yet, after the initial excitement I mention that I am actually mixed race and whoever I am talking to lets their smile drop into a flat line of mild disappointment. They look at me for a moment, sizing me up, and then the smile returns they pat my back and say, “that’s ok…we will…” and then launch into some cultural activity we will experience together.

Yet, even though they have decided to welcome me, there is a part of me that feels unwelcome. Suddenly, I am not Filipino enough or Latina enough and in order to compensate for this lack I will be given a cultural lesson. Previous dinner invitations are retracted and I am no longer invited to dinner, but invited to come over to learn how to make lumpia. This is not to say that I don’t appreciate cultural lessons- I welcome them whole heartedly because I accept the reality that there are scores of facts I don’t know about either of my ethnic backgrounds. But to suddenly make the assumption that I know nothing because I am only half Latina or half Filipina is insulting and hurtful. Just because I am not solely connected to one culture does not mean I am completely disconnected from both.

The result of such interactions is a feeling of apprehension of letting Latinos know I am Asian and letting Asians know I am Latino. The look of disappointment is unbearable because it makes me feel an unmanageable sense of lack. Suddenly, the cultures I felt so connected with are far away and not only am I unable to reach them I am no longer deserving of being able to do so.

So, yes, I do experience problems with being mixed race. I feel the burden of never being “enough” to be fully accepted. I feel the pressure of having to label myself one or the other. I am only allowed to “Check One Box” on application forms and will forever be labeled as “other.”

I love bikes!

This Tuesday was Go by Bike Breakfast here in Auckland- or as I like to say because it's shorter "Bike to Work." I have never actually partaken in Bike to Work events back in the States, though I certainly did bike to work. Go by Bike Breakfast was quiet fun and I wish I could bike to work like that everyday.

Nico, Julie, and I were already cycling into to town at 6:45 that morning- hoping to
get to breakfast in the CBD before the lines formed. It was a perfect morning. The sun slowly raised golden pink above the trees, while the air smelled cold and crisp. It was a perfect morning for a group bike ride. We arrived early at 7am and there were already a fair amount of cyclists there.

Loving bikes so, my heart swelled at the site of bike rack after bike rack after bike rack. Below are some photos from the event.










Because I am lazy and have limited time I shall bullet point my favourite aspects of the event.

1) The red carpet to breakfast. Hell yeah! I think it's about time us cyclists received such treatment for our willingness to sweat our asses off for the good of Mother Nature.

2) Cyclops chocolate yogurt. This was fantastic and this is one of the reasons why I could never be vegan.

3) The event included what they termed "cycle buses" which meant large groups of people cycling together who were equip with GPS trackers so we were able to track their progress and see just how long it took people to commute into the city via bike from various locations.

4) Competitions- cyclist racing cars and buses. The event arranged people to take the same route to work by bus, car, or bike. Out of all but one competition the bike beat the car or bus. Woo hoo! One cyclist who beat a car came to talk at the mic looking very tired. She was of course a cycle courier (bike messenger), and so was able to beat a car at 6:30am when there is virtually no traffic, which is impressive. She is my hero. One bus did however beat a cyclist, but I would like to note that they were coming into the CBD from the North Shore so while the bus got to go straight over the bridge the cyclist had to take a round about way to catch a ferry across the bay and then cycle into the CBD.

Today I attended Critical Mass after work and it was exponentially larger than any of us had imagined. Last time it was like 10 people and today it was 100. I hope to get some pictures from Adam and Steve from the event to post.

Who are you?

Who the hell even reads this blog? IDENTIFY YOURSELVES!


Love,
Mellie-pooh

I was cycling up a steep hill this morning, and as I felt my legs burn with each stroke and my mouth grow drier with each breath I literally thought to myself, "Damn it's great to be alive." I have this realization every so often, in the middle of a conversation, cycling, eating ice cream, visiting a museum, departing a plane after a long flight. It's usually accompanied by a deep breath and a smirk.

A few years ago I was talking to a Christian friend of mine on a road trip and she explained that her belief in God is partly founded on the idea that there is a better life beyond this one. That to be terse- all this shit ain't for nothing. She asked how I can manage to deal with the craptastic state of the world without the hope of something more meaningful waiting for me when it's all over.

