it’s my birthday and i s’pose i could cry, if i really wanted to ::

although i have no plans to cry as of yet, but you never know. i may very well cry tears of happiness at some point, which would be cool with me. however, it’s still too soon to tell, it’s not even 3:00pm yet !

all i do know is that on this day 29 years ago i was brought into this world as a squirming, crying, kicking, and screaming infant. i am, personally, under the impression that the day of one’s conception should be considered their birthday because that is, after all, the day we sprouted from nothing into something. however, “birth” day does imply the day one was squeezed out into this world (or, in my case, removed via c-section). so, celebrating that blissful moment when mom no longer has to cart you around in her belly like some demanding watermelon with legs is probably the best day to celebrate the entry into this world. it really is her day more than it is mine. i should go buy her a Porsche or a puppy just to thank her for the nine months she had to deal with everything from morning sickness to perpetual doctor’s visits just to make sure i was “okay” and not exhibiting signs of an irregular heartbeat, deformities, or whatever else comes with the territory of going to the doctor when you’ve got something that does not look too unlike an alien growing inside of you. i never had to endure labor or surgery on the day of birth, i merely emerged from her womb and was quickly tucked into some warm blankets and an incubator, allowed to rest for as long as i wanted to. so, mom, happy birthday to you. i’m sorry that i get all of the attention today when you’re the one who likely went through some possibly massive trauma, not to mention complete exhaustion, just to have me somewhat force-ably removed (days early, might i add, which only makes me an entirely impatient baby) from the gelatinous world of wonder (that you’d created for me!) that i’d been living in for nine comfortable months.

birthday’s are just weird. it’s just another day on this planet. to me, it’s a lot like New Year’s. 365 days have passed and therefore, according to some calender that was constructed well before i was ever born has declared this day to be significant. these days, the “highlight” of having a birthday (and i’m aware of just how shallow this will make me sound) are just how many people post messages on your godforsaken facebook wall. i appreciate a phone call much more. i appreciate an in person encounter even more. but i think we’d all be lying if we didn’t somehow greatly relish in the attention that our facebook friends show us. i’ve already reached 55+ birthday wall posts and i feel somehow vindicated. despite the fact that 95% of those posts only exist because i listed my birthday and therefore anyone on facebook was notified as soon as they logged in. i’m so cynical and unappreciative, i apologize. i do appreciate the facebookery love, ten fold, but it really is more like a pissing contest. i’ve seen some people receive less than ten happy birthday messages and it makes me feel sorry for them. but then i immediately feel sorry for myself because their lack of facebook birthday “love” is evidence that they, unlike myself, have a life. i clearly spend too much damn time on that social site if i’m checking my phone, somewhat obsessively, to see who has wished me a new happy birthday.

there you have it. a slave to facebook. reliant on those birthday wishes to make this day, which i don’t find particularly exciting in the first place, worth it. truth be told? i am stoked my mom’s in town for my birthday. i’m stoked i get to have dinner with some people i love.

so, happy fucking birthday to me. i appreciate all those facebook posts, i really really do, but i’ve a feeling that waking up this morning with my mom and having planned a nice (but not fancy) dinner this evening (and was even promised by my former Italian roommate that he and his cohorts would sing happy birthday to me in Italian tonight at another restaurant) and have plans to see a dear friend later tonight will, no doubt, trump any facebook “happy birthdays” that i receive today.

much love. much thanks. and keep on facebooking, it seems to make this crazy world go round, somehow.

xxx

many kisses and hugs to you all on this day of days, a day just like any other.

jessi

a ‘tell all’ i hope y’all read :: if this doesn’t give you some insight on ‘me’ – i’m not sure what the f*ck will ::

i grew up in washington state (not DC (which, by the way, is every ones’ first assumption when i say washington, a bit aggravating, truth be told)). i grew up in a state that resides in the top left corner of the country, part of the PNW (pacific northwest, that is), a state notorious for its rainfall that lasts about ten solid months out of the year (give or take, well, not really, it’s pretty much fact at this point that it rains that frequently now-a-days). people in san francisco, both those who were born and raised here as well as transplants who are from states like, well, DC where they experience four distinguishable seasons in a twelve month period of time or those who are from places like Texas or Arizona or even other parts of California where rain is actually considered a blessing, don’t really quite get what rain is unless you’ve spent at least one winter in seattle. it rains in portland, too. and idaho. and southwest canada, but it’s not quite the same as seattle rain. believe you me. after nearly twenty years of that climate, i do consider myself and my family to be experts, in the very least.

it’s a rain that has a dampness that permeates your bones so intensely that even on a not so chilly day, you will find yourself wearing copious amounts of layers. i will admit to wearing a winter coat during the summer months just to prevent this damp chill from reaching my bones. because that’s what it does. there’s no such thing as warm rain or, as they say in hawaii, a pineapple shower (or similar climates) in seattle. it is a rain with a chill that one cannot escape no matter how many parkas you are under the impression will protect you from the elements. only sad because those on the east coast experience serious snow storms and the like, but for whatever reason, their snow boots and parkas and sweaters insulate them beyond any understanding that i (think?) i’ve experienced in the PNW (after four years in New York City, i feel i have a fairly solid understanding of the different in climate!?)).

