I haven’t posted in weeks. Does anyone even read this? Does anyone care? Some days, I just wanna die. I said that to my boyfriend and now he’s concerned. I should be happy that someone listens, that someone cares, but I’m not. I miss the days when I was alone. I felt like dying and I could just fall off of the radar. I started a new job a couple of weeks ago. I work Downtown, right down the street from where I used to live:
Carmens de la Calle
I absolutely love working there. It’s only a few days a week. Live music every weekend. What more could a girl like me ask for! …and, yet I’m still unhappy. It effects me everyday. I self-medicate. I sleep all day. I avoid mirrors. I avoid friends and family. My depression and self-loathing take over…
…and I am powerless to stop it.
Help. Help me.
My birthday song:
“Farm on the Freeway” by Jethro Tull
“When people ask me if I went to film school, I tell them, ‘no, I went to films.'”
Quentin Jerome Tarantino (1963 – ). writer, director, film producer
Quentin Tarantino is not only one of my favorite directors, but one of my favorite writers and one of my biggest inspirations.
His audacious writing style is very distinct. Known for plucky dialogue and gruesome violence, he made a huge impact in the 90s with his first movie, Reservoir Dogs.
From the very first scene, (the famous diner scene considered a prelude) the audience is dropped right into the middle of a jewel heist gone awry.
Shot in the gut, Tim Roth’s character, Mr. Orange, lays in the backseat of a speeding car, crying, whimpering, bleeding out. Mr. White, played by Harvey Keitel, comforts him from the front seat.
All of the characters are criminals, leaving no clear-cut protagonist. There is no “hero” or “good guy,” just a gang of robbers, each taking names of different colors for the sake of anonymity. Convinced the botched heist was a set-up, the survivors turn on one another to try to identify the rat.
Although Tarantino burst onto the film scene with Dogs, the first movie I watched, creating a life-long fan, were the movies Kill Bill Vol. 1
and Vol. 2.
Again, he weaves an intricate and elaborate story, drawing in the audience with an explosive beginning scene. Grayscale.
A woman, at this point known only as The Bride (Uma Thurman), cries in pain, her face badly beaten. Off-screen, a man, the titular, Bill, played by the late David Carradine, wipes blood from her cheek and mouth as he monologues:
“Do you find me sadistic? You know, I bet I could fry an egg on your head right now, if I wanted to. You know, Kiddo, I’d like to believe that you’re aware enough even now to know that there is nothing sadistic in my actions. Well, maybe towards those other… jokers, but not you. No, Kiddo, at this moment, this is me at my most…[cocks pistol]…masochistic.”
The Bride is shot in the head as she attempts an explanation, cutting her sentence short.
Pregnant at the time of her assault and loosing her child, The Bride awakes from a four-year coma. Bill and her former associates, all fellow assassins, The Deadly Viper Assassination Squad, must pay, starting with the queen of the Japanese underworld, O-Ren Ishii (Lucy Liu).
One after another, they fall to her samurai sword, a katana welded by the master, Hattori Hanzo. As a huge fan of anime and Japanese culture, I was drawn to this particular movie, with its mix of epic sword fights, an anime scene, vivid and unexpected, and excessive gore.
Both Kill Bill movies are intriguing, but the score and the soundtrack take it over the top, with music by the likes of The Santa Esmeralda and Nancy Sinatra. Says Tarantino,
“To me, movies and music go hand in hand. When I’m writing a script, one of the first things I do is find the music I’m going to play for the opening sequence.”
If you are a fan of ceaseless, bloody violence, look no further than 2012’s Django Unchained, Tarantino’s first Western.
Taking place in the Deep South of Mississippi, two years before the Civil War, a German bounty hunter, Dr. King Schultz (Christopher Waltz), seeks out a slave called Django, played by Jamie Foxx.
Dr. Schultz needs Django to identify a recent bounty, a trio named The Brothers Brittle, afterwards is impressed by Django’s intelligence and ruthlessness. The doctor trades him his freedom, in return, training Django as his second-in-command.
Django, newly freed and experimenting with fashion, isn’t necessarily interested in bounty hunting, instead wants to rescue his wife, Kerry Washington’s Broomhilda. The duo soon locate her, enslaved at the plantation called Candyland Farm, ran by the charming yet ruthless, Calvin Candie (Leonardo DiCaprio).
“Gentlemen, you had my curiosity. Now, you have my attention.”
Stephen (Samuel L. Jackson), a loyal slave and Candie’s right hand, soon finds out Django’s and Schultz’s identities and what follows is one of the bloodiest, most exciting finales in modern film.
Pulp Fiction is probably one of the most quoted movies in Tarantino’s repertoire.
“Uncomfortable silences. Why do we feel it’s necessary to yak about bullshit in order to be comfortable?”
Quentin Tarantino has a way with words. As much as I love films rich with action and an amazing soundtrack, dialogue makes a story memorable. His films are known to be dialogue-heavy, but done in such a great way. Tarantino isn’t afraid to include controversial topics and racial slurs, much to the dismay of Spike Lee and many others in the Black community. As Samuel L. Jackson, who has either starred or held a cameo in most of Tarantino’s films, told The Independent,
“If you’re going to deal with the language of the time, you deal with the language of the time. And that was the language of the time. I grew up in the South. I heard ‘nigger’ all my life. I’m not disturbed by it.”
And, why should we be? This is art!
The word “nigger,” blood and violence, drug abuse, rape. I don’t like it, however, these things happen almost everyday. In real life.
So, instead, practicing hand lettering and calligraphy styles.