I don't particularly remember what I said, but I think it was along the ineloquent lines of, "Yeah, life can defiantly suck at times, but I feel my good moments were immeasurably good and they seem to compensate for all the bad. And even at the end of my worst days I still exist and all I can really do is try to make the best of what time I have been given. And if it all ends when I am 80 years old and life has left me a miserable ball of pain…well at least I tried."

It probably wasn't the best explanation for finding meaning in my existence without the light of a higher power, but it's how I felt…or more so how I feel. Life is indeed bruising and tumultuous and I cannot say mine in particular has been easy. I remember the frustration I felt as a child- as my upbringing was particularly rocky. I won't get into the finer details, because I am not asking anyone to feel sorry for me. Lets just say when people ask why I feel a certain way about family or other things in the world I tell a childhood story in which the response is usually, "fuck" followed by relief that I somehow managed to turn out sane.

But the reality of my life is that while I am not the product of a particularly nurturing environment my parents afforded me a lifestyle and childhood exponentially better than their own, and for that I am profoundly grateful. And even though I was an angry frustrated child, I was a happy one. I had a mother, who despite psychotic episodes, I knew loved me dearly, and a father, who though I may not have seen him often, did whatever was in his power to help me when I needed it. I also found myself among stellar teachers, delightful friends, and a solid set of amazing sibilings. Life for the most part was good.

And it seems to only get better. At the start of each year I long desperately for the one before, thinking, "2006 was awesome I don't want it to end." Only to find myself a year later exclaiming, '2007 was awesome. I don't want it to end." But what exactly is it about each year of my life that makes it spectacular, that lets me trudge through the chaos without the inspiration of a shining promise land at the end of the tunnel? In short it's my ability to love and be loved. It's the fantastic truth that each year I find myself surrounded by amazing people who for some reason or another like/love me. It's learning new things, experiencing new places, growing closer with my parents, falling down making a mess and surmounting the embarrassment and pain of failure to come out- even if mildly so- a better person.

I was at an event the other day in which a man quoted Zulu folklore stating, "A person is a person because of people." And so I say thank you to all the people in my life for making me a person. For making me feel excited to be alive even when it is uncertain life is worth living, because it is my experiences and interactions with you all that make me think, "Life isn't so bad and even if this is as good as it gets…its pretty kick ass." I would also like to thank my parents (who don't read this blog) for providing my DNA- it's a really a great set of genes. Additionally, thank you for providing the DNA for my older sister Adie, because, as I am sure you noticed, she is pretty awesome.

Me think me getting stupid

Ever since I finished up at UC Berkeley I have felt that my intellectual capabilities are on a steady decent. A number of my friends, post graduation, shared the same sentiment. When you are no longer spending entire days being intellectually challenged, in lectures, in sections, in exam reviews, writing papers, doing problem sets, you start to feel maybe your mind isn't working as much as it could, as much as it needs to in order to maintain performance levels.

When I first finished at Berkeley I was excited. Finally, I would have time to do all the things I wanted to do. I could spend more time outdoors being physically active, I could take up an instrument, draw, learn to sew, and to once again read fiction! I was enthused. While the courses I enrolled in at Berkeley were pleasurable and naturally chosen based on my own interests graduation meant I was now free to stimulate my mind in whatever way I wanted.

The only problem is, now that I am no longer applying the political and philosophical theories I had studied on a daily basis at Berkeley I am beginning to slowly forget the finer details of what I learned. My first real job was in publishing, and though stimulating, it was not technically putting my degree to use. During marketing meetings when I am looking at a naked breast covered in honey and my client asks me whether a matted or glossy finish would work best Gentile's theory of society as the vehicle for self actualization doesn't come up much.

And while I am reading more fiction I have no one to share my thoughts with. Most often no one is reading the same books as me, and so when my mind brilliantly formulates some literary analysis I have no one to contradict or challenge my views, and no one to share with me their own. Outside of school my mind is certainly working, but it's not being challenged in the same manner or at the same level it used to. It's not to say it's never challenged and that I surround myself with non intellectual people who fail to question my viewpoints. It's more so the level at which I have to prove my point and the frequency with which I am challenged has diminished. If my friend fails to agree with my viewpoint on a particular argument they won't give me a C and destroy any chances of getting into a decent grad school. Instead they will (most likely) agree to disagree and end the debate on more peaceful terms.

