I'd like to take a little time to talk about fame.  It happens to me a lot lately when anytime I try to sit down and hash out a topic, especially if it hits close to home, my brain shuts down.  It is incapable of analyzing.  It tells me everything is fine, and I can just be a drama queen sometimes, this isn't really a problem.  I'm going to try to fight that.

Something that came up when I was filming my response to Andrew Bravener was this idea of YouTube fame having sort of sullied my experience.  Why is fame such a big deal?  I'm not asking this in a way of saying I'm above it.  Because I'm not.  I struggle against the pull to want fame.  But what does having fame mean to me?  And others?  And why do we want it?  Is it just going back to that basic human desire to be, well, desired?  To be wanted?  To be something of novelty?  Okay, fine, you're a novelty.  Then what?  Because money and "stuff" really doesn't do that much for me.  I think it's more about being wanted.  But then what do you do with that?

Things like this make me question every thing I do, every relationship I seek.  Why is someone so shy, so content to be under the radar at the same time wish people would seek her out?  I just get so jumbled up about these things sometimes.

HESHER

Hey BEDerp.  I got to go to a preview screening of HESHER this evening.  I guess it's going to be released in theatres soon, although I do not know how widely.  I saw it at Sundance 2010 and remember it as one of my favorites.  And then my mind was later blown when I realized that Hesher was played by Joseph Gordon-Levitt.  This was around the time of Inception and when I finally got around to watching (500) Days of Summer.  I'm pretty sure at Sundance I was at the premiere screening in the Egyptian Theatre.  And that Joe was there.  Because I remember being surprised at how different the actor was from his character.  The hair!  It just felt like a complete transformation.

But watching it again after over a year, and now being aware of Joe's persona, and the happenstance of running into and talking to him this past fall--it felt different.  I had trouble seeing the character; I just kept seeing Joseph Gordon-Levitt acting.  I was even less enthused with Natalie.  The kid was still great though.  And the film is still great.  Enough balance of quirky with silly with pretty shots of California sunshine.  I just hated that I couldn't watch it in the same way.  Hesher was no longer Hesher.  It was Joe with long hair and being ultra badass.  I feel like I've just experienced first hand the beauty of unknown actors.

David Wojnarowicz

"Sometimes I come to hate people because they can't see where I am.  I've gone empty.  Completely empty and all they see is the visual form: my arms and legs, my face, my height and posture, the sounds that come from my throat.  But I'm fucking empty.

The person I was just one year ago no longer exists; drifts spinning slowly into the ether somewhere way back there.  I'm a xerox of my former self.  I can't abstract my own dying any longer.  I am a stranger to others and to myself and I refuse to pretend that I am familiar or that I have history attached to my heels.  I am glass, clear empty glass.

I see the world spinning behind and through me.  I see casualness and mundane effects of gesture made by constant populations.  I look familiar but I am a complete stranger being mistaken for my former selves.

I am a stranger and I am moving.  I am moving on two legs soon to be on all fours.  I am no longer animal vegetable or mineral.  I am no longer made of circuits or disks.  I am no longer coded and deciphered.  I am all emptiness and futility.  I am an empty stranger, a carbon copy of my form.

I can no longer find what I'm looking for outside of myself.  It doesn't exist out there.  Maybe it's only in here, inside my head.  But my head is glass and my eyes have stopped being cameras, the tape has run out and nobody's words can touch me.  No gesture can touch me.  I've been dropped into all this from another world and I can't speak your language any longer.

See the signs I try to make with my hands and fingers.  See the vague movements of my lips among the sheets.  I'm a blank spot in a hectic civilization.  I'm a dark smudge in the air that dissipates without notice.  I feel like a window, maybe a broken window.  I am a glass human.  I am a glass human disappearing in the rain.

I am standing among all of you waving my invisible arms and hands.  I am shouting my invisible words.  I am getting so weary.  I am growing so tired.  I am waving to you from here.  I am crawling around looking for the aperture of complete and final emptiness.  I am vibrating in isolation among you.  I am screaming but it comes out like pieces of clear ice.  I am signaling that the volume of all this is too high.  I am waving.  I am waving my hands.  I am disappearing.  I am disappearing but not fast enough."