Some days, I can write for hours and hours, I take notes, I research. I can sketch, I can outline, I can focus.
the very next day, I just stare at a blank page, thoughtless. I can’t even find the energy to get out of bed. I scroll Facebook, thoughtlessly. I space out during conversations. I stop caring about people, about myself.
Why is it so difficult to stay inspired? Why does my creativity come and go? I love so much and have so much to share.
A novel, unfinished, a Billy Holiday article, several journal entries await final research and review, teaching myself to play the piano which is something I have wanted to learn for years, acquiring art supplies (a sketching pad, a charcoal pencil, a canvas, markers, modeling clay, crayons, glue), reading, hiking, reconnecting with nature.
I will not apologize for my words in this post, as offensive or abrasive they may be. My words are my art, my passion, and my truth.
You are all so pathetic! I am fuckin’ sick of it, dude.
Every stinkin Monday, my news feed is full of everything Game of Thrones. Can’t get y’all to shut the eff up about how “Tacos are Life.” Oh yeah, gotta repost that cute kitty video. Chester Bennington took his own life a few weeks ago. You just repost a ton of Linkin Park songs, right, because his Death was tragic and we will all miss him, but completely miss the glaring learning opprotunity. You fail to think about why he killed himself. You sit there and refuse to delve any further into the subject of depression and addiction. Did you know, in the US, opioid addiction, overdoses, and suicides are at an all-time high, so high, in fact, that it has lowered the life expectancy of middle-aged, White Americans by several years? Americans just like Chester Bennington. No, you probably just kept scrolling along, blind, unquestioning.
This weekend, Nazis, KKK members and white supremacists marched through the streets, armed with rifles, dressed, not in hoods or robes, but in full-tactical gear, showing their faces, unashamed. A woman was killed.
Wake up, comrades!
This incident didn’t happen in Syria or Russia or Afghanistan. This happened here, in the United States, in Charlettesville, Virginia, only a few States away! Yes, here, in the year 2017, not 1960. Here, in the so-called “post-racial America.”
on my Facebook feed, not one outcry, not one comment, not one Like. Dry AF. Discussing it with friends, I hear the same ol’ story:
“I read something about that.”
“I don’t follow that stuff.”
“I try not to get political.”
Why not “get political?” Why is everyone so afraid of the politics? What is so wrong about that word? Why is it so wrong to follow politics and have an opinion and openly discuss those opinions?
Psst! There is a huge difference between openly discussing a rational, informed opinion and spouting ignorance and lies, without having facts to support it.
I want my friends to understand that “staying out of politics” or being “sick of politics” is priviledge in action. Your privilege allows you to live a non-political existence. Your wealth, your race, your abilities, or your gender allow you to live a life in which you likely will not be a target of bigotry, attacks, deportation, or genocide. You don’t want to fight because your life and safety are not at stake. It is hard and exhausting to bring up issues of oppression (aka “get political”). The fighting is tiring. I get it. Self-care is essential. But if you find politics annoying and you just want everyone to be nice, please know that people are literally fighting for their lives and safety. You might not see it, but that’s what privilege does.
— Anonymous Instagram post
The United States has lived in a democracy, uninterrupted, for almost 250 years. A democracy, meaning I can post on this blog without fear that my government will arrest or execute me for treason. I can walk around freely with my cleveage showing. I can listen to the music that I like. I can marry who I wish. When charged with a crime, I will receive a fair trial in a court of law, judged by a jury of my peers.
I love this country and I love having these rights.
I am not asking you to protest in the streets and get yourself killed. I am not asking you to involve yourself in every single news story you come across. I am not even asking you to care.
All I ask is for you to react. To get pissed off. To do your research. To ask questions. To question authority. To stay informed. To stay woke. The powers that be have sat unopposed and unchallenged for too long. I can’t do this alone.
Now playing: Courtship Dating by Crystal Castles
Little Bear and I retired our old friend,
I made it out of socks that were around. Socks, old, torn, stained, forgotten,
…like me. Sigh.
Mega-sock immediately became Little Bear’s (LB) favorite toy. I loved watching him drag it around the house, so pleased. He would chew on it while sunbathing in the yard and play seemingly endless games of tug-of-war. He would even fall asleep with it sometimes! I made it myself! I was so proud.
Because of housing issues, I had to leave LB with a friend for over two months. I had lost my best friend, my only friend. Being separated from him devastated me! The days when I missed LB the most, I would pull out Mega-sock and hug it close, finger its rips and tears, take in its smells. Keeping Mega-sock helped me get through my day.
Jason Martinez, my dude, my boyfriend, my partner. I don’t know what I would do without him. I do not deserve the love and respect that I receive from this man. He is amazing in so many ways! On top of everything he has done, Jason gave me the opportunity to have my LB back.
Little Bear isn’t so “little” anymore! Weighing around 40 lbs, he has all of his adult teeth, his balls have dropped, and, while astoundingly intelligent, he is healthy, happy, and hella strong.
So strong, in fact, he chewed clean through Mega-sock!
…it was time. Time for Mega-sock to call it quits. Done. Spent. Gone. Dead. Kapoot!
Reinforced with extra thick cotton, a fun-looking chili pepper printed sock, and a loop to hold when we are playing together. And I made it myself! Like before, I am super extra proud. But…
Will he love it as much as OG Mega-sock? Is he getting too old for sock toys? What was inside that suitcase in Pulp Fiction?
For almost an hour, he’s been like this, rolling around with it, panicking if I try to take it away. So,
You tell me. 😈