L8r G8r

My friends, I think we all knew that this was coming: Yourself Cared is going on an indefinite, probably permanent, hiatus. I haven't been feelin' it lately, and I don't want to force myself to maintain a hobby that isn't fun anymore. The website will stay up as an archive, and I'll still be reading your blogs!

If you want to keep up with me, I'm building a personal portfolio website that I plan to use as a publishing platform, and I will continue to informally create and collect on Tumblr. I would also welcome Facebook requests from any of you. Thanks for reading! I really appreciate it!

Diamond Pavement

I saw this beautiful pattern on the ground the other day while walking the dog.

Wicked Games

Currently obsessed with "Wicked Games" by The Weeknd. "Bring your love, baby, I could bring my shame." It's worrisome how much that line resonates with me.



Speaking of hip hop, last night I took my sister to a "Drake vs Lil Wayne" concert. It was loud and boisterous and fairly enjoyable. Dancin' and yelling hard. But before the #TurnUp vibe started building, I jotted down a few notes. (We were waiting for the opener, YG.)

Anticipation tinged with boredom. The venue speakers are slapping rap tunes and everyone's on their phone, takin' selfies and texting. Okay, maybe it's just me. There's plenty of staring around and laughing groups. I'm here with my little sister, who went off to take a picture with some school friends in cheaper seats. I shelled out for our tickets.

I was gonna take my ex-boyfriend. I spent hundreds on these seats because I meant it to be a special birthday treat, a demonstration of my affection. Then he dumped me. So I told Destiny, "Fuck it, I'm taking you instead." She was thrilled.

Oakland Shadows

After an exhibit at SideQuest Gallery, wandering around with my friend, taking too many snapshots on my phone. I really love this shadow-portrait:



And this shark sticker with the glimpse of my friend's red button-down shirt:



And these splotchy white ghosts:



And this face on the back of a traffic sign:



That's all. Good night.

Speechtime Continuum

[The following was excised from an essay for my linguistic anthropology class. It didn't serve the piece as a whole, but I still like the passage. ~omg academia~]

// Valery Kenski //

It is difficult to document the time of a conversation. Not the duration of the encounter or the date when it took place, but the spatial sense of time, the temporal context of a relationship that must extend infinitely forward and backward from the moment at hand. This aspect of an interaction tends to remain unvoiced, but it is vital.

Every "linguistic encounter" is framed by expectation and then interpretation, though they may be informal, brief, or even unconscious. The human mind loves to create narratives, to find patterns that will constitute stories, so we parse our lives in terms of these devices.

// Alan Turkus //

I've Got Friends On The Other Side

A romantic relationship is not just "friendship + sex". Those may be the parts, but the sum is greater. Of course, not all romances involve sex, and it's easy to be physically intimate without being sexual. The key is something else--something ineffable. And glorious.

My romantic tastes are pretty traditional. I mostly date men, and I'll admit that I'm drawn to the burly lumberjack type. (See also: beard swooning.) I tend toward monogamy. I like terms of endearment. The Princess and the Frog is one of my favorite movies.

That seems to be all I have to say about romance, so here are two great Fem!Faciliers (the villain from TPatF):

// ArtNerdEm //

// chissyrulez94 //

Define Gender Essentialism

// Gender Abolition by Kristofher Muñoz //

Gender essentialism is the mainstream practice of saying, "these body parts are male" or "these body parts are female", and drawing similar conclusions about various behaviors. It's an attempt to make sense of bodies and identities by putting people into simple categories, based on observable traits. The rigid rubric of gender essentialism remains the dominant way of interpreting people's identities, and it gives rise to misogyny and transphobia.

// Neon Gender Source Material F by Carolyn Speranza //

The question is, "What does make me a woman if it's not my body or my behavior?" I don't have an answer, but I'm working to accept life's ambiguity. Maybe clarity will come with time, but it might not. That's okay. Not knowing all the answers is normal.

// sisters abroad by torbakhopper //

Single September Breakfast

peanut-butter toast in my fist
glob of jelly on my palm
lick it off, wet kiss
the crust's crunching in my teeth

headache for breakfast
I should have
a glass of water
I should
drink something

baby did I tell you,
I get nightmares.
will I be alone.
I can't miss a chance

[The punctuation-play is intentional. Proud of myself.]

Party Poem

Are you up for it?
Are you really--
Are you really up?

are you really
are you really coming
are you, are you
coming with

"Party Poem" is more grammatically experimental than I'm usually comfortable with, but whatever. Definitely inspired by Daveed Diggs.

// Martin Fisch //

// deep space - cielo nyc by sookie //

// Danielle Scott //

Human (Debatable)

// exoimperator //

This picture reminds me of that song by the Killers: "Are we human, or are we dancer? My sign is vital; my hands are cold. And I'm on my knees, looking for the answer. Are we human, or are we dancer?" The lyrics never answer their question, and the music video is mysteriously try-hard avant-garde. So basically, it's unresolved whether we're Human or Dancer. Wait, is one of Santa's reindeer named Human?

