Dresden

The Potsdam crew, plus Lauren's visiting friend drove two hours to Dresden yesterday. It was really beautiful, and we saw quite a few buildings, despite only staying for five hours.

I'm getting really excited about Ayumi visiting. It's so soon!

Sleep Patterns

I fell asleep at 6:30am
I woke up at 9am
Woke up again at 10am
Could not go back to sleep.

It is now noon, I haven't had any coffee, and I'm not tired at all. Just disoriented.

I just realized

something that I'm sure many others have realized before me. EVERYTHING I'm wearing is from H&M. I must add, I'm not half-clothed or anything. I am decked the fuck out:
Bra
T-shirt
Sweatshirt
Jacket
Scarf
Jeans
Underwear
Socks
SHOES, for fuck's sake!
Okay, admittedly, I took off my hat before I wrote this entry, but even so, it's too much of the same stupid store.

We're having so much trouble moving. Today has been really awful. Ruth and I both kind of cried on the S-Bahn, and we're tough broads.

My little brand of insomnia.

It's 3:37 in the morning, and I can't sleep. Despite having spent the better part of my day yawning, I'm apparently doomed to sit here and pore over the history of Fish 'n Chips on Wikipedia.

Two great days. I'm not in the mood to write extensively, but yesterday I went with Ruth, Chris, and Florian to Potsdam. It was essentially the first time I have ridden in a car since arriving in Germany, and it was wonderfully relaxing. We walked around Sanssouci for a couple of hours, snapped a couple of pictures, and went home. I forget how many places are available for my quick visitation. I mean, Potsdam is on the S-Bahn.

Today I was pretty immobile for most of the hours, nursing a bit of a hangover. At six, Ruth and I left the house and went to Potsdamer Platz (which, despite sharing a name with the city I visited yesterday, is still in Berlin) to innertube down a fake snowy hill. Florian met us there, and we all three slid down together. Adorable. After the 15 second payoff that followed my two weeks of anticipation, we walked around drinking Gluehwein and looking at the Christmas Market merchandise. We ended up in a supposedly Austrian style hut thinger, drinking more Gluehwein and listening to the exact same music we had played the previous evening in my kitchen.

Now I can't sleep, and have to listen to my disgusting cat sneezing.

what I must do.

Stop drinking so much.
Exercise more.
Stop spending entire days in my kitchen.
Learn a few words every day.

Schnee.

I wonder if this ever gets old. Instead of see-sawing from one side to another, they're bolting toward the ground, dropping like rain. I'm like a child; a quality of my personality I hope to maintain.

Aldous Huxley

"'... But I don't want comfort. I want God, I want poetry, I want real danger, I want freedom, I want goodness. I want sin.'
'In fact,' said Mustapha Mond, 'you're claiming the right to be unhappy.'
'All right then,' said the Savage defiantly, 'I'm claiming the right to be unhappy.'
'Not to mention the right to grow old and ugly and impotent; the right to have too little to eat; the right to be lousy; the right to live in constant apprehension of what may happen to-morrow; the right to catch typhoid; the right to be tortured by unspeakable pains of every kind.'
There was a long silence.
'I claim them all.'"

The Music I Listen To With My Hip Friends

Meat?

This morning, Ruth asked me to cut her a piece of "vegetarian sausage" and pointed to my cucumber.

Ruth ist eine Schlampe

Here's the scene: I was sitting in the kitchen, a mere moment ago, talking to Ruth on Facebook chat. Nothing too unusual about that, even though we are in the same apartment. She started asking me about the seating situation in the kitchen. When I told her there were no more places, as I expected, she stayed put. A minute later, she asked me to come into her room, "Really quickly", she said. My exact response was, "Of course, for you." As I walked down the hall to find her, I heard movement coming from the room she was occupying. Right as I was about to yell, "Ruth, you don't need to come out! I'm right here!" I saw a shape catapulting toward me. It was Ruth, running so quickly her arms were pumping at her sides with the effort. She bolted past me, naught but a flash, and I followed her to see what the fuck was going on.

The bitch was stealing my seat in the kitchen!

Haha, though. Someone set a dirty mug in the pot of hot chocolate she wanted to drink.

Callback

Callback to an earlier blog entry,
It's kind of like the way I feel when I have a crush on somebody. Something like, "Oh, fuck. This is going to be inconvenient."

Did I just quote myself? Yes, in fact, I did. Sometimes it's worth it just to sidestep the copyright issues.

God, listen to me. I talk enough shit for this whole city.

Lachs and Crackers

I am making an effort to update more, since apparently my darling friend Hailey reads this shit (she sent me a very lovely private e-mail in response to one of my entries).

Today, I went to school in the snow for the first time. Quite the hurdle for someone who moved from California's Central Valley, and who thinks that sitting under a tree in San Francisco's summer is too cold. My Bahn ride to school was lovely this morning, as I stared out the window at the snow "flakes", holding a warm coffee between my knees, until I noticed that the guy sitting directly across from me was staring at me. I looked for his red-tipped cane, but when I couldn't see one was forced to return to my formerly comfortable gazing. I don't know if anyone reading this has ever attempted a forced-gaze, but if not, know that you will never succeed. It will inevitably turn into a sort of seething glare.