“the coldest winter i ever spent was a summer in San Francisco.” – Mark Twain

i’m not even attempting to slam Seattle or the cities near and/or around it.  it’s a beautiful city, particularly so during the warm two or so months when it is lush, green, dry, and hike-worthy. affording couples and friends alike to explore the beautiful landscape the PNW has to offer. i, unfortunately, was so wrapped up in the world of professional horse back riding (jumpers, mainly) that any exploration out of that bubble was, at the time, considered to me, a waste of time. it’s not that i disrespected my environment, family, or friends, but at the ripe (and ever-so selfish) age of 16/17 years old – the only agenda that i could consider was my own.

my mom and dad divorced the same year i graduated high school, in 2002. this was also during the onset of my anorexia/eating disorder, which fell not far behind. nor did the onset of my relationship with my boyfriend of (what came to be) eight years. so, yes. at the age of 18 until the the age of 26 i was with one person – 6 of those years being (LONG long distance (think 3,000+ miles), but never once was i unfaithful, nor do i ever think he was. the last two years of our relationship we did live together, but i could not deny that we’d grown so far apart by then that that time went from comfortable and reliable and familiar to a (near) suffocating 3 inches apart. not because he was and/or is a bad/controlling man, but the contrast was so extreme i do believe i was unable cope with it. it was at this point, i also began to use drugs as recreation. not something “harmless” like, say, pot (a drug i still, thankfully, to this day, cannot tolerate myself since i’ve always considered it to be the fastest way to get me on the floor, in the fetal position, crying). but cocaine. prescription drugs. painkillers. the only real appeal with those drugs was the combo of them with any kind of alcohol.  it became my cure-all. it meant i could forget. for two hours or an entire night. i guess it didn’t matter. i’d close myself up in my studio space and become intentionally lost. as long as i was lost in my using, i felt ok. i felt safe. i did believe (and, subsequently, not care) in my heart of hearts that that sort of lifestyle would be the end of me, that it could and would “hopefully” be what killed me. i felt content believing in this, i really did. the power of disillusionment is overwhelming and i’ve no real f*cking idea where or why it suddenly entered my life or occurred to me that this “life” i was leading needed to end.

there was just one day i knew, deep deep down, that that was not my fate. i had no business dabbling with the devil, as it were. i suddenly realized i had a huge life to live and whether or not i was ever married, pregnant, etc (those two things seemed at the time, and still do, at times, seem to serve as a sort of “purpose” on this planet even though i know that’s complete bullsh*t). but i very suddenly and instinctively knew that i was here to serve a purpose. i had things, many things, to discover about myself and the world at large. i was here and suddenly, i not only planned, but also wanted, to stay here – no matter what.

when you completely stop caring about yourself, part of you wants to die just as much as part of you wants to live forever and prove that other half wrong. that’s where i discovered my strength, but it’s not easy. if you can find the strength to walk away from everything and start anew, godspeed. walk as far and fast away from drugs & booze & everything else that is making your waking life hell on earth. lose all your material possessions and loved ones and only then will you realize that you’ve nothing else left to lose (even if you appear to be somewhat crazy person collecting driftwood at Aquatic Park at 7:14am – which happened this week). BUT, it’s at this point, you start living again. so what if i had to reach a somewhat near death. so what if i’ve had to endure painful and abusive relationships. i thank something for my still being here. i have contemplated suicide on several occasions (even written all the notes to the important people in my life) and yet, still, i’ve no idea of the reason or reason(s) i’m still on this planet. but i do know i am so motivated to explore that. how satisfying to live in one of the most beautiful cities on earth and conclude that you were actually meant to be a part of it. and not in some insignificant way, but profoundly. i am meant for SF – somehow. even though i have yet, at this point, to figure out why. i feel i must stay and learn from it… and those around me.

and i’m so completely comfortable in this state of being. fucking finally.

this is, perhaps, where one can distinguish a sheep from an individual. i’d like to thank the academy.