So it's my last week of classes of my first year at university.  And I'm still skipping astronomy to watch Doctor Who on Netflix instead.  I think it's a pretty good substitute.

I guess I'm happy it's over?  I dunno, I'm so out of touch with my feelings lately.  More than anything I'm amazed at how quickly it went by.  I cannot believe I've finished a year here.  In some ways, it still feels like camp.  I did smart camps in middle school & a bit in high school where I'd live at a university for a couple weeks, take "classes."  And that's how university feels like--like I've been at nerd camp for a really effing long time.  Except with fewer rules.  Like at nerd camp they would never let me skip astronomy this much.  I think the only reason I justify it is because I'm taking it pass/fail.  Still feel the need to redeem myself to my readers by saying I got a solid A on my film paper.  So yeah.  But who cares if you think I'm dumb?  I know I'm not.  I'm... okay, I'm gonna stop.

Man, crush week has been fail-whaling.  Harpooned.  Ah well.

I'm not sure if my rough draft for the last paper of my writing class is due tomorrow morning.  At 8am.  Not gonna miss that class.  Even though my teacher kinda looks like Rose from Doctor Who, but with a California twang.  But anyway, yeah, so at first I was like crap, it's 10pm.  Here I am again having to crank out three pages of something I've barely thought about.  But then I remembered that I think we are doing evaluations tomorrow and then a no-stress (her words) in-class essay.  I can hear Sanne scolding me across time and space and sense my roommate's premature wrath, but I'm just gonna set my alarm for 5:30am and write something then.  Tonight I'm treating myself to reading for me and then sleeeeeeep.

I edited an entire video in one sitting.  I'm gonna say it took me 3-4 hours.  Ahhhh, felt good.  But now I'm very tired.  And BEDA is keeping me awake!  When I need to get up in 4 hours.  Because tomorrow is gonna be soooooo busy.  Catching up on schoolwork.  That I neglected to do AGAIN.

I started today super late though.  Honestly didn't get going until 2pm.  And then Katie, my roommate, and I walked to the pancake joint.  And I don't even like pancakes.  But it was just one of those days when you say to yourself I need to inhale an exorbitant amount of food today.  I had the Elvis pancakes:  two gianormous fluffy monsters with peanut butter and bananas.  I ate about 2/3 of one.

Also, watching Andrew Bravener's video really sort of highlights conversations I've been having with a couple of people lately.  I'm even thinking about making a video response.  Because it's so true:  there are many days when I don't feel like I fit into this community anymore.  Which makes it really hard to motivate yourself to make things, even if only for yourself.  I get these crazy inspiration spurts about once in a blue moon.  And that blue moon just happened to be today.  But knowing my track record, the next time I post something could be months from now.  And I think a big part of that stems from YouTube having gone so "brandname" on me.

Joey.

I know you're all crossing your fingers, biting your nails in hopes that by the end of crush week I'll have arrived at present day and then you'll get some dirt on my personal life.  Oh, you scallywag, you!

I grew up in a brownstone in Hoboken.  A brownstone that is probably now worth over a million, bet my parents are kicking themselves over that one.  Although granted that the schools there were really crappy at the time and might still be for all I know.  But I had a stoop.  Which makes me think of stoop kid in Hey, Arnold.  Which also makes me remember when I used to be younger than the kids on that show and how weirded out I felt when I was older than the characters.  I'd probably be filling out forms for social security if someone sat me down to watch Hey, Arnold now.  Anyone remember the train episode?  God, that one used to scare the shit out of me.

Anyway, hello.  Supposed to be talking about booooooooys.  With their coooooooties.  I also got really upset when I was told I had cooties.  It bothered me because no one ever really fully explained to me what it was.  And I hated not knowing because I was convinced I was left out of some sort of secret joke.  Still feel like the joke is on me sometimes.