Fuming, I crunched on toward my German class, in which my professor told us that if you live in Bayern, a small cherub-child brings your gifts. That's all in order if you're a really little kid, but upon getting older do you have to feel bad about child labor?

Now, I'm taking a forced trip to the Olympic Stadium and writing a six-page paper (1.5 spaced, because my teacher apparently wants to fight the system?) on Erich Mendelssohn's Einsteinturm.

Nunc Dimittis

is the name of the story by Roald Dahl that I'm reading right now. The book it's in is lying open next to me, and I have decided to dedicate this remarkably uninteresting entry of my blog to it.

I've been having a hard time recently. I can't help but compare myself to other people. I'm finding myself growing vulnerabler (fuck off) each day, and my lack of ambition is irritating even to me. Here is the conversation that I am hearing every moment in my head:
"You, Jordan, are an untalented, lazy slob."
"But, that's not necessarily true! I am actually pretty smart, and think I can coax some productivity out of myself if I try harder!"
"But you know you won't try harder. You're too lazy. That's why you're fat too, by the way."
"Enough people have found me attractive for me to start believing it, though!"
"Attractive people don't have to talk themselves into self-confidence! Anyway, no matter how good you look, it doesn't chance the fact that you're an untalented, lazy slob."
et cetera.

I've also started realizing how uncomplicated my friends at home are. This was an adjective I would never have come up with on my own, but you know how sometimes a person who is speaking a second language uses these amazingly straightforward words? Ruth describes people with this word in a way that explicitly expresses how valuable she finds this quality. It's a quality I've always found attractive, but since I'm jaded by knowledge of the English language, I would say, perhaps, "nice", which makes the person in question sound a bit bland. (Is that just me?). Anyway, we are used to describing human quality in these specific words that exist for that purpose. Words that are both the opposite of "complicated" and used regularly to describe people generally imply stupidity. Maybe that's harsh, but it's definitely something leaning in that direction.

The people I prefer are not stupid. They are intelligent, unpretentious, and usually too lazy or exhausted to pretend to be anyone they are not. I miss them so much.

Blatent sexism is hilarious.

Foreign language textbooks say the darndest things. Usually I spend my time in German class flipping through grammatical explanations, looking for names that distract me. Inevitably, they will invent people with names like Inge, Sven, Gitte (which was, by the way, my ex-roommate's name), or Dieter. Today, however, when constructing sentences that explained why Dieter does the things that he does, I could not help but notice the way in which they referred to his wife. Usually I frown upon feminist paranoia, but there was absolutely no paranoia involved in this realization. I was giggling by the end of the first sentence, and by the third and last sentence involving his wife, I was outright laughing. The sentences -- with very few grammatical liberties taken -- are:
Dieter takes care of the kids so his wife could go to the hairdresser.
Dieter doesn't go in the living room, so as not to disturb his wife and her friends, who are gossiping over coffee.
Dieter gives his wife a lot of money so she can buy clothes.

Blogging for someone else's sake.

I really hate writing for the sake of writing. It not only feels useless in itself, but it makes me feel like a horrible writer. I need to roll a cigarette...

Moments later:

One thing Europe has provided me with: if not the ability to roll cigarrettes well, at least the resolve to attempt it instead of buying packs of pre-rolled. Another thing is the self-righteous feeling I get whenever I specify "pre-rolled" instead of "rolled".

What am I doing here? I started this blog with the intention of focusing on the answer to that question, and now I realize that I'm doing the same things here as I did in California. I sit in my kitchen with great frequency, and wittily banter with one to five of the nine people currently living in my four-bedroom. A breakdown: officially, I live with Ruth, Laura, and Lea, from Austria, Spain, and Germany respectively. Lea is in New York until the end of December, and my friend Lauren from the FU-BEST program is subletting until then. A friend of a friend of Laura, Carmen, is living here until she finds an apartment. Four other people, Jon, Andy, Bryony, and Claire are living in our spare room until they find a flat. They are from England, Ireland, Singapore, and England respectively. We recently realized that none of us are actually from Germany, and that Ruth is the only one who has spoken German since birth.

This is an abrupt place to end, but I can't write this shit anymore.

I am sharing my bed with....

-two crumpled up legwarmers
-an empty bottle of Frühstück to GO
-a completely full bottle of Tropischer Saft
-a hat
-Lauren's shirt (??)
-a half-eaten Falafel sandwich
-two plastic bags
-a bottle of soy sauce
-two empty tupperware containers
-chopsticks
-a shoe

Whoops, let me correct that. Tinfoil that was formerly containing a half-eaten falafel sandwich.

Negative nostalgia.

I am re-reading my blog, trying to work out whether or not I am happy, or if not, have I at least written anything enjoyable? Sometimes I really can write. I need to hold onto this.

Vienna & Linz

In case anyone was wondering, coming out of an U-bahn station at 5am into a completely empty square in Vienna, Austria and being confronted by the Stephansdom is more than terrifying.

