a box for my brain

Boxes. They're useful. There're everywhere. Everything I own is either in or out of a box. That's how it is. If it's not already in a box, it should be. It will be. That is, if an item is not in a box, then I have failed. Because, whatever it is, it's supposed to be in a box. Believe me. There are boxes in every facet of my life. At work, everything I do requires a box to magically arrive. Then, later, when my work is done, whatever arrived in the box has to be repacked. By me. Unpacking. Repacking. Like that. All day. But these are happy work-related boxes. I like them. Though, sometimes, upon repacking work-related-boxes, I inadvertently bend or tear the top of a box. It's the folding over of the top of the box that gets tricky. Just go ahead, fold. One over the next. Four times. Like a flower. A square flower with four petals. Nice and neat. Mathematically sound. A really logical method for securing a box. I know. And I like the idea. But that last fold is a bitch. None the less, the only bad part of work-related boxes is the business at the end about folding up the top. So, I have boxes at work. And now I'm moving, so I have boxes at home. And we've been packing up my father's house. So, there's quite a few dad-related-boxes, too. They arrive steadily to my apartment. With a constancy that, though it's nice to have something to count on (like the sun rising) is seemingly without end (like outer space). The dad-related-boxes are never ending. The more we pack, the more there is. The more we do, the less we do. And dad-related-boxes are packed wholly without logic. In a manner that betrays that the people who packed them are both grieving and drunk. For this reason, dad-related-boxes may contain wildly diverse items. A blender. A loose deck of cards in a jar with a lightbulb. A plaid shirt. Erasers. A Holly Hobbie lunch box. Some crystal. Some crayons. Some bottles of lysterine. Some books thrown on top (the heavier items always placed lovingly on top of the lighter, more breakable items). Dad-related-boxes, apartment-related-boxes. They're all here, at my half packed up, box-centric, box of an apartment. In the beginning, I tried to unpack the dad-related-boxes. And I understand that I'm moving to another apartment in order to delay unpacking the dad-related-boxes. If not accommodate them. I also understand that there was a time when I would see something on my shelf, or at my dad's house, and not immediately think that it needed to go into a box. Certainly that will change.

it's like soap meant to clean your other soap

You know what I mean. I realize that my blog is about my blog. It has to be. It isn't about anything else. Like certain websites that are exclusively about all things tech related. How great is that? This blog isn't that. But it is. Look closely. It is, it is. I promise you, it is. I say tomato. You say tomato. I say blue. You say blue-green. I say bleu cheese. It's a toss up. And it could go on and on like that for hours. And that's just me, here, (without you) typing. It's a blog. My keyboard returned to normal function for a few hours a few days ago. Now it's like this again. And I'm without an enter key. Which is like a bicycle without wheels. Or a house without a door. Or a sky without a sun. Or like spaghetti without Parmesan cheese. It's like a car without gas. It's like, I love you, but.. It's like leaving the house without your brain. Or a bird without song. It's that I can not ENTER. And I hate it. I have thought of buying a new keyboard. I have. But, at the end of the day, I just don't want to. And I asked for technical assistance, as it's not just my physical keyboard that is messed up, but something deeper. Because I tried the screen keyboard, and it's the same thing. All the time. Everyday. I can't enter. There are no line breaks. I am (basically) without a steering wheel in this car of a blog that I'm driving. Not that I haven't had a recurring dream where I'm in a car that's going (pretty fast) down the highway. And I'm sitting in the back seat and no one else is in the car with me. Which is bad. And pretty simple to interpret as a dream. I know. Believe me. I went through this phase where I had to have toast all of the time. And I felt pretty bad taking that toaster (at work) out of it's package everyday (a product meant to be photographed in package, pristinely) just to make myself some toast, only to very, very carefully put it back into it's box (everyday, using glue - secret glue). So, it's appropriate that I would write in my blog about my broken keyboard. And not do anything about it. Whatever. I bought some flowers for my other flowers (as my other flowers were having a bad day) and they need water now, as well my kitten's pet kitten needs assistance, and my brain's brain is super tired. So..