So…errr…what is this diatribe about? Am I asking my friends and family to grade my thought processes? Do I expect an influx in my mailbox of printouts of this blog with red marks across the pages? Yes!

Actually no- that would be awkward and pointless, but I do think I need to do something in which I do more than ponder the information I intake on a daily basis silently to myself. And short of writing opinion pieces of recent events in the newspaper or analytical essays on books and articles I read I am not certain what to do.

A message from Africa

Seth's postcard came in the mail today from Cameron. I was quite pleased. I miss Seth.

Cycling Injury #2

I cut the back of my heel open this morning and it hurts like hell. I managed to do so while I was cycling to work and as I was picking up speed my foot slipped from the pedal, my shoe fell off, and said pedal spun around and smashed into the back of my ankle/heel. My pedals have a somewhat bumpy edge which is supposed to help my foot stay in place. Well today it instead sliced into my heel.

The pain was actually rather horrible and almost two hours later my entire ankle is still a bit sore. I guess that’s what happens when I hunk of metal smashes into your tendon and cuts the layers of skin surrounding it. Anyway, I walked into work with a bloody foot and ankle and everyone exclaimed, “what happened?”

What a great start to what is going to be a 15 hour work day!

In case you’re interested this is the bike I bought back in November http://www.apollobikes.com/apolloproducts/id/52/cid/20/parent/0/t/apolloproducts/title/Allegro

I really love flat bar road bikes, but I am considering getting a curved bar when I move back to the states.


*For those of you noting the title of this blog my first cycle injury happened when I, like a dumbass, tried to jump a curb on my road bike and failed. As a result I ripped part of my thumb nail from my hand. Good times!

Short Stack

Oh the woe
Of being so low
Lacking height
Brings limited sight
Culturally bound
With heights close to the ground

It would be grand
To not stand on my toes
To not hem my pants
To not be patted on the head
And told I’m little and cute

I want to be tall and sexy
To see across crowds
to reach the mugs
Up on the third shelf

But sadly its so
I’m stuck being low

poems

Because poems are fun and quick to write (though I am certain true quality poems take longer than the 10 minutes I allocate towards them) I have decided that poems will occasionally serve as blog entries. It’s much easier to write a poem about my day than an entry.

I am clearly not a poet.

6am sunrise
Initiates the chirping
I hate cicadas

Here comes Shelly!!

I came home from work yesterday to an email from Shelly announcing she was coming to New Zealand for a three week stay! I am so excited. Not simply because Shelly is overcoming the huge dollar signs associated with flying to NZ (round trip to New Zealand is usually around $2,400 before taxes), but because it is Shelly who is coming.

I remember vividly the second time I met Shelly. I say second rather than first because our first encounter was brief, though it did set up the stage for the comment in our second meeting that would solidify my like of her.

Shelly was one of the fresh new faces moving into my cooperative during the fall semester of my junior year at university. As the house finance manager one of my tasks was managing a small store located inside the house. I remember my first interaction with Shelly-which though brief did leave me pleased to see another gregarious outspoken woman entering the house. I was looking forwarding to getting to know her more and potentially becoming friends.

The second time Shelly came into the store a week or so later I was excited to see her and in the middle of our conversation referred to her as Kelly. Shelly interjected with a grin, "Did you just call me Kelly? I oughta cut you!" The delivery itself was priceless, but the fact that she barely knew me, and was daring enough to make a joke in which she physically threatened me made the entire situation hilarious. She demonstrated a cocky outspokenness, a quirky odd sense of humor, and proved she wasn't comedically sensitive. I remember cracking up and thinking, " I like this girl I think she and I will be great friends." And we are. In fact I can't even recall the first encounters after this moment of revelation. But in the next two years if anyone needed to find either of us in the house we were always in the others room.

We both graduated in 2004, but decided to stay an extra semester in the co-op, because we could and the co-ops are the best deal around as well as a freaking AWESOME place to live. God bless the USCA. Anyway, 2005 rolled around and it was time for Shelly to head back home to LA and for me to join forces with fellow co-op members in other houses in an attempt to create our own cooperative living situation.

We were outside the house packing up the van and joking before Shelly hoped in the car to take off down I-5. And as the door of her car started to close I began to cry like a baby. I never cry and so this reaction was short of a Christmas miracle...my heart grew three sizes that day and then was brutally stabbed by Shelly's departure.