Jordan POV:
http://www.travelshop.de/kreuzfahrten/arosa/donau/wien_stephansdom_ke.jpg

Not that I actually took that picture. Living the camera-less lifestyle forces one into petty photo thievery.

Mmmm, curry.

Dear Panic,
Why do you attack me?
Gruß,
Jordan

Quick Updates

I have been too busy catching up on Joe's blog to do any updating of my own.

I'm still having fun, still trying to figure out the best way to stay indefinitely, drinking less, and trying to settle down (we still don't have a permanent apartment!).

Jason is here until the end of the week. Julia and Jordan the First are coming to visit tomorrow.

My entire class just returned from a week-long "excursion" to Munich, Vienna, and Bratislava (the capitol city of Slovakia). I put excursion in quotes, because that word makes me think of hacking through jungle vines with a machete, rather than 70 overpriviledged kids getting Fahrkarten and perusing expensive cities at their leisure.

Hannah visited me for a week in Berlin and it was amazing. Then, when I was in Vienna, she came there for a couple of days. Now I miss her more than ever. Really. I don't think I've ever missed her this much before.

Transcription

For some reason, when I sit down in class and draw out my pen to take notes, inspiration comes freely. Here is one such thing that I wrote. I wanted to avoid awkwardness, so I fictionalized all of the incriminating details.

I don't know why he reminds me so much of Daniel. His face isn't similar, and the way they behave is nothing alike. Initially, outwardly, their bodies have the same silhouette. Daniel is taller, but they're both skinny -- in a way that is bony but not sharp -- with wide shoulders. Each shoulder is horizontally level; barely any slope before the arms, hanging down in perfect right angles. His hair is slightly similar to Daniel's, but they both have kind of boring short hair that is not uncommon for boys who don't care. The faces themselves don't look alike, but the way they speak is as if they dual personalities. Both speak with an easygoing gentleness that feels like it lands on you from above instead of directly attacking you face to face. A big difference is that I have only seen him smile maybe once, whereas Daniel's voice reflects his constant half-smile. His voice is very reserved; quiet, but in a way that makes you want to lean closer to hear, not that breaks your interest.
When Daniel spoke to me after a long absence, his voice struck me as so beautiful; far more so in person than on the phone. The way he addressed me was so melodic in a masculine way, so complimentary and safe that I immediately felt at ease. When I first saw his form, backlit, on some corner in Sacramento, I was surprised at how wide his shoulders were, much wider than his hips. Combined with huge muscles, this would look distasteful, but without bulk it's the shape I prefer. I was intimidated to see someone with whom I'd been distantly in love for two years, but after 30 minutes, when we were facing each other in bed, I felt completely at ease. Not that I felt confident, far from it, but the way he looked at me so fondly allowed me to feel his gentle approval, though it didn't seem pompous. He acted expectant towards me, in such a way that it seemed like he knew and approved of every word I said before it reached my tongue. When he kissed me, I realized how large his lips are; we were pretty much a perfect match in that respect. From the angle I could see him, he looked so much like my friend Nick; the way his eyes glowed down at me from their place above his nose. Nick was in love with me when he gave me that look; I think Daniel just loves people in general. The look in his eyes has a way of entering your pupils and extending to the ends of every appendage. He looked at me like a painter appraising a model -- a truly talented artist who loves every square millimeter of paint on his canvas.

Muenchen & Wien

Tomorrow I leave with my class for a week-long trip to Munich and Vienna. I am very anxious about spending a week quarantined in a youth hostel with 70 people I'm expected to communicate with. When did I become so antisocial?

Oh, the horror.

Orientations of any kind bring out the worst in those people who are already unbearably annoying. I consider myself to be a rather social person, that is, I like getting out of the house and meeting people with whom I can have a decent conversation. I'm not pretentious enough to presume that every one will be life-changing, and I enjoy them nonetheless. However, when people (particularly college students) gather into a group for the first time, there are always those girls (and yes, it's only women) who feel the need to go out of their way to make it around the room and personally introduce themselves to EVERYONE. These introductions are alway done at top speed, the girl in question trying to cram as many names into her head in record time.

The thing that irritates me to no end is that usually during these already painful orientation gatherings, you usually have to go around and say your name individually at some point. There is a way to learn everyone's name in a way that is not... I don't think "vicious" is too strong a word. I personally am much more impressed by someone who comes up to me after I've announced my name to a group and begins the conversation with, "Jordan, right?" than someone who makes me repeat my name for a thirtieth time after it was crowded out by all the others she just HAD to learn.

So, yeah. Today was my first day of orientation. Everyone's American, some seem to be annoying, and the second person I met was from Sacramento. It's pretty much exactly the same as when I started at USF, only this time I had to travel 40 minutes to the misery instead of it living with me. That's a rather negative bright side, but I dig it.

I am now drinking tea in my apartment while my roommate paints in the other room, and I still don't have any money. I wish I could burn banks down long-distance.

And, for the sake of a real update...