jessi

a tangent that includes the (original) oregon trail, tech schtuff, steak, & (f)unemployment ::

it’s been four months (four too [f*cking] many) and two days since i last posted on here. i have written entries during this radio silence, but upon later inspection, those entries were mediocre at best. writing an entry from the confines of another home or a coffee shop just, well, it sucks. my creative juices tend to evaporate and i am usually left listening to those around me sip overpriced lattes whilst one-hit-wonder hipster songs play over head (it’s even hard to avoid if you wear a set of headphones which i tend to not wear because i feel antisocial enough and somewhat rude as it were trapped in my world of keyboard-ness). oh and happy new year and merry holidays, by the way! i’ve been so damn neglectful of my dear readers. apologies all around!

i have not had my own personal desktop computer (i do not own a laptop) online since July. the hiatus was fine and at times quite pleasant (it’s a stellar excuse for missing emails, online bill payments, and the like – though i would never encourage that sort of behavior!). but it has also been a giant pain in the ass a bit frustrating because i realized just how dependent i (let’s face it, we) have become on this interweb luxury that we all take for granted. i have a smart phone, too. so it’s not as if i’ve been living in a remote part of the world without any electronics or ways to “reach” the inter-land. and for the record, i do find it quite pathetic just how exuberant i became yesterday when i realized that my own said smart phone (which i have had well before july) can, with a simple slide of a button on it’s delicate interface, become a “hotspot.” i.e. forget calling your local internet providers for service, just scour your phone for the hotspot option and slide the grey “no” to the blue “yes” and poof! you can get your computers, kindles, ipads, itampons (those exist now, right?) online anywhere, anytime ! hello 2013. my name is jessi and i am a complete dumbf*ck when it comes to technology. it doesn’t matter if i can operate photoshop with my eyes closed, that’s about as far as it gets for me and my competence of computers or really anything that has an extension cord, not to mention an operating system (or OS as you nerds technologically competent folks like to say).

there was a point in my life (as i am sure many people in my generation have encountered as well when computers and cell phones became what we now know them as) wherein i truly thought i was smarter than my parents merely because they appeared to have no clue about how to operate said smart phones, computers, or other new electronic gadgets. coming from a family with a father who worked at microsoft for upwards of 20 years, you’d think some tech-y gene would have landed inside my frontal lobe or where ever things like that land. au contraire, mon frère. my father has little to no understanding of technology and how it actually works, he doesn’t even own a cell phone and i’ve witnessed him, on many occasions, get so fed up with his collection of remote controls i fear they could, without warning, become the victim of his wrath by being thrown across a room or simply yelled at rather ferociously for being so stupid, those poor verbally abused inanimate objects. my mother, however, has a smart phone, an ipad, and a laptop and it’s reached the point where i truly believe she knows more about these gadgets than i do. in fact, when i was home in seattle last june for a best friend’s baby shower, i really wanted to watch a dvd at my mom’s house and we ended up watching television instead because neither us could figure out how to make the damn tv and dvd player align with one another. it was at this point i really had to reevaluate my own understanding of anything electronic. i could blame it on the fact that i haven’t had the luxury of a dvd and tv for over two years(therefore “out of practice”?, but let’s face it. i am a self proclaimed idiot when it comes to this new age of technology where a minimum of three remote controls seem to be a requirement for any television and computers and phones are getting “smarter” and “smarter” by the day. either my understanding for this stuff has plateaued or i’ve grown some seriously dumb cells in the recesses of my brain, which at this point, probably more closely resemble scrambled eggs.

i remember my father had one of those giant grey cell phones when i was a kid that not only resembled, but also weighed as much as, a brick with a thick black antennae coming out of it (that stayed out at all times, there was nothing collapsible, convenient, ergonomic, or even functional about this big grey eyesore of a cell phone (particularly compared to today’s standards)). i’m not sure how often (if at all?) it was ever used. i remember it collecting a lot of dust. i also remember those beige-ish grey apple computers (that looked more like square plastic loaves of bread) we used in grade school to learn our typing skills on. i really only had an iota of interest in those machines because i would frequent my best friend Heather’s house most days after school to enjoy hours of playing both The Oregon Trail and Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego? i can think of no other reason for those machines now. they were not computers to my generation, they were toys. they were machines that informed me of having died from cholera or that Heather was lost and that cut three days off our trip. i always thought it a bit peculiar that someone who got “lost” in that game could shave anywhere from 1 to 5 days off your travels, but the death of a family member was just a drop in the bucket. no days lost, no apparent grieving or mourning took place, no tears shed. and no proper burial/funeral never once occurred. and i’m speaking from experience. i’ve Oregon-Trail-killed plenty of friends and family members. a death was akin to an announcement like, “it’s 56 degrees and sunny.” all of sudden ‘and then there were two!’

