A Year in Review

Twelve years of insomnia watching those damn tortured sunrises feels warm to me. As I'm falling effortlessly into sleep clinging onto the small of your back everything is so easy. And it's so fucking weird to not struggle so damn hard each and every night, I feel naked.

So yes, that's the year in a nutshell-- elusive in theory; too vague for expression. All I know is one day the sun dances dimmly through the window blinds and the next day... well, they don't.

There are so many things that I want to say but I can't because I don't know how...

This year was too damn perfect.

I'm rooting for AL.

Even if I can't be there.

I hope life treats you kind.
And I hope you have all you've dreamed of.
And I wish to you, joy and happiness.
But above all this, I wish you love.

Yeah, you.

Victim of Indifference

I fail to see the merit in expensive accessories-- shoes, bags and otherwise. Perhaps my bias rests on my practical nature and an embarassingly classic sense of style. For me, a monogram print just doesn't cut it. Despite a widely held belief, it seems to deteriorate the very essence of luxury and dare I say, individualism?

I'm not arrogant or naive enough to suggest that society does not fall prey to commercialism. It's unavoidable and plus, who would want to return to subsistence anyway? My only qualm is lies in quality, comfort, elegance and yes, even style.

The price for the fashionable is a hefty one, a simple accessory can cost upward of $1000 for just their mediocre model. And one simply can't justify the cost.

A great cashemere sweater envelops you in its baby softness and delicate warmth, a high-end foundation fills in the imperfections like a silky second skin, best-cut diamonds sparkle seemlessly under the worst fluorescent lighting-- all expensive items but all justifiably so.

In the world of economics, price usually reflects quality. But when that pair Jimmy Choos are cutting into the heel of both of my feet (and I'm just standing on set, not even walking mind you) and I'm limping home like a victim of an automobile accident... there's something decidely absent in the quality department.

In the end, it's paying for the brand, but why? It's impressive? It's in? To whom?

When I go to castings and shoots, all the models wear the same thing. Jeans, a tanktop and an enormous oversized bag (big enough to carry heels, the portfolio and a change of clothes just in case) with wide straps that don't cut into the shoulders.

If someone expects me to be a walking logo, then they sure as hell better be paying me well for the endorsement.

My latest television interivew with Duowei Times.

http://www.rubikvids.com/viewvideo.php?id=cUtdIv2ML4s

Syndrome: Don't Worry

She said, "I don't know if I've ever been really loved"

It's lonely on this gorgeous highway intersection. The pavement gleams a pleasant glow and I miss driving on it on those perfect cool days- if only in my mind.

I miss the "don't worry", the effortless efficiency that relaxes me. The accomodations that sway me back to sleep on those unbearable disfunctional mass transit-less days. Or when the city seems so close and so far, I find myself pleasantly unmoved and on time.

Still, it's a relief to get away from that stifling hold. But now? The days seem longer than ever and I realize that I'm just as far away as before. Maybe even farther because now I lost the quiet disposition of that fucking weary thing called hope. Damn it.

And it hangs there, like stale bread. So it suddenly becomes a game of deception. Or maybe something nicer, a better euphanism: sacrifice.

I give up. You're just a pale imitation of something I've always dreamed of.

So farewell dreams, I'm letting you go. You're not real and I know that now. And me? I'll never be happy without you.

It's okay though, we all do it. Wingin' it Darlin'.

A Decade of Harry

As I trace the last line of "The Deathly Hallows" I feel both elated and dissapointed. The prospect of never having to wait on a line in the thick of July, engulfed by a sea of strangers seems foreign and unsavory. The delight in the torture seems a distant ache of a memory.

From the moment my gaze reaches the first overproduced ink, I am a goner. Pausing only after the dull pounding in my head, sleep overcomes my curiosity. Fingers entwined around the binding, bookmarking my place. Finally Saturday afternoon (six anguished hours in the morning dedicated to a newspaper interview as a reporter comes to my house) I settle the book neatly onto the shelf.

Small Spoiler Alert

Initial protests occurs early in the book, as early as page ten as questions lead me to ask if Rowling truly left her mark. Is Harry simply older, sophisticated and polished through a summer of anguish and unwarranted deaths? Or does Rowling relinquish the author's rights to corporate editors through and through. Is it an apeasement to public taste? Who knows? Because by page twenty, none of that matters.

Early reviews reveals book seven's violent nature and they're right... it's a blood-bath. Characters we hold dear to our hearts are forever lost. It's not fairy-tale trickery, there's no magic potion for their revival, no magic prince to kiss a poisoned princess... it's ugly, it's cruel and more than that, it's permanent. They die without reason or warning, and as Harry suffers through his twelfth (but not last... not last by far) death in book 7, it's numbing. He digs out Dobby's grave crudely by hand and I feel his heavy sorrow. He'll never be the same. But that's life, wizard or muggle... pain is inescapable and not even magic can erase the shadows of death.

I bow down to the author, whether it be Rowling, Scholastic-hired, WB-hired... it's inconsequential at best. May I dare say, brilliant? The character development is magnificent and the story-line boasts something even more beautiful. Love, deceptions, betrayal, friendship carries onto the bitter end. And just when you think that your heart might burst from the misery of it all, it picks you up with a tearful smile. The half-deserted hope is not unwarranted.

Snape... oh Snape.

Evoremore - It's Too Late (Dirty South Remix)

Models and Mortals

Modeling is a facade just like any other-- only a little more ugly and a little more beautiful.

The X

It's unfair isn't it? The best things in life are determined long before you ever realize its implications. The lottery, it'll get you.

I'm coasting. Looking back, it's a thrill.

This year? In a nutshell-- from homeless, jobless, dogless to everything-ness.

Funny, everytime I think I finally have a grasp on something... just a tiny sliver of certainty, the rug gets pulled out from under me. Reality check, I don't know squat. Every year I think "this it it! this is me!" to only unearth something surreal that I wonder if anything will ever be still.

Yeah, it does that to you. Life I mean. It'll knock you down to the very last peg when you feel oh-so high and make it up to you in more ways than you can imagine. It'll make you work for it, whatever that 'it' may be. I still don't know.

This year I'm all about the real smiles. It's strange, you walk around your whole life feeling uncontrollably sad and you carry it around with you since god-knows-when and then suddenly everything is better you almost don't know what to do with yourself. So you nod and mutter to no one in particular "ah, this is happy..." and it's not what you expect but it's borderline bizarre. And it's that lottery-winner feeling but it's always felt that way and every night you wonder "what's the catch?". What is the catch?

Is it skill or is it chance? Because from this side of the fence it seems to me all luck and some of us have all the charm. Blind-sided by the x, so I'm crossing my fingers and hoping that the x will never catch up to me.

In the end, it's a ride. A damn good one, with the best music you can get your ears around and the fastest shiny car you can ever want (still, a person always beckons for more... more)... I think the only thing it asks of you is to obey the speed limit... if anything, just to take in the cool air.

And I didn't think it was possible but every time I turn around, I like you even more.

Tiesto (Salt Tank) - Eugina