the trapeze act

ask.   i'm marie.

southern california. university of california, berkeley. english/rhetoric major. creative writing minor. introspective, perceptive, detail-oriented, memory keeper, sometimes wannabe writer. razor tongue. mostly gold and therefore golden.

memoryorbits.tumblr.com, the writing journal
fandumbtalk.tumblr.com stupid shit fangirl-ish


Howard Stern Talks to Mindy Kaling About Love

Stern:Have you had great love in your life, where it just hurts that it didn't work out?
Kaling:Yeah, yeah.
Stern:Why did it not work out?
Kaling:Because, uh... this sounds so lame, it's not profound, but people are so different, and you can overlap in certain ways that are important but not... the ones that are the most important, or something.
Stern:Are you still in touch with this guy?
Kaling:Yes. Yeah.
Stern:Do you know what he's up to, do you know if he's married now, does he have kids...?
Kaling (laughing):Yeah, he's, he's not married, no.
Stern:Not married.
Kaling:No.
Stern:But you check on him.
Kaling:Yeah, he's a good friend of mine. Yeah.
Stern:Look at that smile! I think we can set you back up with this guy. I think you're in love.
Kaling:Yeah, well, he's my best friend, so it's... that's not...
Stern:He broke up with you or you broke up with him?
Kaling:...He broke up with me.
Stern:You would take him back.
Kaling:No... it was years ago when this break up happened.
Stern:Best sex of your life with this guy?
Kaling:Oh, man. It was pretty good. He's a smart and funny guy!
Stern:Were you upset when you broke up?
Kaling:I was so, so sad. Not angry-sad. Sad-sad. That was the hottest I'd ever looked, because I'd stopped eating...I'd wake up, get out of bed, and not care. We worked together...but I was real miserable.
...
Stern:I think the guy you were in love with was the guy you co-starred with on the Office. [Kaling LAUGHS] Am I right or am I wrong?
Kaling:B.J.? He was... he was -
Stern:He was the guy.
Kaling:Well, he was, yes, you are correct, not that the mystery - you're not Sherlock Holmes or anything, Howard -
Stern:I'm Sherlock Holmes! That's right, that's what they call me.
Kaling:You're like, 'who have you known for ten years who you worked with...' No, but he legitimately is one of my best friends; he texted me before the show like 'Good luck on Howard,' he's been on my show, he was a producer on the pilot, I see him all the time.
Stern:If he asked you to marry him you would have.
Kaling:At the time? Yeah.
Stern:Wow.
Kaling:Yeah.
Stern:Wow.
Kaling:I mean, it would have been.. I was 24. But for the record, if anybody had asked me to marry them I would have...but he's a wonderful guy.
Stern:Well let's hope he calls you tomorrow and asks you to marry him!
Kaling:I! I would not - one thing about this is, I love him and think he's a good person, but I'm not holding a candle for him or anything...
Stern:I believe if he called you tomorrow and said, 'I made a terrible mistake; we must get back together and get married,' you would do it.
Kaling:I... I don't know. I don't know.
Stern:It's not a 'no.' That's it.
Kaling:Alright.
Stern:We'll get you a boyfriend, don't worry about it.
— 4 days ago with 2623 notes
#high pitched screaming 

I finally dragged my plastic box of creative writing materials out to sift through soon. There’s a few readers in there, a bunch of first drafts with workshop notes and my messy penmanship on original copies. In Fae’s class, I hardly said anything about my work; I was much more interested in everyone else’s interpretations and how they addressed thematic elements of my work. I also loved to give commentary on everyone else’s thematic interests. People don’t notice what they tend to circle around, what obsesses them, the concerns and themes that come up, no matter how obvious or subtle it is.

I really miss taking creative writing classes. Unlike some folks, I value having a structure of accountability that’s embedded within the framework of a classroom workshop. It’s easier for me to follow and map. I’m considering enrolling into a creative writing workshop somewhere, maybe in BCC or something.

I still have that book Angelo gave me, but I keep feeling unprepared to start it. This summer I wasn’t ready, but now I’m gearing up to be ready. I just gotta breathe and start. You have to start in order be something, don’t you?

— 6 days ago

Whoa, Pandora, I wanted to listen to cute indie love songs, so you decide to play OneRepublic’s Apologize? Okieee. Thnx man.

— 1 week ago
Am I an Adult now?

As I consolidate, format, and fix over hundreds (I suspect I will have finished almost a thousand by the end of this project) of MLA-formated citations on behalf of my department to a Vice (?) Chancellor so that they may see why they should continue funding our department, I finally feel like I have a real big-girl job because damn this is the most tiring and most important thing I’ve had to do for my department. But it’s also still kinda bitchwork. Womp.

— 1 week ago with 3 notes
Day 4

Parked my bike by Moffitt. Idk. LOL

I got scheduled for an interview on Tuesday! Really excited about that. Decided to bike straight to the location just to check it out quickly and to see how long it would take me to get there. Feared I would get mowed down on Shattuck and Ashby. Clearly, I am still getting used to this ability to bike on the streets. I really do need a helmet. Sigh.

— 1 week ago
#the biking chronicles 
Day 3

I locked my bike on the road sign directly in front of our apartment. Had a dream that when I went to grab my bike this morning, the handlebars were gone. I made this face: :|. When I finally left for work, my bike was fully intact, though the seat was wet with morning dew. I swiped it off and hauled ass to work.