welcome back

I just welcomed myself back. It's ok. I can do that. I guess that this would be as good a time as any to mention that I can't write in my blog properly. Because the enter key on my keyboard is broken. Which is frustrating. [enter]. I hit enter [enter] and it does nothing [enter]. Literally nothing [enter] I'm pretty sure this wouldn't be happening if I were in Japan [enter]. It's safe to say that I hate the enter key right now [enter]. Anyway, it's come to my attention that two or three people have read my blog in the last month. That's ok. It doesn't bother me [enter]. And by me I mean this blog. It doesn't bother this blog. A team of spider web removers (out of the East Coast) will need to be temporarily flown in. And, accustomed as they are to handling special situations like this (unsavory, horrific, albeit fascinating situations), they will at that time (without emotion, other than giving each other lots of ribbing for whatever happened in their social lives the night before) remove all of the spider webs. From this blog. Also cob webs. And dust. They will be ok with this as they have dealt with atrocities. Really, the worst kinds of messes. And they will also be good enough to straighten up a little bit around here. And maybe fill the ice cube trays. And I will be kind enough to pay them. They will do their part and I will do mine. And on and on. Until the money runs out. Because it always does. And that's when they (the East Coast team) will start in with their spiel. They'll advise me to shut down the whole operation. Right away. Meaning immediately, or "as soon as possible", which roughly translates to mean "now", maybe "in the morning". That is, before I accrue anymore debt. But, of course I will balk. But they as a group (of about three or four people) will be relentless. I dare say, hardboiled. And, really, just downright negative about the whole thing. They (the East coast team) will (over the course of two or three hours) continue to oh-so-gently nudge me to abandon my blog. Then I will counter with a refusal, even though I will feel that they are probably right. Yes. I will pretend to doubt them. Because you never know what that might achieve. Besides I will feel cornered. And cornered = pressured. One day I will just sleep in and blow off the blog. But then, one day (probably the next day) I'll pull myself together, and go to headquarters to have a big meeting (with doughnuts and everything). But it won't matter. The East Coast team will know that my blog is done. And they, unable to watch me continue to waste my time and money, will start taking steps to resign. That's when I, sensing that they're backing out, will fire all them on the spot. After which I'll panic and freak out. And they will be there for me. And a little bit themselves. With vodka, a box of kleenex, a boom box, and a bunch of old Neil Diamond CDs. Finally, I will accept that they're right and relieve them of their duties at frankenmonsterblog. With the promise that I will (with the help of some lawyer-friend-brother-in-law of theirs) close down production as soon as Monday. But after they leave (and it will be very quiet after they leave), I will instead sit down and come up with a plan of my own. And even though my plan might start out as just another way (another drunken way) to get me through the bad, bad, bad bottom line of this situation, I will (that Sunday) find myself actually adhering to a program where it will all work out. Just as long as I don't eat or breathe or go to the movies or do anything outside of paying my bills. For a year. And, as is the case in times like these, where a person is presented with two roads, one being reasonable, the other being ridiculous, I will take the ridiculous road. With all the stubbornness, grit, stupidity, and short sightedness that a person can muster. I will work (for a year) towards my goal, always writing checks, always freezing my ass off, always hungry. Always dirty. Always talking to myself. The whole time. And always getting some kind of (non-money related) pay-off. And indeed the blog will survive. The whole goddamnned year. And, they (the East coast team; many others) will laugh at me in month three. But month ten? Eleven? [enter]

Jesus Christ, lets eat

My dad.

He was a practical joker. Yet his humor could be so so dry that it left a person crumbling. Often it was impossible for an outsider to determine whether or not my father was joking. He either left people insulted or laughing.

There was no other result.

And he didn't care whether or not you got the joke. At the end of the day, it was for his own amusement. Not to suggest he didn't enjoy the outright. He did. Fake spiders. Fake mice. Sometimes, real mice. My dad. He gave me my sense of humor. My irreverence.

