quelquefois

I am taking a class at RISD–Digital Photography, and I love it so much. It is no doubt one of the most time consuming classes I have ever taken, but seriously one of the most fulfilling. I am learning so much about image and color correction (wow, did I just say I was excited about working with CURVES and HISTOGRAMS?), that I can’t wait to see my *own* images transform from shit to sexy (our professor’s nomenclature).

Note to Canon 5d: I have my eye on you. Just you wait (until I have this thing called “income”). Once Canon updates you, you know I’ll be there, waiting, drooling.

The days of February 14 meaning $2.49 Care Bears Valentine’s Day cards, sugarsugarsugar, and more sugarsugarcookiescupcakessugar are over. No more decorating paper bags with our names on them, deciding who in our class gets the “prettiest” or “coolest” Valentine’s cards, and waiting for Valentine’s cards and candies to be dropped into our bags.

For a few years now, February 14 has just been another day in my life. This year, it consists of a day where I avoid writing my thesis by readingthenews-cleaningthehouse-watchingtv/youtube-designingwebsites-postingonmyblog-replyingtoemails, where I forget to take my medication on time, where I worry about what in God’s name I will be doing after graduation.

But Valentine’s Day is supposed to be about sharing a day with your loved one, blah blah blah love love kiss kiss blah blah. Of course, I’m saying this as a bitter single individual who experiences a spark of disdain for those who have loved ones to meticulously plan their perfect Valentine’s date with. Perfect, perfect, perfect. It always has to be perfect. That’s setting the standard a little high, isn’t it? Think of the potential for damage. What are the chances that this significant other/date will be the one you spend your entire life with? If you have a nasty break up, think of all the subsequent Valentine’s Days that will be tainted with such a memory; you will find yourself slouched on the couch with a pint of Häagen-Dazs and re-runs of Grey’s Anatomy reminiscing of better days. Okay, so I’m being incredibly pessimistic about love. It’s hard to pull yourself together and greet the love and dating world with open arms when you’ve been smacked down by it so many times. No doubt, this has definitely been the year for me to be thrown around in the martini shaker of love.

As rough as those experiences were, it taught me that I don’t need a significant other to have a wonderful day, much less Valentine’s Day. My friends can always make me feel loved.

If you ever find yourself having intense inner monologue where you’re to convince yourself (and/or fool yourself into thinking) that someone is worth your time, attractive, not an asshole, et cetera take note:
S/he is not worth your time.
S/he is not attractive.
S/he is an asshole.
 Move on.

Oh sweet baby Jesus look at this beauty:

AND Aperture is pre-installed. I love it, I love it, I love it!

Love life at university can be summarized as such:

Hello.
Hello.
Marginal interest
Alcohol
Increased interest
Hook up
Call you later?
Endless waiting, wondering, recollecting, resenting
Loss of rationality
Call
Alcohol
Hook up
Raised hopes
Call you later?
Endless waiting, wondering, recollecting, resenting
Loss of rationality
Deflated hopes
Marginal interest
Self-realization
Independence
Loss of interest

Everyone’s heard that men who sleep with a lot of women are dubbed “pimps,” whereas women who sleep with lots of men are labeled “whores” or “sluts.” Even while I was in a foreign country, women who loved “freely” still seemed to have the word “slut” stamped clearly on their foreheads by their peers, while men applauded each other for their sexual accomplishments.

But in an era of expanding feminine power and eroding social constructions, have women begun to embrace the promiscuous lifestyle men have always enjoyed? Are women capitalizing on the ambiguity of gender roles and fulfilling the same innate desires as men? Most importantly, will they be able to get away with it?

Women are traditionally known to become too emotionally attached, too needy, and always in search for that other half, for completion. More and more, I begin to notice the prominence of men who are begging for a companion, not only in bed, but also in spirit, in soul. Personally, I am tired of the insinuations of archaic stereotypes, though I do not know how to dismantle these deeply entrenched beliefs.

How should women approach their subtle new freedom without being targeted? Women of the world, embrace your fem-mascul-ininity. Women have every right to enjoy what men have always enjoyed. Perhaps one day women do not have to live with the stigma of being labeled negatively for actions men enjoy so freely.