I saw Shelly again a year later for a July 4th camping trip that was so haphazard it was awesome. Man that trip was a mess! I loved it.

Well now Shelly is coming in June/July and we are going to backpack around the South Island. Being winter here and so close to Antarctica that shits gonna be cold- but I'm excited!

Send me a present

For years I have wanted one of those shirts with the US flag on it that reads, "America: Love it or leave it!" Which I think would be more ironically hilarious to wear while abroad.

If anyone sees a shirt like this. Send it my way.

Waitangi Day

Today (well at this hour YESTERDAY), was Waitangi Day which to me translates as “paid day off.” Awesome! On a more historical level February 6th marks the anniversary of the Treaty of Waitangi, a treaty uniting New Zealand with the British Empire and giving Maori both rights to their land and as British Citizens.

I actually visited Waitangi and the grounds the Treaty was written and signed upon when I went up to the Bay of Islands for New Years. I walked among some trees, saw a battle canoe, and meandered through some small colonial looking house. I eventually made my way to a small theatre where I watched a horrible educational film on the history of The Treaty of Waitangi. I mean it wasn’t only cheesy, but the quality was dreadfully low. I am certain it was done with PowerPoint by a blind man with Parkinson’s.

I don’t know maybe it’s just me, and maybe I have spent too many years thinking about how the white man royally screwed the Native Americans. Maybe I am making too many associations with Thanksgiving, but to me this holiday seems like a joke. Why are we celebrating the British stomping their way across New Zealand stealing the Maori’s land, introducing disease, and raping the lands natural resources? F- that!

All I know is come July 4th I’m going to stand outside the British Embassy, poop on the British Flag and then set it on fire while singing the Star Spangled Banner.

Another blog posting! These posts have been coming with a bit more regularity. Inertia baby!

So every time I get a bit listless with life and drip into a minor existential crisis I always get told, "You should spend more time writing," "You should be a writer," "I think you would be a good writer." Now I have no idea when and most importantly how this concept of me as a good writer first came into fruition, but it's pretty ridiculous. There is no evidence to support it. Certainly, no justification is found in this blog.

But maybe the masses are right. Maybe I should be a writer. I think it would be best for me to be some type of artist. That way when people question me about all the good stuff that makes you a legitimate adult: settling down, saving up for property, establishing a career at a sound company I can explain, "I can't be bothered with the ins and outs of daily life. I am creating art." The only real problem is then having to make art in order to back up my story. Though, I am rather good with the BS analysis so maybe I can pull it off. I'll bend a paperclip a few odd ways, place it on top of a plastered cactus, and babble about the mummification of capitalism. I don't even know what that means. But who cares! I'll be an artists and people will assume that in my crazy artistic mind my piece makes worlds of sense and they will leave it be. "Ms. Fonseca your piece is very interesting. What exactly does this painting of a chicken bone in a blender signify?" "It illustrates the virginal nature of eggplants." I'm a genius.

There actually was a point in my life when I considered being a writer. I remember when I first moved to Berkeley to attend Cal back in 2000 and as my sister and I were pulling up to the Co-op I was to live in she asked what I intended to select as my major. I answered, "English. Maybe one day I can be a great American author." She replied, "Well if you want to throw your life away." And since at 18 her opinion meant the world to me I decided to do economics and then to do political theory with the intention of going to Law School. I mentioned this moment to my sister recently and she said, "I said that? Ha, you should have studied English."

I even had an English professor freshman year that continuously bombarded me with information on the creative writing minor program. But I ignored the materials and her praise. At this point I was set on graduating in three years and going to Law School. I was shit crazy, overworked, and setting my life up for a pace that was bound to give me a heart attack at 45. What a waste.

But part of the reason I wasn't encouraged to write more seriously is that I can't seem to get ideas beyond short stories. I think 10 pages is my max. Anything beyond that lacks meaning, characters don't connect to one another, and a potentially good story runs into a series of tangents. The shit don't make sense and the idea of having to go back and make corrections is so discouraging I abandon the process of writing altogether.

I think the real source of this vision of me as an author comes from my ability to tell a story about the odd happenings of my day blended with the occasional exaggeration for added comedic effect. And while it made David Sedaris a well known author I don't believe it will do the same for me.