... the roommate I had never met finally came home. It turns out, there was a cancellation in her flight, so she really was supposed to be back on the 20th. So ends my isolation.

I am obsessed with this passage

from David Sedaris' story "The Ship Shape" in the book Dress Your Family In Corduroy And Denim. Although I have no specific reason for loving it, I suspect it is beacause this is the kind of over analysis I am prone to, and I am envious of the way Sedaris applies the analysis to other parts of his life (case in point: the last sentence of what I am about to meticulously type out). Here goes:

My mother and I were at the dry cleaner's, standing beside a woman we had never seen. "A nice-looking woman," my mother would later say. "Well put together. Classy." The woman was dressed for the season in a light cotton shift patterned with oversize daisies. Her shoes matched the petals and her purse, which was black-and-yellow-striped, hung over her shouldder, buzzing the flowers like a lazy bumblebee. She handed her claim check, accepted her garments, and then expressed gratitude for what she considered to be fast and efficient service. "You know," she said, "people talk about Raleigh, but it isn't really true, is it?"
The Korean man nodded, the way you do when you're a foreigner and understand that someone has finished a sentence. He wasn't the owner, just a helper who'd stepped in from the back, and it was clear he had no idea what she was saying.
"My sister and I are visiting from out of town," the woman said, a little louder now, and again the man nodded. "I'd love to stay awhile longer and explore, but my home -- well, one of my homes -- is on the garden tour, so I've got to get back to Williamsburg."
I was eleven years old, yet still the statement seemed strange to me. If she'd hoped to impress the Korean, the woman had obviously wasted her breath, so who was this information for?
"My home -- well, one of my homes": by the end of the day my mother and I had repeated this line no less than fifty times. The garden tour was unimportant, but the first part of her sentence brought us great pleasure. There was, as indicated by the dash, a pause between the words home and well, a brief moment in which she'd decided Oh, why not? The following word -- one -- had blown from her mouth as if propelled by a gentle breeze, and this was the difficult part. You had to get it just right, or else the sentence lost its power. Falling somewhere between a self-conscious laugh and a sigh of happy confusion, the one afforded her statement a double meaning. To her peers it meant "Look at me, I catch myself coming and going!" and to the less fortunate it was a way of saying, "Don't kid yourself, it's a lot of work having more than one house."
The first dozen times we tried it, our voices sounded pinched and snobbish, but by midafternoon they had softened. We wanted what this woman had. Mocking her made it seem hopelessly unobtainable, and so we reverted to our natural selves.
"My home -- well, one of my homes..." My mother said it in a rush, as if she were under pressure to be more specific. It was the same way she said, "My daughter -- well, one of my daughters," but a second home was more prestigious than a second daughter, and so it didn't really work. I went in the opposite direction, exaggerating the word one in a way that was guaranteed to alienate my listener.
"Say it like that and people are going to be jealous," my mother said.
"Well, isn't that what we want?"
"Sort of," she said. "But mainly we want them to be happy for us."

(a couple of pages later...)

We went to Emerald Isle for a week every September and we were always oceanfront, a word that suggested a certain degree of entitlement. The oceanfront cottages were on stilts, which made them appear if not large, then at least imposing. Some were painted, some were sided "Cape Cod style" with wooden shingles, and all of them had names, the cleverest being Loafer's Paradise. The owners has cut their sign in the shape of two moccasins resting side by side. The shoes were realistically painted and the letters were bloated and listless, loitering like drunks against the soft faux leather.
"Now that's a sign", our father would say, and we would agree. There was The Skinny Dipper, Pelican's Perch, Lazy Daze, The Scotch Bonnet, Loony Dunes, the name of each house followed by the name and hometown of the owner. "The Duncan Clan - Charlotte," "The Graftons - Rocky Mount," "Hal and Jean Starling of Pinehurst' -- signs that essentially said, "My home -- well, one of my homes."

Eine Woche

Today officially marks the one week aniversary of my Berlin solitude. I'm also beyond broke. I haven't cried yet, but if no one comes home by tomorrow, I probably will.

I'm very lonely. I'm also running out of food.

Style

This entire post is me being gay, just a warning.

Here is how Europeans look so stylish: it sounds obvious, but they have good skin and good bodies. Honestly, these two things make you reasonably attractive, unless you're deformed (erm... no offence), and they don't have to adjust their style because of body issues.

As far as specifics, girls in Berlin are wearing sheer, floral printed dresses over black leggings, and keds type tennis shoes. With jeans, a white or black t-shirt with a colored scarf. I've not seen a single girl in a sweatshirt since I've been here.

Are you there, God?

Today was the closest I've ever come to a religious experience.

After reading the reviews in the Lonely Planet book that Deniz gave me for my birthday (yes! I am living in a city and depending on a guidebook!), I decided to check out three flea markets today. Having been to Europe before, I know that not much goes on Sundays, and I didn't want to sit around all day sipping coffee. I enjoy my sleep during the night, thank you.