Family-Inspired Self-Censorship

// Incomplete, Unstable by Kevan //

I want to write about sensitive sociocultural issues, and I'm struggling to figure out how to share my work without upsetting my mother. She worries that if I publish content regarding semi-taboo topics, it will endanger future opportunities. I'll knock on the door, they'll open it to glance at me, and then slam the door shut again. A potential employer might Google my name and be repulsed by what they find, for who-knows-what reason. It could definitely happen.

I don't want to limit my future more than necessary. A certain amount of limiting happens naturally and is unavoidable--for example, I'm unlikely to be a scientist, because of my personality and my academic choices. That's okay. However, someday I might want to work with a religious organization, or a school. I can always scoff, "I don't want to collaborate with close-minded people anyway!" But... I'm hesitant to declare that. Never say never, right?

On the other hand, I have an irrepressible need to express my thoughts and share them. It's compulsive, even imperative. I'm not me if I'm not writing and offering myself to readers.

My mom also worries that a preoccupation with "sordid" topics, especially aberrant sexuality, indicates that I'm falling back into depression. I go back and forth about it.

What I do know is that I want to feel free to tackle difficult subjects, and use "four-letter words", and engage in textual analysis of myself and my peers. I want my writing to be uninhibited by the last generation's mores.

It's funny; the poem that sparked this post isn't even slightly salacious:

swollen bug-bite
fat bottom third of my index finger
sore lump, red pinprick
fucking monsters in my bed

I was just worried about the profanity. I feel like "the F-word" needs to be in the poem, not that this poem is particularly essential, but swearing was necessary for the punchy finish I craved.

I don't know.

// Alexander Lyubavin //

Gettin That Guac

I'm really into clipping right now. Yeah, this noisy glitch-rap trio is too cool to capitalize their name. Definitely not-safe-for-work music. Definitely brilliant. On the track above, "bout.that", lyricist Daveed Diggs chants, "All green errything; gettin' that guac. All clean errything; swag on lock."

Aaand that's all I got for now. I'm too busy to be a good blogger, I guess. Got some zines in the works, so stay tuned for that, 'kay?

Fractured Note To Anxious Creators

(Honestly, this is aimed at myself more than anyone else.)

The artistic choices you make are important. They shape your work. But you don't need to agonize over them. Trust your intuition--it's gotten you this far, hasn't it? If you decide to paint in yellow and realize later that painting in green would have had cool implications, then just remind yourself that the yellow painting is different, not inferior.

I am learning to write better. The question is always, "How can I express myself more simply and clearly?" What's complicated is figuring out how to use the beautiful bulky words that I love without alienating most audiences.

I am trying to write not only for the satisfaction of my own ego, but in order to have a relationship with my reader(s). It is very difficult, but the work is good.

// Beyond by William Struby //

It's starting to seem like the art I post isn't even related to what I'm talking about! Um...

I Drank Too Much Caffeine Again

When you get anxious, narrow your life down. Narrow it down to yourself, and even further. Reduce the material in your hands to just today. Stay warm. Sweat the fever out. Build up the fire with quick wood that crackles, and listen to how the wood snaps without being ordered to. You are not wood--instead you melt like wax, puddling and staining the surface you collapse onto. It's okay. Reach into the raw grain of the table underneath you and dig your oily fingers in; soak your presence into eternity. Be patient as you spread, and as you solidify. Cool wax will be pried up from where it slept, but the mark of your grip cannot be rubbed away.

(I know this doesn't make complete sense but an attempt to excise something doesn't have to.)

// Internet Archive Book Images //

Moonlit Midnight: Unwise Teenage Escapading

The following is a recollection that I wrote down spontaneously when someone on OkCupid asked me to "tell a story" about "any moonlit adventure". My response was lengthy:

I don't remember seeing the moon on this night, but here goes...

Once upon time, in the distant year of 2012, Sonya went to a karaoke bar in a mystical city called San Francisco. The establishment was set up so that groups could rent individual rooms, and then rock the night away for however many hours they had purchased. Sonya and her friend smuggled in a bottle of vodka (she was 18 at the time) and Sonya liberally spiked her soda. Alcohol turned the night into a window blurred with condensation, the wet mist too thick and persistent to wipe away.

Sonya's friend didn't want to sing. He wanted to listen to her self-conscious crooning, smiling as he sipped his own (lawfully ordered) beer. Sonya didn't know most of the available songs, but she delivered a decent rendition of "Call Me Maybe".