You had to be smart to get my father.

And he was brilliant.

He designed buildings. Spaces. Furniture.

He designed dollhouses with the same attention he did full scale structures.

He designed his life around ideals that remain impossible for me to grasp, or completely mysterious to me.

Will I ever make him proud?

My father.

There was never a more meticulous, dedicated, obsessive, hard working, tortured being.

He was an architect. An artist. An engineer. An interior designer. A teacher. A student. A chef. A drinker of cheap wine. A reader. An observer.

A loner.

A log keeper. Everything identified. Everything remarked upon. Everything in its place.

He was alone.

He cooked. He created. He just wanted a person to enjoy.

He had impeccable taste. He was relentlessly irreverent.

He said out loud what other people thought but never said. He never wavered or waffled. He offended many. He didn't care.

My father. His one wish was to design until the day he died.

He got his wish.

He loved us, and marveled at the fact that his children got along.

A man. The last of a dying breed. A cruel mix of love and indifference. Hardworking. Stoic.
My father. He wrote everything down. He revealed nothing.

Tonia

Do you hear that?

That's the sound of Carmen playing ever so faintly in the background. It's the part where the two are arguing about something. Something. I don't know what. Which is alright (for now).

Background:

My bills, the ones I am about to send off, on time (of course) are saturated with dried coffee. Again. This happens so often, I'm sure they (the scowling people at the bill-opening department of each of my bills) find me to be an ass.

I'm sure that they do.

You see, it's a delicate instrument, my coffee maker. It is moody. It requires special encouragement.

It is pesky, even a little bit bitchy. And it offers no excuse. Nor does it ever apologize.

She.

She came to me second hand. My coffee maker. And she knows from where she came from. She knows the difference.

And I'm sure that she is outraged.

Her previous life was, all told, a better life. Spent in the comfort of her former, better, more beautiful kitchen. There, where she was always treated with consideration. There, where she was kept immaculately. All of the time. There, where she received regular vinegar baths. If not regular warm, mild-soapy soaks. And always with a towel placed lovingly between her and the cold, unforgiving, restaurant quality stainless steel sink.

There, in her previous home, where she was dried off with a shammy. Where she got days off. To rest. Sometimes a whole string of days.

There, where (while resting) she wore a lovely, hand-stitched Marimekko cover, made just for her. A cover meant to protect her from dust (as she is allergic).

There, where she had friends. Other coffee makers (for other purposes, and sometimes no other purpose - other than just because). Yes. All of them together. In the cabinet. In solidarity. There they would whisper and laugh late into the night. And never, ever did any of them get into trouble for this behavior.

There, where she slept inside such a quiet, cotton lined cabinet.

There, where she was appreciated and rarely used.

There where she had love.

There, where she had opera.

Whereas, here, the degree of coarseness of the coffee being used (as balanced with size and fineness of the filter, versus the amount, temperature if not type of the water used) might vary wildly from day to day.

Whereas, here, though it is always a good coffee that I use (always good), it isn't a blessed coffee.

It isn't a golden coffee. It isn't an antique or a magic coffee.

Nor is it ever necessarily a coffee that has been imbued with the merest essence of violets and black pepper.

No. Here, in this kitchen (and never in history was there a colder, gloomier, more foreboding kitchen) coffee is made, not because it's Sunday, NOT because it compliments the sweetness of any darling petit-fours that have somehow gotten themselves lost (in what, at first glance, was such a charming forest, but, quickly became something quite a bit less charming, as the sun set, and the temperature dropped) and found their way onto my doorstep (pathetic, all of them, with their little frosting faces now worse for the wear, all blinking at me, all pleading for mercy), no..

And, furthermore, not because it's nice to make coffee as any sort of makeshift ceremony. The kind that "brings people together". That is, whatever smiling, laughing people happen to be around (especially as, the people I know never smile).