I biked there on the Bianchi, which in case I haven't mentioned it, is a beautiful salmony pinkish orangish GIRLS road bike that I've taken out a few times. The wheels are going flat, though, which makes it much harder to get around. Berlin may be flat, but it is extremely large.

The ride there was less than pleasant. I had to pull over to the side of the road a few times to look at my map, and that's embarassing and inconvenient for the others biking around me. Plus, it was raining -- Berlin rains about once every four hours, which is fine because it's still warm, but I was having vision-trouble. What I expected to be about 15 minutes turned into 40 minutes, and because I was lost for 2 hours last night, I am hyper paranoid about following directions.

Right as I arrived, the sun came out. There were tons of people there, and everyone was eating french fries, drinking beer, and laying around on the grass. As I navigated through the crowd, I started catching glimpses of the items that were for sale at each booth. I was actually hyperventilating. Kitschy knick-knacks, vintage furniture, 1970's electronics, piles of clothes, bins full of lace, handmade jewelry, records records records, tables lined with shoes, screen printed shirts, old china, and organic soaps. I actually found a table full of cameras, from which I pulled out a Spectra, EXACTLY like the one I have at home!

'Gefällt er dir?'

I was wandering around, talking to myself, and letting out the sort of moans where a passerby couldn't tell if I was in horrible pain or a fit of pleasure. I started feeling really emotional there -- I felt like, if there was a God, and he designed a place where I would feel really content, this would be it.

Not that I would have impressed him enough to deserve such a thing.

What made me feel so unstable is that there must be a place like that for most people on earth, since we base our desires primarily on experience or outer influence, I think. I started thinking about how most people will not find the place that makes them feel like this. It just made me feel so unbelieveably grateful. It was a bit existential for a fucking flea market, but I am very happy. I have the feeling right now like I do when I develop a crush on a person, but this is for an entire city. Kind of like, 'Oh fuck. This is going to end up being inconvenient.'

I was just at the grocery store, and some punk buying one beer got everyone in the huge line to let him in front of them. Smooth talking.

Berlin

My first few days in Berlin have been really relaxing. I'm still jet lagged, but only because everyone in my new house stays up until all hours of the night. Last night I went to bed early, which was 2am, and everyone else was still awake. For some reason, though, I still woke up at 3pm today.
The nights have been really full. It's been incredibly nice, but I think it will tone down now, because Ruth and Johannes went to Norway for two weeks.
1st Day: I arrived at about noon, with one of my bags missing. I got to the house, showered, then went to a big thrift store with Ruth and Johannes. They went to another store, I went home and slept for an hour. We, Lea, and Wilko all ate dinner together, then went to a bar to play foosball and ping pong.
2nd Day: Woke up at 3pm, then went exploring by myself. I walked around an area called Ostkreuz, and found an internet cafe. Came home and everyone made dinner again. After a while, Ruth, Johannes, and I went to a bar on the canal, where we sat on a dock and chatted for a few hours. We came home, and I talked to Johannes alone for a bit, for the first time since I met him four years ago.
3rd Day: Woke up really late again. Read all day and listened to music, for the first time in months. I thought it would be kind of depressing, but it wasn't. Then everyone made dinner together again, and a guy from Spain came over to eat with us. He was really nice, he talked to me a lot, and I found it way easier to understand him than the native speakers.
Today: Woke up two hours ago. Took a quick shower, then went to the shopping center to buy some food, then wen to an electronics store, only to discover that they don't sell adapters for american electronics. At least I got the courage up to ask someone, though, after only 20 minutes in the store.

All in all, it's been fantastic so far. The girls I live with now want to keep living together, which is really cool. They're looking at a few places right now -- one has 4 bedrooms, and the others have 3. If they get the 4 br, I get to move into the 4th. If not, I can look on a website to find some new roommates, which would be fine also. I've been speaking a lot of German, of course, even though my roommates can all speak English really well, and because I'm using my fucking brain so much, I'm constantly exhausted.

I have the use of Ruth's computer now, since she's in Norway, so I'll be online a bit more. I can't use the internet here, because no one knows the password.

Zweite Tag in Berlin, Germany

So, after an exciting night out with my current roommates, I woke up at 3pm. I realized, however, that this would be a legitimate time to wake up were I in California (6am). I am currently sitting in an internet cafe, the number on the timer threateningly decreasing as each minute passes.

Since I don't have very much time, I just want to let everyone know how much I love it here. It's absolutely beautiful, I have my own room already, and my roommates are sweet and helpful. Thankfully, there hasn't been much time to miss anyone yet, except the more obvious people.

Last days on earth.

My time on earth is coming to a close. This isn't necessarily true -- it's not a suicide threat or anything -- but I always have to convince myself I'm fine with dying before I step on an airplane. Since the first time I flew at age five, I have been terrified of flying. The weird thing is that no one ever told me it was dangerous or scary; I've just always had a bad feeling about it.