Carved // Self Portrait // December 2012

however, i have to admit, flat out, that i think my understanding of technologically peaked at that age, hovering obsessively over The Oregon Trail waiting to see just how many people died, got lost, or sick. though my sister and best friend Heather seemed far more skilled at this game (sister, yes. Heather, debatable. (sorry Heather!))(ok, skilled at hunting, that is, because this game has little to do with skill, logic perhaps, but skill – not so much). i can’t tell you, nor would i even want to admit to, how horrible i was at hunting in that game. and an irritating fun-fact :: for any animal you shoot for food doesn’t really matter since you’re only allowed to bring 100 lbs back to the wagon at a time, even if you were to shoot ten 536 LB buffaloes, you would only get to keep 100 of those LBs.  i always thought that was incredibly lame, couldn’t the rest of my family (assuming any were still alive and not suffering from the measles) help you carry back some of your fresh meat? was it necessary to leave all of that fresh buffalo meat behind? wasteful. damn wasteful, especially considering how hungry those people on the wagon always were (it took them about two, maybe three days to consume the freshly killed meat).  and i absolutely loved the gamble you’d have to take when reaching a river crossing. do we “ford the river” or “caulk the wagon and float it across”? taking a ferry was also an option, but i don’t think we once opted for the ferry ride since it cost money. instead, we’d pick our poison, cross our fingers, and sincerely hope that one of our oxen wouldn’t perish in the process. i’ll speak for myself on this matter, but i remember feeling a great deal of responsibility over this ford versus float decision and i really took it quite seriously, as if i actually knew what any of it meant, though i did love to nod in agreement or shake my head in disdain if i felt someone (including myself) had made the wrong choice.

a good present day example to the anxiety that the “ford or float” decision causes :: being placed in the sticky position of being “the one” to choose a bottle of wine for a fancy dinner table and having a penguin-tuxedo dressed server pour just a splash into your glass, looking at you with rather bulbous eyes. positively staring at you with the expectation of your “highly trained palette” to make the call on some wine you’ve never tasted or heard of before and know nothing about (since my only “knowledge” of wine rests heavily on whether or not i thought the wine label was well designed). even when i never much cared for the taste of the splash of wine,  i never once (if memory serves) declared the wine to be “no good,” nor do i have a memory of sending food back (unless a meat dish was visibly expelling blood and/or undercooked).  i prefer my steaks to not actively “moo” while i eat them. under or over cooked veggies and/or sides will never fall into the realm of “send it back” because my standards when it comes to “fine dining” are so low, regardless of how many fancy restaurants i’ve eaten at. i am, after all, the girl who’s known for eating progresso soup at room temperature, directly out of the can, with a plastic spoon, in bed. perhaps my standards are extremely low or maybe i’m just a simpleton who considers food as fuel (though, when given the opportunity, i really do love to cook fancy meals, combining unexpected flavors and colors in my dishes. give me a full spread of food and a great kitchen, food is no longer food. it is cooking :: an art form, after all. however, in my current living situation, i’ve nowhere to properly prepare such a meal, nor do i have anyone to share it with, nor do i have anywhere to properly enjoy it as i lack any sort of dining space. my “dining room” is the side of my bed on the floor. so, now you must understand why i’ve fallen in love with my “Progresso Soup Diet” ?! plus, when you’ve no fridge, where does one store leftovers?

this ramble is so hither and thither. i’d apologize but i have so much to catch you up on. i lost my job at the art supply store i worked at for just over 2 years on November 28th of 2012. just in time for the holidays, as “luck” would have it. i will not go into detail about things because it’ll only lull you to sleep, my dear readers. i’ve made the transition from full time job to unemployed, but i have since managed to keep my head more than just afloat not only financially (by means of selling my work and also handling some commissioned illustration jobs), but also in spirit as well. i strongly believe everything happens for a reason and though i have remained a customer at that fine art supply store, i am relieved to have those days behind me. there were copious amounts of dysfunctional activities and behaviors that took place there that had made it more and more difficult to get to work in the mornings. i’d reached a point of absolute lethargy and also unhappiness which even verged on irritability (which is completely out of character for me) towards different aspects of the job and some of the people i worked with. i miss the customers. i miss the building. i miss some, but not all, of my co-workers. but since having left the place, my mood’s improved ten fold. my energy and spunk has returned. my irritability seems to have evaporated like steam from a kettle. and i can’t tell you how many friends, family, and most flatteringly, former customers of mine have wrangled around me in support (if any of you are reading this, thank you! couldn’t have picked myself up so fast or so gracefully without you! I LOVE YOU!)