No, the coffee that is made here, is not made to be any kind of special treat. For happy people. Whose hearts (as they wait for the coffee) are then filled with the warmest (food related) kind of expectancy. Whose faces then betray (what can only be called) a willing agony. The happiest of agonies. The agony of pretending that one is in agony. Ah. The waiting. The waiting for the coffee. It's a privilege. Because, in the end, it's all going to be ok (for them, for these people), because the coffee is coming. It is, it is..

So that, for a few moments, such people (who were, for the most part, already happy) are nearly ecstatic. Inspired, even. Encouraged by the aroma of the coffee. The promise of the coffee. Yes, their lives (what fun life is!) are seemingly (and quite neatly, too) contained in the very drama and suspense of this brief moment. Wow.

But it's just a reprieve, mind you. One to be enjoyed presently. Detachedly. That is, before they dash off to the museum. Or Hermes. Or the bank. Or wherever.

No.

Coffee is made here, on the premisis (a utilitarian and wholly without charm space that I call home, but is, lets face it, actually a box, divided up neatly into six spaces, and outfitted with windows, so that one might look out at the few trees, whatever phase they may be in at that time, and wonder why one has not yet gotten themselves a camera - windows that give one the false sense that "one is not in jail", self imposed or otherwise, when one probably is in such a jail, and paying for the privilege, monthly, with one's very own, very, very special - coffee stained checks) because I need coffee. In order to function.

So, it is also without ceremony, that the coffee maker lets me know that this set up (the whole thing, the complete lack of a spiritual basis, the psychological ramifications of neglect, the long term physical abuse due to exposure to hard water deposits, if not to harsh chemicals in the dishwasher, etc) is substandard.

As, it might (at any time) vomit coffee all over my counter. Instead of into it's clean, well positioned carafe. It might. And when it does, it does so quietly. No alarm sounds.

[Note: the coffee itself never complains, and seems to bask in any kind of attention, even when it is being treated as a mess. The coffee never asked to be brewed. It just wants to be loved.]

It happened today. Quietly. Ten cups worth. Ten cups, because today I am both off of work and very tired.

I will say that certain things escaped becoming permanent artifacts of what was a better time, that (shining) moment before what happened with the coffee.

I remember that moment like it was just a few minutes ago. When, in fact, it was a little over an hour ago..

Also, I got a sewing machine for Christmas.

I love it.

I've named her Louise.

it's a car that runs on asparagus

Incredible but true.

It's has been a long time since I've blogged.

A lot has happened:

The first anniversary of this blog (sometime in early November) has come and gone. And I forgot all about it. If I had remembered I would have done a retrospective. Or something. As well, my very first post (which would have been a nice thing to re-post for the anniversary of my blog) was deleted by me. Probably the same day that it was posted. But, if I remember correctly, it was pretty bad. Just awful. Garbage. A lot of hemming and hawing and not being able to get to the point. As there was no point. Where as, these days, now that I do have a point, it is so much better. Live and learn, that's what I always say.

Also, I have somehow managed not to get my shoes wet at all since the first snow (well over a week ago). I'm sure I look ridiculous going to the lengths I am willing to go to, in order to avoid slush and snow etc. But, I have. And I must say it has worked out very nicely for my shoes. And, more importantly, for my feet..

The above is a lie. My shoes are, even as I write this, very wet. And, as anyone (who has ever stepped onto what they thought was solid ice, but was actually a slush puddle) knows: shoes that get THAT wet never actually return to being dry. Ever. As well, my shoes are salt stained, which the death knell for all shoes. Particularly older shoes. So, it is with regret that I hold the following funeral for my red gym shoes:

We have had many an adventure together, you and I. You got me around, gym shoes, you did. For three years. Against all odds. At least once a week. Because you didn't go with everything. And, more importantly, I never wanted you to wear out. So, why did I wear you today (of all days)? Believe me, I have wracked my brain, gone over and over it. Why would I ever take such a chance with your fate? I feel that it was carelessness at best, and intentional at worst. I think part of me knew it was over, and I wanted it to be over, so I just did it. So, I want to say that I'm sorry, gym shoes. Please, if nothing else, know that I will replace you. With better shoes. Probably in the morning. And then forget about you. Forever. That, my friend, is a promise..