So growing up in Hoboken, right.  Apparently toddlerhoney didn't just have a thing for adulterous politicians.  There was a kid named Joey whose father owned the liquor store my parents frequented.  I'm sure if I asked them today both of them would gush about that shop in different ways.  Mom with the wine they would always order special with her; Dad taking the more manly route--some story involving brewskis and motorcycles.  I think Joey even had a little toy tricycle he would carouse around the block in.  I don't even know if I'm imagining this right, but I see the store as being the ground floor of a brick apartment building.  And there was a wrought iron fence in front even though it essentially sectioned off some concrete of the sidewalk.  And my parents just sort of dumped me there to play with Joey while they went shopping for booze.  And then everyone commented on how cute the two of us were.

Boom, done, crushed.  Wonder where Joey is these days?

Bill Clinton.

I'm feeling quite ill.  Undoubtedly because my diet today has consisted of:
  • 1 iced nonfat white chocolate mocha
  • 1 blueberry oat bar
  • 2 Grandma's cookies from the vending machine
  • oodles of Easter chocolate
  • & some jelly beans
Yeah, terrrrrible idea.  This evening I found myself watching VlogCandy.  I never really watched them, maybe popped in a day or two over the past couple years.  But I've talked to Zack a couple times and saw his tweet about it being his last video, which then led me to discover that this was the last week for the channel.  And even though I was never a subscriber, it still makes me kind of sad to see things like that end.  Especially with such great, creative people.

This week on marionhoney I've decided to do a featurette to push me through the last couple days of BEDA.  So without further ado, I present...

Crushes of Honey
Which essentially boils down to me recounting people I had crushes on during childhood.


I'm told that in my wee days to toddlerdom, I was very fond of the election coverage that my parents would have on.  I'm pretty sure it was Bush Sr. vs. Clinton.  And apparently, during the debates, I would always clap when Bill came on and at one point even kissed the television set.  My yellow dog democrat mother indoctrinated me at a young age.  But you know with Bill, he always had that certain charm that breached all generations.  And to this day, even after all the skeeze, I kinda understand why baby-me had the hots for number forty-two.

Rush to the end.

Urgh, I was going to shut Polly down and then for some reason I remembered I hadn't BEDA'd. Sigh.

I worry about not being a good storyteller. And in turn not a good communicator. Writing I feel at home in. It's just speaking where I feel like I never really get where I want or feel I'm capable of. I think sometimes it depends on whom I'm talking to or the setting. But so often I find myself the listener, sitting back, letting someone else do all the legwork. It can be a relief and you know, sometimes I just like listening to other people, watching their lips move, how they get their emotions across. And then I get squashed when they ask about me. Like I'm some sort of grand mystery and they want a heartfelt play-by-play. So much lately I just elect to rush to the end.

I was going to talk about my bus creeper of the day, but I have to wake up at 9:30 tomorrow morning. There's an art history paper that needs my attention so I can actually hang out with my mother when she arrives Monday afternoon.

Also, LA was too warm for me today, but the evening was gorgeous. Not so much the temperature, but simply how the world was colored. I really wish I had more people around me to photograph. If you're up for me following you around with a still camera, lemme know.

Little diddy.

My head lulls up and down, and I lean back into the plush seat.  The rumble has us all shaking slightly, and I would be more if I wasn't completely exhausted.  I go right to the window.  It's chill radiates through my skull and the vibrations have me back in the center after twenty seconds.  To the left.  To you.  To your shoulder.  I'm conscious of it.  And then again I'm not.  Because I've never needed sleep more.  To grit my eyes tight, set my jaw.  And pretend that this isn't happening.  That this hasn't happened.  That only part of this happened.  And I'm just filling in the rest as I see fit.  I don't want to face you when I finally recoup the energy to sit up.  If you're okay, I'm just going to stay here for a while.

Est-ce qu'il y a quelqu'un là?

I think I understand a bit more why people usually drop out at this point in the BEDA game:  they don't just get sick of writing.  They also get sick of reading their own stuff and imagine that people are sick of their posts by now as well.  Are you sick of me?  'Cause I'm a bit sick of me.  Anyway, here goes.