On my way back, I had a quickish meeting, then biked home down Bancroft. It was fun riding downhill, mostly without worrying that I would crush a student. Ugh. I hate student pedestrians. They walk so damn slow. Anyway, once in the front of my apartment, I found that the road sign pole was occupied by another bike. After brief contemplation, I decided to lock my bike against a pole in my building. But when I did that, I changed my mind and decided to just haul my bike upstairs. It isn’t so bad to bring it upstairs and downstairs; it’s a little bit of a hassle though, since I’m a bit short. I have to lift the bike slightly higher up to avoid the wheels hitting the ground. The plus is that I don’t have to worry so much about my bike getting stolen overnight. And it isn’t so bad in the daytime, especially since my bike is going to be locked right outside of my building with a ton of other bikes.

Ah, the pluses of working in a transportation research department.

— 1 week ago with 3 notes
#the biking chronicles 
Day 2

For the morning ride, there was still no U-lock. It turns out the final hill is more or less the hardest. As I wheeze up it I think about how unfit I am. My legs are burning as I haul my bike into McLaughlin. I hope today is the last day I have to carry my bike up and down buildings.

After work I thought about how much I fucking hate students because they don’t know how to move when a bike is riding downhill. Like. Seriously. I could have crushed maybe five or six people today because their asses stayed in the way. I know people hate bikers, but damn, bikers must hate pedestrians just as much. Y’all need to MOVE when you see a bike plowing downhill. There’s only so much I can do to control my speed. Ughhh.

— 1 week ago
#the biking chronicles 
Day 1.5 of The Biking Chronicles

Made it home in one piece, but found it slightly horrifying that my pedals rolled so easily downhill. Considered changing gears, but decided to spam the brakes. Idly thought about Suzy telling me I would burn right through the breaks if I kept using them as a frictional force to slow me down. Partial uneasiness may be attributed to my lack of helmet. Someone please take me to Target.

Thought about purchasing a rear bike rack and panniers or baskets. For groceries, of course. Entered “milk grate for bike” onto the Google search bar and found a website that said,

You’ve been gazing after all the amazingly cool new bicycle baskets filling the streets, but you know deep down in your trendy heart, that you have to be true to your trashy looks.

-http://thebikecrate.com/milk-crate-diy/

Yes website, you know me very well.

Here’s to hoping that somehow my U-lock will magically be delivered tomorrow morning, right in time for my morning commute.

— 1 week ago
#the biking chronicles 
Day 1 of the Biking Chronicles

Still without a U-lock and running about 15 minutes late, I carried my bike from my apartment balcony down two flights of stairs and into Blake Street. I set off at about 8:50, but by the time I touched campus, too many students walking at their leisure caused more problems than helped me solve my commute. I dismounted from my GT and walked it past Moffitt and Doe, along Memorial Glade, and up the final hill that curves directly into McLaughlin Hall.

I took a short five-minute rest outside my building, wondering if the slight wobble of my knees were from disuse or immediate hunger after the quick and sudden burn of energy. Then, wearily, I picked my bike up by the body, holding still the handlebars so that the front wheels would not tear at my tights, and hauled the bike to my cubicle where it now currently resides.

I hope that by tomorrow I will have a U-lock so that I do not have to carry my bike in and outside of buildings. My hands smell like rubber. I am hungry.

There is still the ride back.

— 1 week ago with 3 notes
#the biking chronicles 
"We tell ourselves stories in order to live. The princess is caged in the consulate. The man with the candy will lead the children into the sea. The naked woman on the ledge outside the window on the sixteenth floor is a victim of accidie, or the naked woman is an exhibitionist, and it would be “interesting” to know which. We tell ourselves that it makes some difference whether the naked woman is about to commit a mortal sin or is about to register a political protest or is about to be, the Aristophanic view, snatched back to the human condition by the fireman in priest’s clothing just visible in the window behind her, the one smiling at the telephoto lens. We look for the sermon in the suicide, for the social or moral lesson in the murder of five. We interpret what we see, select the most workable of the multiple choices. We live entirely, especially if we are writers, by the imposition of a narrative line upon disparate images, by the “ideas” with which we have learned to freeze the shifting phantasmagoria which is our actual experience."

Joan Didion, “The White Album” (via lifeinpoetry)

I’m reading Didion again, a year and some change after taking College Writing 130, where Kaya Oakes gave us essays from Slouching Towards Bethlehem to read for the creative non-fiction portion of our class. I tore through Blue Nights while in Portland, first at a coffee shop, then at Pioneer Square. I later finished the rest on my flight back to the Bay, overwhelmed by Didion’s frailty and old age, outliving first her husband, then her daughter. It only took two years for Didion to be the final person in her immediate family standing. Only barely. But every chapter of the book, I get the sense of the Grim Reaper by her door, his casual distance as she delicately fingers fine china to sip her tea and force a meal she no longer has a true desire to taste. Her thin wrists, the stream of her veins visible, the curve of bones delicate.

This is the Didion that echoes in my mind as I read “The White Album” essay, wherein someone tells her, “Death is in your aura.” I once suggested in my Rhetoric of Autobiography class that perhaps we could see the totality of Didion’s nonfiction works in relationship to one another, continuing volumes of her autobiographical narrative. I wonder if it would be proper to label this irony, that the decades before the death of her husband and the subsequent death of her daughter, she wrote that someone told her death was in her aura.

Later, she would be awarded the National Book Award for Nonfiction for The Year of Magical Thinking, the story of her husband’s death. Part of me believes she won’t write anything else now. Part of me is strangely relieved by this notion because it means that perhaps, that maybe she will finally rest in peace.

— 2 weeks ago with 280 notes