They left the karaoke place. Sonya remembers the streets as slanted and grey, tipping even more steeply than the San Francisco stereotype. Neon announcements and mellow traffic lights glittered against the pavement. Sonya talked fluently in the smooth endless sentences of inebriation, free-associating and unbound from the conventional rules of chronology. Her comments were excessive and effusive. Sonya assured her companion that he had captured her affections, that she thought he was Good and Worthy. It was not a romantic sentiment, nor a sexual promise, and he understood this. Regardless, the next morning would expose Sonya as fickle and false. But in the harsh city night she felt genuine, and let the words spill from her in the same cliche way that her drink had sloshed on the table earlier.

They walked farther than Sonya can recount or recall. Eventually the two passed those fierce swans that glide serenely as swans ought to, but will savage anyone who gets too close with a handful of dry bread. They wandered beyond the prickly topiary, following disco music. Sonya and her friend dodged faux-antiquated Grecian columns and came to an enchanted open place, where roller skaters spun with glow sticks in hand. Someone had brought a powerful boom box, or maybe there were speakers. Sonya felt prompted to dance.

After that point I blacked out completely instead of just fading and reappearing. But yeah, apparently midnight roller skating is a thing. We caught them at the Palace of Fine Arts.

// James Buck //

Sea Sculpture

Strolling on Baker Beach. Encountered this creature/creation:

Saturday Static

// Michael Dunn //

The train is rumbling from San Francisco back into the East Bay. We're passing through the Oakland stations, being cautioned over the loudspeaker to transfer now if ever. I can't concentrate on my book because I'm heading to a date, and the guy I'm going to meet keeps texting me. Even in the case of radio silence, I can never concentrate on reading before a date. Performance jitters, I suppose. I'm about to present a show of myself.

I would like to be freshly showered and wearing mascara, but I'm armed only with my tea-party outfit, picked for a brunch earlier, and the cheap lipstick that I keep in my purse. It's a surprisingly lovely lipstick, soft shimmery pink, and I tell everyone that it's magic. "Here, wanna try my magic lipstick?"

I've been going on a million first dates. "This is efficient," I tell myself, rushing from appointment to appointment, from disappointment to disappointment. "I am checking potential mates off the list quickly. Meeting lots of people. This is good. I'm proud of myself." I have cobbled together a caffeinated social life.

This morning I got up at 9:45 and left the house around 10. My outfit was slapdash: pink dress, pink headband, purple cardigan, greasy smoke-laden hair. In fact I went on a different first date last night, a horrible endless one. I resented myself for neglecting to set up an escape route.

Cynics Against Horatio Algers

Some people tell their kids, "You can do anything. Maybe one day you'll be the president, or a millionaire." That's the classic American myth: rags to riches, the regular nobody becomes a star overnight.

In reality, the chances of an ordinary person being wildly successful are negligible at best, slim enough to be statistically nonexistent. You can be the president or a millionaire if your father was, but without the familial launching point those ambitions are close to impossible. It's not fair to tell a child, "You can do anything." Life is not that simple. There's no single phrase that will explain the complex interplay of aptitude, tenacity, and pure chance that defines a person's future. Maybe the oft-repeated maxims that "life isn't fair" and "you can't always get what you want" come close.

I don't mean that parents should be harshly realistic with their children. Kids live in a world of broad possibility, and it would be cruel and stultifying to destroy that. But a soaring imagination can coexist with normal expectations. If a kid wants to be an astronaut, there's no reason to say, "That's unlikely. Only a handful of people get to be astronauts. Better not to even consider it." Go ahead and play with the idea. I just wish that people wouldn't tell their children, "You can definitely be an astronaut." It sets them up for disappointment.

Perhaps this seems counterintuitive on a blog about bolstering personal confidence. However, a source of my own crashing self-esteem was academic failure. It happens to a lot of kids who didn't have to try hard in grade school and high school. People expect you to be brilliant and constantly reinforce that you're a smart kid, but once you reach college, you find out that you only know how to cope with finishing homework in five minutes, not with demanding material that requires hours of study. My identity was built around me being good at school, so when I realized at Reed that I wasn't doing well, it devastated me.

Pessimists have a more accurate worldview, but optimists are happier. How can the two realities be combined? How can I pick the hopes that won't hurt me?

Stopping Time On The Train

I snapped this portrait on BART last weekend, on the way to SideQuest Gallery. (More on that here.) Human beings are so beautiful. I love taking photos of people; it fascinates me to see them frozen. We are constantly in motion, but a camera can preserve a moment, holding it still indefinitely.

These Are Not Fall Colors

Graffiti spotted in Oakland on a mediocre date:



Especially mysterious since at least orange and bronze are fall colors. Forest green probably qualifies as well. Maybe even teal. I don't understand.



Blue-obliterated guru. Should I recognize this bearded fellow and his insane fuchsia eyes?

Lastly, the ferry wake snapped from the back of the boat as we sped through the San Francisco Bay waters:



You can even see Oakland's Imperial Walkers, tiny faded silhouettes on the right.