The time I've spent in Sacramento has been wonderful. The weather's been great, I've been going to visit my grandparents' every afternoon, spending the evenings with my parents, then hanging out with Hollis at night. We've gone on some epic bike rides. Tuesday, Troy, Hollis, and I were at her house watching a documentary on conjoined twins. When we all left on our bikes, Troy walked outside and said, "Oh my God, it's raining!"
Hollis said, "Haha."
"No, I'm serious, dude. It's raining."
"Sometimes if you stand under the air conditioner, it feels like it's sprinkling."
"No, I'm in the middle of the street. It's raining."
Raining it was, and the droplets were accompanied by lightening. Hollis and I chased the lightening to Old Sac, then sat on a bench drinking our last beer and talking about Jarrad. The 4th was the anniversary of his death, and we both had a lot to say. It was so comforting. We got kicked out at 2:30 or so, because apparently Old Sac closes.

Now, I just need to pack and fix up my parent's house before I go. I've pretty much trashed it.

Living Poetry

Last night, we chased lightening on our bikes.

SPM

Hailey and I are now keeping track of how many of the guys we make out with have tattoos related to Morrissey.

Something is ending.

Here I am, sitting in my old room. Beginning on Monday, I realized that technically, I'm homeless. That doesn't mean I don't have anywhere to stay -- on the contrary, there are many welcoming beds and my belongings are mostly accounted for. There will be no longer be a place that's considered mine. The room I'm in right now holds a strange feeling. It's the place I slept most nights in the past year, the place where I spent the majority of my time, but it's not home anymore. Everything is different -- even the direction I am facing as I type. As minor as that seems, my position quite literally adjusts my view of the whole area.

Is it silly to forfeit all responsibility for feeling differently about the room?

It's not just here -- everything is changing. Yesterday in Sacramento, I drove past a house only a few turns away from my parents'. It is the place to which I used to sneak out the windows of my house, around an extra block so as not to be spotted by my neighbor. He was usually staring out the front window, and there is no way he wouldn't have told my parents. This is the house in which I had my first experience in tame promiscuity. Where it all began. When I passed my driver's license test, I started driving a different route home to see if I could spot the person who lived in that house.

As I drove by yesterday, silently reminiscing, I saw the person who lives there standing on the porch. This is the person I was hoping to see aged 16, as I drove my Buick past the house. Instead of a good-looking, well dressed 18-year-old boy, however, there was a 60+ woman in a nightshirt, pointing a running hose in no particular direction. Instead of a run down white Buick, which would later fall victim to various thefts and break-ins, I was driving a shuddering, overheating truck. Neither the person in the house nor I are the same people anymore, but there's still a part of me that glances toward the front door, hoping to make eye-contact with someone in particular, no matter how forcefully I try to focus my eyes forward.

For some reason, I find this incredibly sad. Why can't my brain just fucking release me?

Looking at Joseph Cornell's art makes me teary-eyed. Of course, what doesn't these days?

It's just so fucking gentle.

The truth will come out eventually.

How long can I keep everyone believing I'm sane?

Can I really hide it for much longer?

Try until the end try until the end try until the end.

Two new hobbies

1) Meticulously combing every millimeter of my meal for traces of meat.
2) Looking for Kosher symbols on food packaging.

For the first time

I am having problems I can't talk to anyone about.

Usually, not talking about my problems is my preferred manner of recovery. It's hard for me, however, to know that I actually can't speak to anyone.

Flosstradamus

Ayumi saw these DJs at Download Festival. We've been listening to them all morning, and they do some great mashups -- in particular, the one of Kanye West and Sigur Ros.

www.myspace.com/flosstradamus

Sacramento, CA

I am shifting cities quite frequently.

Last night, I talked Ayumi into leaving her new apartment in San Francisco and meeting me here. It was going to be the first time each of us had slept alone in a long time. I picked her up at the train station last night at 10pm, and we hung around, talking to my parents and growing progressively more tired. Once in bed, we shared one of those giggly sleepover-type conversations that I miss so much. Sacramento's getting so lonely, I have to import my friends.

Usually -- according to what I've heard -- when someone gets ready to leave the country for an extended period of time, their lives fall into place in a very inconvenient way. Fortunately, mine is not. I'm developing awkward crushes, basically, and can't wait to ditch them. It's probably just an effort to feign attachment.

Advice from my mother:

As given on the drive from Fort Bragg to Sacramento:

"No, Jordan, you don't want to tailgate him too early. Get a good distance behind him and give him a chance to pull into a turnout. If he doesn't, ride his ass until he caves. Yeah, yeah, lead him into a false sense of security, then go straight for the jugular."

Fort Bragg, CA

I am unable to sleep for the first time in months. The last time this happened to me, I was in Sacramento and drank myself to the point of vomiting in an attempt to pass out -- because good old falling asleep wasn't really working. What I learned is that whiskey is a sub-par replacement for exhaustion.

My cousin got married today. The general subject of marriage sat in the air all day, occasionally receiving visits from my mother and me. What we decided: I am never getting married. I can never imagine myself getting really excited because someone proposed to me, for one. What I can imagine is the incredible discomfort I would feel having to verbalize that I love someone enough to marry them. Definitely not my ideal conversation. It would also make me feel very uncomfortable to watch other people get excited for me. I am actually getting awkward right now, and I'm completely by myself, not speaking out loud.