Speaking of death knells, apparently the death knell for any blog is for the author to stop posting. I had read this somewhere, and I must say that every word of it is true. I quote:

"..The death knell for any blog is for the author to stop writing in it."

It blows me away. I read this at a time when I posted about twice a week. I understood what they were saying, but only intellectually. I couldn't wrap my experience around it. Not as I can today. I feel that if I posted more often, I would gain a kind of momentum that would fuel itself, so that naturally I would have more to write about. I quote:

"..I feel that if I posted more often, I would gain a kind of momentum that would fuel itself, so that naturally I would have more to write about."

Exactly.

it's all 100% true

Oh blog. You are a year old. It was about a week or two ago. And here I just remembered today.

I feel bad, blog. I feel really bad.

I'm sorry. And here I didn't get you anything. You. My little blog. Like a nice new font or anything. But you know that I love you. Right?

We've had our ups and downs. To be sure.

But we came to a place were we got along well and it was all typing and clicking and publishing to post. Like all day long. Type. Click. Publish to post.

Click, click, click.

Over and over.

I felt like a loser the whole time, too. God, it was great.

I was just basically "published to post" all the time and it meant (almost) nothing to me, but still it felt kind of crazy and good.

In the beginning I couldn't decide if I was a Japanese school girl or something more like a geek. And if you know me at all you know which one I was.

And it was like, voila, frankenmonsterblog. And it's never been the same. I love life. It's always like that. The biggest distraction in the whole world. All of my own creation. Me and my waste of time. I mean monster.

Blog.

Blog.

Blogging.

And it was the word that was the basis of my first post. Blog. I thought it was funny. Like snot or slob. and it felt good. And greedy. To blog. Quite like eating french fries all day long or something. french fries. With accompaning hot dogs. Requisite junk food. And it did make me quite sick to my stomach. Yes. Really sick.

But, still, I did it. I blogged.

And I was like a cowgirl in the sand. We (bloggers - back then) were like pirates. You know what I mean. Don't make me expalin it.

Back then. One year ago. When there were only literally two hundred and fifty blogs. It was Algonquin Round Table all day long. It was. Ideas exchanged. Mostly drunken. And there was furry. And quite a few recipes. And cat information. And a couple of shameless pornographers (both literal and the figurative variation) and the not-even-trying-to-write types.

It's ok.

I laugh

Sometimes I think of things that are funny. Things that make me want to laugh out loud, when it is inappropriate to laugh out loud. Such as when walking down a long (three city blocks long) rather (misleadingly) quiet by-way (I don't know what else to call it) at work.

So, even when you think you are alone (in such a by-way), I've learned, you are probably not alone. There is always someone. Someone just behind a file of walls or a pretend fireplace, waiting to pop up. And enquire as to what is so funny.

They're always there.

But I tend to want to laugh inappropriately in places populated with people, too. Like on the subway. Or when I'm waiting in line to purchase my bread, lentils, or levis from the black market every third Sunday of the month. Either way.

But never in church. I never laugh in church.

Because I never go to church.

But it happened when I was in grade school. Then, I attended church nearly every day.

And all of us were laughing, back then, at one point or another.

Because, children, by adult standards, are insane.

They expected us to laugh. In church. They knew. They remembered. They. Those that were in charge of us. They had punishments for laughing ready and waiting. They were smart that way.

And we fully expected to be punished. But that was ok. It was out of our hands. We were laughing because the whole thing, though we were conditioned to accept it, was insane. Particularily in contrast with the rest of the school day.

The sheer height and drama of the buttressed building, versus the drab, yet very clean smelling, institutional part of the building, where we attended classes.

In the church there was the surround of stained glass. The enormous cross. The blood red fabric on the alter. And the body of Christ (waffers; sometimes pancakes)
and the blood of Christ (a nice clairet) offered up for consumption.