I get to write another 5 to 7 page paper tonight.  But I feel a smidge less like the world is ending.  Which was kinda where I was last evening.  Ohhhhh yeahhhh.  I also have an astronomy midterm tomorrow evening.  That has yet to be studied for.  But if I'm going to be realistic, looking over those notes ain't gonna happen until tomorrow.  I may skip art history in the afternoon to study.  Tomorrow evening at six it'll all be over.

You know what's really awkward?  Eating in a dining hall at a table by yourself.  I wish I didn't feel awkward when I don't have anyone to get dinner with me.  But I still do.  I mean, why should I care?  It's not like everyone is staring at me, even though I'm convinced that a lot are.  Or at least give a glance my way.  And okay, so they give a glance my way.  So what?  Why does that make me so uncomfortable?  Is it because I don't want people to think I'm a loner?  Because I'd like to think that I don't care if people think that when they see me sitting at an empty table with my iPod and a book.  But it does bother me.  I need to get over that--it's dumb.

Fingers crossed that BEDA content will pick up after tomorrow evening.

Well Stressed

I'm getting this out of the way now instead of later.  Because I'll still be working on this damn paper.  Ugh, I really need to stop leaving things until the last second.  But then again I had some really great skype chats today that left me trying to control my silent snickering in the library.  And I wouldn't give that up.  But honestly, every time I have an essay due in a matter of hours and I still haven't gotten my research all ironed out, I get pretty freaked out.  As in, oh shit, what if this isn't one additional time I am able to hall ass and crank out a paper.  Believe in yourself, woman!

Pathetic post is pathetic.  But if you have Netflix, I recommend Cleo from 5 to 7.  That's what my paper is on.  I really liked the film.  Just not the deadline.  Also Greg Holden is amazing.  Sorry, Sanne, still haven't completely gotten into Bobby Long yet.  "Hell & Back" even inspired a video idea, but then I realized that song hasn't been officially released.  Bollocks.

Ginger

I got a lot of comments about being a redhead today.  Random dude in the parking lot, guy (do you even go here?) on the quad.  Then that man/woman? with a protest poster that read "The Revolution is YouTube."  I yelled back that I'm already there.  Is there some sort of stigma against redheads except that they have no souls?  And as Katie the roommate pointed out, I'm not a natural redhead so it's not like I don't actually have a soul; I just wish I didn't.  Honestly, though, I'm curious--why do redheads get so many comments?  It's not like brunettes ever get the occasional "Whoaaaaa, girl, that is some brown hair on your head."  Googlin' time.

According to Raising-Redheads.com, people may think that I'm hot-tempered, a free spirit, and/or sexually aggressive.  Seriously, do people honestly subscribe to these kind of stereotypes over a hair color?  Because that is completely ridiculous.  Am I missing anything here?  What stereotypes have you heard about gingers?

PS:  I wrote Sanne's BEDA for Saturday.  Read it if you'd like some mush.

8BEDA

Blerg.  I'm grouchy.  Because I wait to BEDA until now.  And I just want to sleep.  I'm sorry to cheat again, but I'm just going to throw my newest video at you and call it a night:



Another thing I'd like to share with you--Zachary Binks tweeted a link that brought me to Jeff Pianki.  I've been listening to his albums all evening.  They are very Sufjan meets Bon Iver meets a less angry Mumford and Sons.  Gorgeous.  And you can download his stuff for free.  But I'm gonna be a doll and probably give him five bucks.  Because I feel bad for snatching away someone so beautiful without a little monetary thanks.

Where did it hit?

At first I was like, oh shirt, I've been spelling Garfunkel wrong all this time and never realized it. Because an article I was reading for my paper on "The Sounds of Silence" had it written as "Garfunkle." Buuut I just double checked with Google, and I was definitely right the first time, so phew, good, dodged one bullet of shame.

A separate bullet of shame [okayyyy, cheesy transition, but I like cheese so it's cool] hit me pretty much square in the... face? On my leg? Tore through my spleen? Whenever I bring up spleens then I remember I don't really know where they are located and what they do. Now I have to Google, hold up.