Fort Bragg is a strange place to be. I thought I knew people here, but apparently they've all moved away from this the tiniest of hometowns. The only thing I've had the opportunity to do that even slightly resembles a social event (a wedding I was forcibly coerced into doesn't count) is my mother's high school "preunion", a term coined by my father and me. That is, the night before her actually reunion, she invited me to a bar with all of her old high school classmates. I reminded her that I am only 20, and her response was, "Come on... don't you have a fake ID?" This from a woman who joined AA when she was only a few years older than me.

I'm excited, because we're having more couch surfers when I get back to San Francisco. Chris came back to visit -- took his few days off and flew back to San Francisco from Las Vegas. Don't you just love making friends whose company you actually enjoy?

Maybe I'll just stay up so I can sleep on the ride home. I drove the whole way here from Sacramento, while my mother sat in the backseat "attempting to sleep" (aka. verbally correcting my driving).

Networking

I can't believe all of the random connections I have made in Europe. I can't wait to travel around once I'm there.

Even my living in Berlin is pretty random. My friend Hannah came on exchange to Sacramento my sophomore year of high school from Graz, Austria. She is the reason I ever went to Europe in the first place, and the reason I was ever inspired to learn German. Ruth, who I am staying with in Berlin is her best friend from high school; I've spent a lot of my time in Austria hanging out with the two of them. That was a connection I never suspected would serve such a useful purpose.

I have friends (or random connections) in Hungary, Latvia, Holland, France, Austria, and England. My connections in Latvia, Holland, and England are the kind of unlikely connections I never expected to make. My friend Peter is going back to Latvia in September, and I met him on the bus. I met a girl in Holland through a random guy I met in a bar, and Chris, who lives in London, was the camera man for a guy I hosted through CouchSurfing.com.

I feel very lucky in the irrationality that is my life.

Movement.

Ayumi found a new apartment. It's seven blocks from our current one, and absolutely beautiful: an old Victorian with hardwood floors, high ceilings, and basically everything I would like in a house. Her lease is two years, so I don't know exactly what I'm going to do when I get back from Berlin. Maybe Seattle is actually realistic.

I've had a lump in my throat for the past week. I lay in bed every night before I fall asleep, wondering if I'm going to suffocate in the night. An earthquake usually hits my chest during these episodes, my heart pounds at least one wave per second. Then the aftershocks: shaky knees, sweaty palms, gasping for breath, praying to a God I don't believe in that the oxygen will bypass the lump. So far it has, but I truly believe that each breath will be fin, my pounding heart my grand finale.

I haven't ever felt this trapped before.

There is a blank billboard on the corner of Arguello and Geary. The sight of it made me irrationally sad, but there was also a distinct beauty in its reflective white. It's wonderful to have a break from constant advertisements, but why is it their right to steal a chunk of the sky from me?

Ayumi says...

"Customers always come up to me and share the most personal stories. Seriously, I know way too much about these people's lives. The other day a woman was looking at foot files and talking about how she needed the roughest one. She said, 'I literally have a hole in my heel.' Why do people tell me these things? I want to say, 'Okay, I may be a sales associate, but I'm also a human being. But, when I leave work, I maintain the memories from what happened in my job. Now I'm stuck thinking about your foot hole. Thanks.'"

Tell me: what is this knick-knack?

I bought it at Goodwill today, but have no idea what its function could be.



Just for fun, here's the person next to me while I'm taking advantage of Ayumi's photo booth.

I obviously have no life.

Three times in a single day. Really, Jordan?

Yes, really.

Ayumi and I were just incredibly disappointed; she thought she was going to be able to move out of our house tomorrow (which means I could have moved in with her), and the landlord didn't call her. We preemptively had champagne chilling, which made the whole ordeal all the more depressing.

Fortunately, we know how to drown our sorrows in alcohol. Now we're housecleaning and listening to Flight of the Conchords. Everyone who reads this blog (aka. no one), ask Elohim in your nightly prayers to get us out of this disgusting house.

I also bribed one of my high school friends to come over and bring beer. Score.

By the way

in exactly one month, I am moving to Berlin.

Ich liebe Seattle.

For my last night in Seattle, we organized a scavenger hunt. No competition, just one big team, adding and dropping members as the night went on. The same people made the list and participated in the hunt -- it was a good time. What I remember from the list: picture in the back of a pickup truck, empty 40oz, male babe, female babe, single french fry, someone with fast food, someone's armpit hair, picture standing in a fountain. There were many more, the idea being that we would find them all and take photos of each.

It started at midnight. We were at it for a couple of hours, drinking and laughing, before heading home. Some babe drew a penguin on my arm and told me he was from San Francisco. When I asked where in San Francisco, he said, "well... I'm actually from Petaluma." Hailey asked him if he was in the band Birdwatchers United, and was unnecessarily embarrassed when he said no. When we were back at the house, I talked to and smooched some babe, who then bolted very suddenly and, in my paranoid mind, fearfully. It could have been the normal 5am I-should-really-go-home departure, but I like to amplify situations so that I'm viewed negatively. Why is that, I wonder?