nowadays? i am living life happy and free spirited and optimistic. grateful to be alive. skating upon each and every damn silver lining that seems to exist around every corner these days because when one is so dedicated to their 40+ hour a week job, one loses sight of everything else. silver linings become distant memories at best. the two days you spend off are usually a bust since you spend them catching up on both errands and sleep. i had such an incredibly wonky schedule at my last job (my arrival and departure times varied just about every day) and turned my sleeping schedule on its head. in the past few months i’d become increasingly lethargic to the point where i requested to get my blood drawn, assuming i was most certainly suffering from anemia due to how tired i’d become. i took supplements, i went out of my way to eat better and more often. when my doctor told me the only issue i had was a Vitamin D deficiency (big whoop), i was stunned. i was almost disappointed that i wasn’t anemic, because it’s easy to pump yourself full of iron and foods that contain iron. i began taking huge doses of Vit D immediately and felt no huge change in my energy levels, even after a few weeks of taking them. but then i was laid off and it was as if a spell had been lifted. my energy began to return within only a few days and i had to wonder, was all of the negative energy i had been subjected to at work causing my lethargy? honestly? yes, i think that’s exactly what happened. i’ve continued the vitamins and all that good stuff, but i am almost like a firecracker these days with my energy and motivation to work for myself. and thus far, it’s been paying off in a massive way.

welcome to Year of the Pig Studio!

so, i am signing off here. you will be kept up to date far more frequently of my adventure(s) now that i’ve gotten internet access again ! until then, don’t forget about the silver linings. once you start looking for them, you’ll be surprised just how many there are.

xxx

jessi

just call me “shu”

one day you’re living in Chinatown and the next day you’re, uh, still living in Chinatown.

it’s my new “apartment” (a whopping four point five blocks from the original apartment i moved into nearly two years ago when I first arrived in San Francisco (and moved out of at the end of August this year)). that place was on the cusp of Chinatown.  the newest installment is literally in the heart of Chinatown and its walls are painted my favorite shade of sea foam green.

for reasons i cannot discuss, i have had to relocate from my previous apartment and find another one A.S.A.P. the place i’ve found is actually not an apartment, but technically a hotel (even though they required a deposit equal to the first month’s rent to move in). in this hotel’s title is the word “Grand.” I wouldn’t necessarily describe it as Grand, but i have fallen (no pun intended since I just broke my foot doing just that, falling) completely in love with this place. it’s a place for people like me: people called S.R.O.’s, that is:: “Single Resident Occupants.” the place is part hotel, part hostel, and part apartment. it’s a shoebox of a room that contains a small sink and an even smaller closet. On the floor (the 4^th out of five) where i live (and this goes for all floors) i share common spaces like a kitchen (a space filled with six or so dirty burners and a commercial-sized sink). i also share this floor with two showers and two (or maybe three?) toilets per floor (not gender specific, despite the “Ladies” and “Gentlemen” plaques on each door). i will be wearing my one pair of flip-flops for the shower and doing ‘the hover’ over the toilets.

i’m not a princess, by any means, but when it comes to a shared living space like this, i do, however, have some standards. my standards, as it turns out, are pretty low, actually :: NO bed bugs, ‘roaches, or mold. end of story. i’ve encountered and lived with all three and have zero interest in living with any of them ever again, they truly make for some of the worst roommates i’ve ever had.

if there’s piss on the toilet seat (like most of the time) and pubic hairs resting in/near/on the shower drain (like almost most of the time) – i can deal. one adapts to such circumstances. i have taken to “hovering” over the toilet(s). hovering – this definition is for most men out there – simply means that one (more often than not, a female) refuses to sit on the actual toilet seat, hence one hovers (about two inches) above the seat not unlike a UFO would hover (200 or so feet) above a planet. i’d like to avoid urine and bacterial infection(s) (for starters) as best i can, thanks!

i also have a small sliding window in my room that overlooks a concrete hole.  most of the rooms on almost every floor of this building look into this same hole and have clothes hanging from (most of) their respective windows.

you know, i can’t really go into proper detail about this place yet since i haven’t spent enough time there. i have spent some time there, enough to know that it smells like steamed rice, in a surprisingly good way, 87% of the time. i’ve already made ‘friends’ with a few people on the floor – though they speak little English, but actions speak louder than words, after all. the day after i’d broken my foot, a woman who goes by “Shu” (and I am fully aware of the irony of this because I see her name, in my mind’s eye, spelled “Shoe”) gifted me a paper bowl full of cold purple grapes and my neighbor in #407 gave me a beautifully ripe and clean plastic pack of small tomatoes. i don’t have a fridge, so it’s a bit hard to accept too much produce, but it’s the thought that counts. i am eternally grateful to both of them and that’s about all I ate on Tuesday anyway.

so, on this past Monday, September 10^th, i was in the midst of unpacking my belongings when my scarf, which was securely tied to my backpack (which was on the floor and rather heavy because i was, well, in the middle of transporting things) got tangled around my right foot. i was in the middle of stepping forward when this took place, so my full weight landed on the now tangled foot, which pulled it sideways at a good 90° angle (inwards). i heard the snap and pop (though, no crackle!) that i know all too well and within five minutes, the swelling began and the pain kicked in.