Only five more days until my program starts in Hong Kong. I am getting tired of traveling with only one other person. I suppose, if her personality clashed better with mine, then we would have a better relationship. She talks too much, too loudly, her personality is too strong for me to bear. She is a little too [self-]righteous, too opinionated. I cannot say something without her saying, “I know,” or disagreeing. She gets annoyed at me very easily. I do not know how to please her

Yesterday, we spent the day in the desert. We paid 75 RMB each to rent a camel, have a few “tour guides,” and some blankets to spend the night in the desert. While we were still at the edge of the desert, the “small boss” (as he called himself) would talk to us, saying things that made both of us uncomfortable beyond belief.

“Are you tired?” He would ask.
Unknowing of the actions that would ensue, I responded, “Yes.”
He started to massage me. “Okay, okay! I’m not tired anymore. Thank you.”
“You are very beautiful. If you are tired, I give you massage.” I ran away, and much of the afternoon revolved around avoiding this horrendous man.

At night, we walked into the desert, except we forgot a flashlight. Using our cellphones (so modern!) we found a place on top of a dune to settle down. As the sun set behind the hills of sand, we played a game where they cover your head, and then someone taps/hits you, and you have to guess who it was. If you fail after three chances, you have to sing a song. God only knows how long we played that silly game. The Uighurs could have played this game forever, it seemed. The two of us got bored by the 10th round. This night was also the first night I saw [several!] shooting stars.

Foods I have tried thus far:

Fresh figs
?? zhua fan
?? la mian – hand pulled noodles
? (naan) up the wazoo
Orange prickly fruit with pink insides
Fresh yogurt
Fresh ice cream
Xinjiang pears

Stomach: 8, Toilet: 0

Fifi is a Beagle mix, born 9 September 1996. Today, she is almost 11-years-old. She has lived through earthquakes, business relocations, and a vicious dog attack by a pit bull (the dog was a centimeter away from tearing open Fifi’s main artery in her throat). Fifi saw me through elementary, middle, and high school; and now, I am almost through college.

Fifi has magnificent white fur with a coffee stain on her back, and tan ears. She became hooked on human food at an early age, which contributed to her weight gain. We have tried to wean her off from it, but any attempt is as poor as the last. She is very well-behaved (save those few occasions when she left a surprise on the carpet). Her demeanor is pleasant–to family, at least. Fifi always smiles when she sees me, and she seems especially happy when I return home from Brown.

Fifi has a Facebook.com account. She is loved by an online community that she does not even know exists. Sometimes, I like to think that Fifi has traveled to exotic locales such as China with me, because her fur is always on my clothing.

My heart burns so much because of what inevitably lies ahead.

I spent my evening researching Fifi’s disease, congestive heart failure, as well as pet euthanasia. I am smothered in sadness and grief, because I cannot do anything. Her heart is 3x its normal size and suffocating her other organs. I regret not noticing earlier signs, among many, many, many other things. Questions are dodging back and forth in my mind about whether or not it is time to let her go. Her quality of life is diminishing rapidly.

I wonder if I will be able to say goodbye to her. I wonder if we will euthanize her before I leave for China on the 7th. If we do not, I wonder if she will live until August 31 (the day I return from China). I am going to miss her so much. I love Fifi.

[edit]
Fifi is much better this morning, thanks to a diuretic and heart medication. We do not know how long she has, but we will try to keep her medicated and happy for as long as possible. Hopefully I will still see her when I come back from China.

Sometimes I search for connections that are not there. Worry about things I should not be worrying about. Busy my mind with fantasies of sunshine, smiles, frolicking, and a sense of completion. I am desperate for some sort of human connection–some sort of intimate human connection–that I have denied myself for years. Myriad reasons keep me from pursuing it. Fear being the primary reason. Fear of losing my independence, fear of losing my identity, fear of losing focus on what is important to me, fear of being happy and not knowing what to do with myself.

Maybe I just want to have fun, be free-minded, let loose….just without all the baggage.

But there is baggage. So I continue deny it. I deny any butterflies from ever climbing out of their cocoon and reaching my heart, and tell myself (unconvincingly) that I should be happy the way I am. That is where I am and who knows if this is where I will be.

I have found love. I do not know what it is exactly that draws me in, but there’s definitely something special about Paris.