I fell asleep on some couch cushions that Jared kindly set up for me, but woke up on the floor in the hallway (with my sleeping bag), halfway in the bathroom. How did I get there? I must have walked, but I can't imagine why. I wasn't drunk enough to vomit, and since I brought my sleeping bag, there must have been some intention of sleeping.

Back in San Francisco, I just want to leave again.

I just uttered this phrase:

"... no matter how you roll it up in rice and make it into sushi."

Where did that come from?

Hailey is reading through her old journals and she just reminded me that I went through an incognito phase in high school. My uniform: huge sunglasses, a scarf wrapped around my head (sometimes covering my mouth), and a sweatshirt with the hood up. I don't remember what inspired this bit o' fashion innovation, but I'm thinking of bringing it back.

Seattle, WA

I actually think I could move here.

The weather is strange and rainforest-esque; warm but damp during the day, with clouds billowing through the sky, alternating between hiding and exposing the sun. Hailey and I walked home at 4am this morning, and I was comfortable in a skirt.

We went to see Tilly and the Wall last night. I have now developed a bitter crush on the bassist for Birdwatchers United, one of my many new loves in Seattle. I don't know why I develop crushes so easily; it's an actual character flaw.

Still in Pinole

I care, but why?
Words from a kindhearted cynic.

Where the hell is Pinole, CA?

I would never have been able to answer that question before 3:30pm today.

As a claustrophobic, I very much fear situations in which I am stuck. I am terrified of airplanes, elevators, too-small rings, and shoes that are too tight for my toes to wiggle. It turns out, I get anxious when I'm large-scale stuck also.

On the drive back to San Francisco, my car overheated and broke down. I sat on the side of the road in Rodeo (which is apparently not pronounced like the place where cowboys congregate) for an hour before my car was cool enough to drive to a gas station. Two quarts of motor oil, a gallon of water, and two miles of driving later, I am sitting in a Peet's Coffee in Pinole, CA, scared to continue driving, but also fearing my inertia.

After a flat tire on Christmas Eve, and overheating on the 4th of July, one could conclude that I have bad holiday driving luck.

To change topic, I found out that I don't need a Visa to get into Berlin. All I need to do is renew my passport before I leave, then apply for a residence permit when I arrive. I leave at 10:45am on the 10th of August. I was kind of banking on some sort of Visa trouble to prevent me from leaving, but apparently it's really happening.

In some ways, I think I've never been more ready to pick up and start over.

After more than a year in one place, I get too antsy to stick around. However, I feel like once I get to Germany, I'll never come back. That may just be because of current circumstances; right now I'm going through this series of issues that I really can't discuss with anyone. It feels so exhibitionist to write something like that online, but what is a blog if not exhibitionism?

California's capitol.

As we drove into Sacramento, Ayumi and I noticed a distinct orangey-gray haze in the sky, threatening to overcome us. Was it just our respective imaginations? The delusion of our reluctance to leave San Francisco? No, just the smoke from a thousand* forest fires, all intent on ruining the city and its inhabitant's lungs.

So now I'm here. There is ash in the air, baking in the 90 degree weather. I have a sore throat. Not only that, but I trapped a junebug last night, between a piece of pottery and an Arrested Development DVD case, and who knew a baby junebug could escape from that? So now I'm hot, in pain, and creeped out. Seriously, bugs should not be able to bench press that much.



*the amount of forest fires is courtesy of Brenda, Deniz, and Joe's know-it-all neighbor Sean.

What we do.

We start out riding bikes around, around, around the panhandle as we try to decide what to do with the night, one of us always yelling over our shoulder at the other, barely able to hear each other. After brief mention of the beach (it's something I always suggest), we decide fuck the bikes, throw them in the back of my truck, head to Twin Peaks. You drive -- I get performance anxiety driving with other people in the car, plus I want to see what you look like driving stick shift. Halfway up, we're both scared because the fog is too thick to see, and actually it's my dad's car so we turn around and say let's go to the beach after all. Might as well take advantage of a warmish night? Armed with a six pack, you humor me and ride to the beach like I suggested in the first place, lock up, carry the bottles to the wake, shoes off, pants rolled up. I hate getting my rolled up pants wet, but I hide my discomfort because it seems so excitingly carefree not to mind. I could go for a tall can, I think, and some cigarettes, so we walk back to Safeway and stop to make out somewhere on the way. Not the sickeningly romantic beach, but somewhere lame, like the Safeway parking lot or the windmill where guys blow each other as soon as the sun sets. I make a stupid joke and you laugh and tell me you think I'm pretty. I say, of course it's always nice to hear that and now do I have to admit I'm just a romantic at heart?

I suck suck suck, my lungs begging for some fresh air. Won't the galaxy give me a breath of fresh air? I receive a lungful of nicotine; that's good enough.

That breath is good enough.

Why am I satisfied with such a breath?

Still Life

Peter and the Plant promo photos.

The film was rotten when I took this, but I like it nonetheless.