after muttering a series of profanities to myself and to whoever cared to listen through the thin walls in this place, i did do a bit of crying; less so because of the pain, but more so out of complete frustration. I don’t want crutches again. this is the fifth bone (excluding a hairline fracture in my left leg) that I’ve broken in less than two years. i’m not exactly a skeptical person, but i’ll admit i spent the first twenty-four+ hours with my freshly broken bone reflecting on my time here in San Francisco. is there some force (to be reckoned with) trying to give me a hint? ‘Psst, Jessi, get the h*ll out of this town.’ I can almost hear the voice in my ears sometimes. or maybe it’s the world just telling me to slow the f*ck down. or maybe both. i am proud to say that I went ten whole months without a single broken bone until this past Monday. i was really hoping I’d hit the year mark, in the very least.

so, armed with a (new and shiny!) pair of crutches (for the third time since July 2011), I shuffle on. I limp on. (i threw my previous crutches and walking boot away about a week before this incident, good timing, eh?). The sores and chafes under each arm and the calluses growing on each palm mean nothing to me. September 11^th came and went this week and you know what? a lot of people lost their lives in that fine city, a city I still consider to be my home away from home. i may have another stupid pair of crutches and a broken foot, but i’m ok. maybe i’m not supposed to be in SF. Maybe this really is one of the many ‘hints’ (that i’ve ignored) to get the f*ck out of dodge and split this town. i don’t know and I don’t really care. There’s only one way to find out, isn’t there? stick it out until the bitter end. pick yourself up, dust yourself off, and stop feeling sorry for yourself. i’ve got a roof over my head, a wonderful job, and a supportive family and network of friends. i’m a lucky girl.

i have this guttural instinct that my time spent at this new place will make for not only a special (in a good way) experience, but will also leave me with copious amounts of great stories to tell you. i’ve already got some, in fact, but that’ll wait for next time.

if you decide to visit, just remember that it’s BYOTP (bring your own toilet paper, that is).

i’ve only encountered sweet and friendly people inhabiting this place. just the other day i heard a gaggle of them outside my door giggling. i opened my door to investigate the ‘commotion’ only to be met by smiles, waves, and hand shakes. it’s only a five (tops) minute walk from work and my studio space. huzzah! life’s a beach.

i really can’t complain. compared to the last five going on six years of my life, this “Grand” hotel experience will be a month-to-month cake walk (*knocking on wood*). so, cheers to you, Chinatown (never thought i’d say that). the film in my Nikon will, no doubt, be able to tell the tales that my writing cannot, so, stay tuned. this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship with, well, myself.

jessi

title (optional) [that would be me being far too lazy to give this post a desverving title]

i really miss writing on this here blog. my life has been nothing short of chaos (sometimes organized chaos, but rarely) in the last few months. i’ve been living in two places at once whilst managing a household containing four roommates (five, including myself). i’ve had to take care of my turtle and my cat and report to work not only just on time, but also bright eyed and bushy tailed.

i do not work in a dull cubicle that requires little to no real brain power (thank god for that), but rather, i work in a highly active, amusing, and rewarding retail environment. being the official manager of all things outreach, i not only need, but also want, to be a friendly, upbeat, and approachable people-person every day i am at work. it’s not only part of my job description, but it’s also totally in my nature to be that way. i’ve been so darn worn out lately that it really disappoints me that i haven’t felt like my normal outgoing friendly self. for shame.and i am in no way complaining about my managerial “people-person” position because i adore people and any and all of my interactions with them. but if i arrive to work tired and/or weary i cannot, quite simply, do my job to its fullest extent. i love my job to death and i hate that i’ve been feeling like a sub-par ‘people-person’ of late (it may or may not show, but i know that i have felt it). no matter how much sleep i get on any given night (which is averaging around ten hours these days), i seem to wake up totally exhausted as if i’ve been in some terrible locomotive accident the night prior. my body hurts regularly and my eyes try their very best to stay closed each morning, regardless of my stupidly loud alarm (thank god for toothpicks!). i do feel, of late, as if i have literally had to peel myself out of bed each morning. and my curled up cuddle machine of a cat does not exactly make it easier to get out of bed. perhaps i need to have some cat cuddle machine intervention? probably not, poor girl, she’s just being a cat and i am just being absurdly jealous.

i do write regularly on my lunch breaks. i draw sometimes. but, i’ve found it increasingly difficult to be creative the more overwhelmed i’ve become by all things life. so be it. this time of my life will be merely a blip on my radar and in due time, i’ll be back to my creative people-person self that my friends, family, and co-workers know so well.

having spent just shy of ten hours repainting my apartment today, i must sign off. dinner is calling me and my bed is calling me even more.

don’t worry pillows and mattress! i’m coming just as fast as i can.