According to mamashealth.com, the spleen creates lymphocytes for the destruction and recycling of old red-blood cells, is a blood reservoir, supplies the body with blood in emergencies such as a bad cut, and is also where white blood cells trap organisms.  Yeah, still don't really know what the hell a spleen is.  But hey, it's located in the upper area in the rib cage.

Where did the bullet of shame penetrate me, guys?  Lemme know in the comments.

This bullet was that I slept through my 8am writing class this morning.  Where I was supposed to bring in a rough draft of the paper due Tuesday.  But I didn't even bother writing it.  I just didn't make time for it before yesterday evening, and by the time I had finished the other mandatory stuff, I was in no right mind to crank out three pages.  Or maybe I was, but I had no energy to try.  But I did have the energy to skype with Sanne.  But there are very few times when I don't have the energy to do that :P  Still, I may get in trouble for skipping, participation penalized or something.  And that really bugged me when I woke up.  I did feel pretty terrible about that.  But I feel I've partially made up for my voluntary blunder by taking notes on my sources for four+ hours at the library.

It's so strange how unacademic I've been this semester.  Seeing as that had been my LIFE.  As in school is a really big frickin' deal to me.  As in it was impossible for me not to try, at least the bare minimum.  And now that I've been slacking off, I am missing being studious.  I think if I force myself out of my room and hang at the library more I'll be more inclined to, you know, do the homework so I don't fail the courses I'm paying so much money to be enrolled in.

A little something I wanted to bring up before I let you go is that I found out that ze is doing a replay and commentary of the show in honor of its 5 year anniversary.  I really recommend you check it out, especially if you are a fan of the vlogbrothers.  Just reading what ze has to say about himself and the process that went in to making the show has made me think about how I make my own videos.  I feel so rushed when I'm filming, like I just have to get it done as quickly impossible--realize and produce this image or idea before it leaves me.  But especially with my vlogs, now I'm wishing I took more time in front of the camera, do redo words and sentences and try out different things.  You'll see what I'm talking about here.  But honestly, for that I need an apartment to myself or that is empty whenever I need to get shit done.

This file cannot be deleted.

Sometimes I'm quite fond of the internet.  Its ability to inform, entertain, connect me to the ones I love.  But other times I really have a muddled sense of what our relationship is.  Notably when I am presented with a blank space to type text and all I want to do is scream.  Maybe give a kick or two.  I want to textually expel all my problems and petty insecurities, as if having someone read them would reify, but also reassure me.  Reassure me that I'm being silly.  That I don't see myself right.  That everything's going to be okay.  That change is possible, and even though you don't know me--have never beheld me beyond your laptop screen, you believe in me.  You don't know why--you just do.

This is what gets cut from so many posts.  Or hidden and woven into pretty, vague language.  Or little made up stories or scenarios.  Blended with fiction and fantasy to hide the truth.  The inescapable audience.  We don't blog so we can come back in two weeks time, ten weeks time to see what we were up to.  It's quick consumption for someone else.  We all have an audience on the internet; be it one or 100,000, you're still conscious of them.  And why would anyone parade their issues, besides for attention?  The only attention you're going to get will be fleeting.  And I'm going to remember when you complained.  Not necessarily in a bad way.  It's just going to became a part of your online make up--what you let us know.  And you're gonna have to carry that with you.  On the internet.  Where nothing dies.  And baggages is measured by megabytes that can't be deleted because they are still in use by another application.

Sun Ray

I took the bus downtown this morning.  For the purse.  I'm not gonna name it, okay, but I do have it.  As much as everyone I am around is repulsed by the thought of using public transportation in Los Angeles, I find it to be oddly calming.  It's prime people watching territory.  And not people that go out that go out because they want to be watched, like so much of LA can feel like.  Just people.  That have to take the bus.    I like to examine faces from behind my Raybans.  Today there was a scruffy, middle-aged man sitting towards the front, holding a spiral notebook.  He kept holding it at arm's length, above the level of his head.   The first page had the alphabet written out with bold red marker, and each subsequent had pictures paired with corresponding words in block print.  A sharpied drawing of the sun with an arrow-- "SUN RAY."  He mouthed the words to himself.  I wondered if he was teaching himself to read.  It made me happy to see him working on it.  Not in a condescending way like I know how to read, but you don't.  Not at all.  It was more it's nice to see someone make the effort to better themselves.