Crazy dreams!

Twice this month I have had very elaborate and odd dreams. The strangest part is that the following day I remember the dream very clearly. As if it really occurred and I am merely remembering the previous day's events. I have no idea what these dreams mean- but if anyone would like to do some analysis feel free.


Dream One:

I am flying several kites on a beautiful day outside my mother's house. The kites are elaborately designed and borrowed from family and friends. They flow weightlessly in the sky, their movements seem to defy the laws of physics. There is no resistance with the wind to keep them up or allow them to glide across the sky. They appear to move on their own volition, but in the dream I know that they are being lifted by the summer breeze.

I tie the kites to something near by and allow them to float on their own while I go to lie down on the grass. Just as I close my eyes I hear a man frantically yell my name. He is screaming that I must regain control of my kites or loose them. I jump up and see the once blue sky chaotic with grey storm clouds. My kites soar high amongst the clouds, I can barely see them. And as I struggle to spot them amid the swelling grey I realize there is something strange about them- they appear more active. I run to the kites, grab hold of the strings, and pull with all my weight towards the ground hoping to pull them in, though it doesn't seem to be working. The man continues tell me I need to regain control of the kites, and practically on the verge of tears I scream, "I can't! I'm not strong enough!" and he replies, "You can! You must! You must!"

And something inside me agrees. Suddenly, I feel that if loose these kites I loose everything. Not necessarily my life, but more so all that makes life worth living. My relationships depend on my ability to retrieve the kites, and so I pull and I pull until the kites begin to inch closer and closer. Finally, in one last pull they swoop down from the sky, fly through the threshold of the front door, and land on my mother's couch, screaming, crying, protesting…alive. The kites are now three grown men in their late twenties/ early thirties and 4 children about 5 years old- all adorned in clothing resembling that of the kites. And they don't want to be here on the ground, but rather in the sky beyond the clouds. After some effort I calm them down, head to the kitchen and bring them back PB&J sandwiches with milk. The group of children have made friends with one another and as they run off to play I question whether or not they will ever truly be happy. One of the men, with long blonde dreadlocks, is sobbing on the ground, and as I try to comfort him he pushes me away like a child in the midst of a tantrum. Another man (formerly a kite)dressed as Spiderman explains that no one can ever help the sobbing man as he only finds solace in his girlfriend. I turn and tell Spiderman that it's a shame this man cannot be happy on his own and I ask Spiderman if he is happy and if he wants to leave. He shrugs his shoulders and we both look off at the children as they run. Then I wake up. I wake up and think "what the fuck?"


Dream Two:

I am cycling around what seems to be a mixture of San Francisco, Union City, and Auckland. At a stop light, which seems to be on the corner of Market at Sansome in San Francisco- though parts look like Queen Street in Auckland, I run into my mother with an older hispanic man that seems to be an old family friend. I notice his road bike and as I question him on the height of the saddle and the curve of the handle bars he seems to grow in size. He goes to demonstrate something on his bike, with added flare in order to impress, and ends up falling back onto the sidewalk. I ask if he is ok, but he seems frustrated as if his failed attempt at showboating is my fault. I start to feel really guilty until a buzzing catches my attention. I large honey bee is angrily swarming around my head and so I cycle away, but it cases me. Its movement is uncoordinated, appearing drunk with frustration and anger. I set off down Market Street, which turns into a small residential street in Union City.

I run into some old friends from grade school, looking as they did in the 6th grade and I point towards the bee zig zagging towards me. They explain the bee is mad at me for what it thinks I have done to April Ferrer. I explain to my friend’s, “That’s ridiculous. I haven’t even heard that name in ten years let alone actively harmed her. There must be a way I can talk to this bee. If it stings me it will die for no reason.” I am told there is no way of talking to the bee that’s its already too angry. I look over my shoulder to see it right on my tail, so I cycle off and shout to my friends that I am certain I can logically settle the situation.

I cycle off with the bee behind me and I’m explaining things to it and I can see that its movement is changing, but it surges on. As if it understands my point, but doesn’t want to believe me. Realizing the situation is pointless I stop and turn to face the bee figuring I can either try to catch it and place it in a jar or just let it sting me and die. Then just as the bee is approaching my hands I tense my muscles in preparation for the potential sting and wake up.