jessi

the move

i love bananas. i also love chocolate. i think blueberries are pretty good too, but i only really like them because it’s my dad’s favorite fruit (or at least it was and may still be). i love writing letters (of the snail-mail variety) and i adore typography executed by hand. i could live without cookie dough, but one of my favorite frozen yogurt flavors is cake batter (which i first discovered here in SF). i have fond memories of licking brownie mix batter straight from the bowl (and wooden spoon) with my sister and do not recall getting a stomach ache because of it. strawberries are best when fresh, plucked directly from the earth. i adore figs and jams or spreads made from figs, whether it be black mission or white. my taste in music is heavily influenced by anything recorded before the 90′s (though, i must admit, growing up in Seattle, i do have a deep appreciation for the grunge era and most things that KEXP plays).

 

 

i am in the midst of moving and it’s terribly overwhelming. i am moving my living stuff to an apartment in a neighborhood in SF called Cow Hollow. as much as I love the name, i can’t say i appreciate the area that much. it reminds me too much of where i grew up. that is, a rich suburb of seattle. but, one cannot reject a good price and ample space, so i hereby find myself a total and complete conformist and slave to the “must save money!” beast. my studio will reside elsewhere, in a fine fine part of town call North Beach. it’s rich with both art and artists and very near to my work – a mere five minute walk – yeehaw!

i do believe that having my working/painting space separate from my sleeping/living space will change my life in the best way possible. it’s hard to live where you paint or paint where you live. you’ll find yourself forever without distance from the oil painting/paints that surround you and not only is sleeping in that kind of environment bad for your health, it’s also not conducive to good painting or work/working habit(s). space from one’s work is not only a good thing, but arguably an entirely healthy and essential thing. i feel confident that my work will improve ten fold once this transition occurs and i’m pretty d*mn excited about it.

in the mean time, i am covered in both white house paint and spackle. re-painting one’s living space is like covering one’s tracks. it’s as if i need to pretend as if i was never here in the first place. i must conceal each and every trace that i have left behind me. i have lived here for nearly two years, which is by no means a long period of time, but it’s the first place i’ve lived in SF. and that, my friends, feels significant. at least to me.

this apartment is home to many memories, both good and bad. it’s bitter-sweet to be moving on and re-painting the trim, spackling the many holes i made from the pictures that i hung here, scrubbing the paint splattered floors, and packing boxes. it’s a highly therapeutic process, but i can’t say my heart isn’t swelling just a little bit. swelling with both nostalgia and memories in this apartment, but also swelling with hope for a much brighter future that i feel i have secured for myself here in SF.

so, i bid you adieu, for now. i’ve been pretty much missing in action on this here blog due to my current state of upheaval – but come early to mid july, i expect to be back in full swing with painting, designing, writing, and the like. so, stay tuned.

the future’s bright, you’d best wear shades.

i’ve been wearing sunglasses for years now. i guess i’ve been preparing for this transition without even knowing it. i’d ask you to wish me luck, but i don’t believe in luck nor do i think i’ll need it (even if i did believe in it).

see you soon, shades or not.

jessi

pink and purple.

pink and purple were my least favorite colors growing up. in fact, i actually recall saying how much i hated those two colors as a kid. the plain and simple reason for hating those colors was because of their “girlie” status. anything “girlie,” from trying on lipstick to admitting you had a crush on a boy, was completely out of the question for me. i would play with the boys during recess, proud to emerge from the playground covered in dirt, with messy hair, and sometimes a fat lip (which i learned to hide under my hand so my teachers and mom would never figure out how much of a trouble maker i really wanted to be). after art class, my next favorite class was always gym. a time when girls will be girls and boys will be boys and when tomboys like myself get to show off just how fast they think they are during their favorite game of all, Capture the Flag.

in the third grade, there was a brief period of time, lasting around two weeks, when i decided that black was my new favorite color (it had previously been blue, naturally). everything from my wardrobe to my bed sheets turned black almost overnight. little known fact :: when i was in third grade, my family decided to move back to Europe, to the UK. my sister and i were pulled out of our elementary school mid spring semester (if memory serves). i even have a memory of a farewell party being thrown, but i think the farewell party i am remembering was for my very first crush on a boy named Pat, who moved to California the same year we were planning on moving to England. my crush on Pat was also happening while i was busy being anti-girl, so extreme secrecy was of utmost importance.