After biting the handbag bullet, I got lunch with Annie a couple store fronts down Spring Street.  Had an amazing veggie wrap, which Annie and I agreed that the rest of the ingredients could have been totally subpar and the spicy mayo would have saved it.  We sat at the bar that faced the plate glass window and street.  That location beat out the bus entertainment wise.  First there was a close save of a pile up when some truck went barreling through a red light.  And then some woman sat in one of the patio chairs outside.  Dressed in an open graduation gown.  She was black, but had put what looked with ultra fair-skinned foundation on her face--including eyelids and lips--to the point where it created a mask.  I couldn't really see her from my stool, but Annie relayed that she had a package of strawberries and was eating them all, stems and leaves included.  Everyone in this little falafel hole-in-the-wall was staring at her and well as people passing by on the block.  There was even this silent exchange with some guy walking by; he and I caught each other staring incredulously at the woman, and he playfully pointed at me and laughed as he moved along.  It's surprising what can be shared through a wall of glass.

Sensing a pattern

The responses from all who commented on yesterday's post--giant hug to you guys.  Really.  Today I finished (finally) watching the last episodes of The Show with Ze Frank.  And reading the comments from you made me, if for a delusional moment, feel like I had my own little band of sports racers.  You guys are awesome.

Still, I should really come here with a plan.  I thought about writing ideas down throughout the day of something I could cover.  Obviously followed through on that one.  So here I am coming up with something on the fly.

I was listening to Mumford and Sons on my way back to the dorm.  Yeahyeah dirty hipster blah.  I'll also have you know I was wearing Tom's, acid wash jeans, and plaid.  Anyway, two song lyrics really struck me and I was torn between which one to use as my I-am-a-mysterious-person-wonder-about-the-context tweet.

But it was not your fault, but mine
And it was your heart on the line
I really fucked it up this time
Didn't I, my dear?
- "Little Lion Man"

And I'll find strength in pain
And I will change my ways
I'll know my name as it's called again
- "The Cave"

And instead of continuing this strain of thought, I'm going to preserve my shroud of mystery and not contextualize.

Worst rationale to end a blog post...ever.

You're not gonna get any comments on this one because you didn't pose a direct question for the readers.  Yeah, hush.

In which we pretend it's still Friday

Hey, guys!  It's totally not 1am on Saturday when I told myself I'd do BEDA... APRIL FOOLS!!!  Yeah, okay I'll stop.

So I'm sitting here in my rolly chair in my dorm room lit only by Christmas lights.  The XX is playing on my iHome.  And I'm sweating like a pig, in shorts and a bra.  Yeah, it hit 32 degrees (C) the past two days in LA.  But I'm nasty because I just got back from the gym.  A midnight elliptical escapade with a friend.  After a strange day.  Where I cancelled something probably important and then forgot about a quiz due at five pm which prompted Polly to tag along with me to a last minute trip to Venice Beach.  Yeah, odd day.  And I don't even know what I'm doing here.  Other than sort of typing away because it means that much more time not showering.  But does that mean I enjoy being sticky and stinky?  Well, not particularly.  But you folks have to understand that I am painfully lazy--often at the expense of my health, personal hygiene.  Okay, where am I going with this?  Because I hate those blogs which are one self-deprecating entry after another.

This is a strange start to BEDA.  And I'm trying to think of a way to segway into a question to leave you guys with.  Even though I personally have underlying distaste for people who are all "here's a pointless, okay maybe slightly relevant, question for you to answer so I can get comments."  But I suppose I would like some comments.  I'm just going to go the generic route--who are you?  How did you find this entry?  Do you come here often?  Also have to ever attempted a Blog Every Day in _______?
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