i’ll never forget this one moment my sister and i shared in a hallway at school. she was in the fifth grade and i was in the third grade. we were both at our lockers, with a block of fourth grade lockers between us. i don’t remember if it was the middle of the day or the end of the day, but the hallway was close to empty. for whatever reason, she and i had been bickering about something (just normal sister bickers) and this somehow turned into her yelling down the hallway at me that i had a crush on Pat _ _ _ _ _ _ (i will not disclose his last name so he may remain anonymous, although he is a friend of mine on facebook and the only Pat in the class, so he may figure this out if he ever reads this, gasp!). i don’t know if she actually yelled this. i was going to use the word scream to describe the volume of her voice, but i am certain my child memory is blowing this whole thing out of proportion, just as most child memories do. regardless, i remember feeling intense embarrassment, humiliation, and anger. how could she disclose my most protected secret to (what felt like) the world (a next to empty elementary school hallway) ? if anyone heard this, my reputation on the Capture the Flag field would be blown and people would expect me to start wearing pink and purple headbands to school (headbands of the elastic spandex variety, thank you very much early nineties) and the girls would think i was just like them, a girl – ew. little did my sister know that i would have the guts to throw a stone at her glass house and scream (yes, i do remember screaming this) back at her that she had a crush on probably the most popular boy in the fifth grade, Beau _ _ _ _ _ _. and i do believe this was also her most highly protected secret at the time. man, i miss elementary school. it was the best time of childhood life because you’re not yet old enough to be entirely too self conscious, but just old enough to be taking things around you more seriously (even if those things are just crushes on boys and wondering which girl got her period first).

so, back to the moving-to-England story. my family packed up shop entirely. we had our dogs (if i remember correctly :: two great danes, a lab, and a golden retriever) shipped over and placed in quarantine, we packed up our entire house and placed our boxes on a truck that would cross america and then be transferred to a boat on the east coast that would cross the atlantic. we put said house up for sale and my sister and i were going to enroll in a school that we had already visited and we were all going to move into a beautiful house in England that my parents had already purchased. it was at this point, when moving into our new space, that i requested black bed sheets, pillow cases, and a duvet cover. i was granted my wish and remember feeling somewhat regretful of my decision when i lay in bed at night. it was fine during the day, but by nightfall, the black hole that was my bed felt so dark and gloomy that it made it difficult to sleep. i never complained though because i figured, if you make your own bed, you’d best lie in it. i never thought that expression would ever turn literal on me, but so be it. after about two weeks, i remember stirring in the middle of the night. it must have been around two or three in the morning. i still hadn’t adjusted to the jet lag and waking up in the middle of the night was not entirely unexpected. i saw that the lights in the kitchen, which were usually off at night, were on. i heard low voices speaking to each other so i got up to see who was awake. my mother, father, and sister were all huddled in the kitchen together discussing our relocation. to the best of my memory, i recall my mother saying that she felt she was adapting well to the change and looking forward to living in England again. that is the country in which she was born and raised in, so her feeling “at home” on her home turf was completely logical. i know that my sister was having a hard time adapting, as was my father, but both for different reasons. i recall being somewhat neutral about the whole situation. i was happy there (as long as i got some new covers for my bed), but i was happy in Washington as well. i was two years younger than my sister, so my roots in friendship and school and socializing and sports had not yet developed like my older sister’s had. in hindsight, i know it was easier for me to relocate because i was too young to probably understand the significance of any of the friends or choices i had made prior to moving, unlike my sister, who was in the thick of it. in the thick of all things growing up, adolescence, and coming of age.

[self portrait in u-haul somewhere between the east and west coasts, june 2007]

that night an executive decision was made for the family. we were going to stop that truck on the freeway in the middle of america and turn it around. we were going to get our dogs out of quarantine and back on a one way flight to seattle. were going to put our clothes and black bed sheets back in our over-sized suitcases and book tickets back to washington. we would take our previous house off the market and put our brand new house up for sale. we’d call our new school to inform them, regretfully, of our decision not to attend and call our old school, with fingers crossed, to ask if we would be welcome back into their classrooms.

so, for two weeks, i still feel as if i lived in England. i still wonder to this day what would have come of me and my family if we’d stayed. it’s hard not to ponder such questions when it was so close to becoming a reality. would i have developed an english accent? would i have been divorced by now? would my sister have had kids by now? would my parents still be together? would i have fallen in love with horses like i did in seattle just two years after this “move”? would i have gone to art school in new york city? would i be living in san francisco now? i guess the only answer to those questions is :: “maybe.”

all i know is that when we moved back from England into our original house in washington, my new favorite color was brown.

these days, my favorite colors tend to be pink and all shades/versions of turquoise or teal. but, that said, since my move back to the states, i still believe that the only color that matches and will never clash with another color is the color brown. and as for black? i use black only for line drawings or graphic illustrations. when it comes to oil painting, you will never see a tube of black paint in my tool box. black will only create a black hole in your painting, much like the black hole it created in my bedroom when i lived in England. and i think we’ve all got enough to worry about without painting black holes into our lives.

[nikon 35mm, color film]

jessi