The whole Gothic-German-Holy incredibleness plopped down right smack on a regular street in a suburb of Chicago. Just like a million others.

It was a very pretty church.

Ornate yet sparse. Replete with songs sung in a language none of us spoke. With ideas imparted to us that none of us questioned.

Wrapped up in a Medieval universe all unto itself. Every detail meant to create an indelible thoughtform. An inspiring yet slightly terrifying experience. One that would stick in our brains forever (and ever). So that we might become better human beings.

And I'm sure it worked.

On the way out, the older boys would splash each other with holy water from the font, and yell, your mama (this and that) at each other.

Good kids. We were.

I liked the regularity with which I attended church as a child.

Church. At some point between Math and recess. It was nice. I never told anyone that I liked it. That would have made me an asshole. But I liked it. It was pretty. And wrought with mystery. If not promise.

And it was frightening.

So I laughed. I couldn't help it.

it takes the cake

But the cake is ok with that.

There is this thing, this hulk of plastic that plugs into the wall. Sounds come from it. And, I don't know why, but I'm really starting to like this thing.

I plug it in all the time.

Now I do. It took some time to get to that point.

And there's this other thing. It makes sounds sometimes, too.

I don't know what it is, but when I hold it up to my ear I feel that I am part of something.

Something bigger than myself.

And I like the way it lights up. But mostly, I like holding it up to my ear.

I get it now. About this thing. I do.

Sometimes I feel like doing one thing, yet I do another.

With both the initial feeling and resulting action being authentic manifestations of my will. Though, the two might seem inappropriately matched as items. For instance:

I'd like a cupcake = I avoid a cupcake.

To the point where one might think that I would hate to have a cupcake.

Where in reality it's:

Wow! Cupcake!

And I am very happy when I see this cupcake. It's good. Everything about it. The way it's not just another jelly doughnut (Ich bin ein Berliner.. Indeed I really am). The way it's not trying to be anything more than a cookie or a scone, yet is so much more (than a cookie or a scone). It makes my day.

I think, ..this cupcake, it's something else..

So, naturally, I feel compelled to approach this cupcake.

I say, just go over to the cupcake. It's ok..

And all I really want is to just go over to the cupcake. But then I freeze. I stop dead in my tracks. And for a beat I am paralyzed. And then I run away. In the opposite direction. Whatever that direction might be. Even if it is into a wall or another person.

It isn't beyond me (in moments such as this) to push past my own denial. No. I am keenly aware of the power that this cupcake has over me. But, I think, ..next time. Next time, I won't run away from the cupcake..

But, it's no use. Next time comes and goes. And it's always the same thing. I run away. Even if the running is actually walking; even if the walking is actually just pretending to be suddenly distracted by the state of my own hand and fingernails.

And I realize that I'm crazy. But no matter what I do, or how much I promise myself not to allow the cupcake to confuse me, I continue with this kind of behavior.

It's nonsense.

And the whole thing gets out of hand. And takes on ridiculous proportions. Now I am not only disturbed by the cupcake situation, as it were, but by my lack of ability to cope when confronted by the cupcake.

To the point where I avoid not only the cupcake, but anything that might lead up to the cupcake. As the appearance of the cupcake (sudden appearance - the cupcake tends to appear suddenly) only leads to my distress.

I've gotten good at outwitting the cupcake. If any individual ever needed to learn better methods for avoiding a cupcake, I guess it would be in their interest to contact me.

Because, somewhere along the line, I developed an innate or heightened sense. I just know when the cupcake is about to materialize.

emergency: cupcake approaching. I repeat..

And on and on.

This, without having any logical reason for knowing that the cupcake is nearby.

It's crazy.

And my unnatural response to the cupcake only reinforces itself with each subsequent cupcake encounter.

(cupcake + avoid) x (me) = 1.8333 (etc)

And that's a problem.

Not that I have any problem with the cupcake itself.

Given that:

(cupcake + cupcake) x (cupcake) = cupcake

and that:

cupcake = good

it has to be that:

cupcake = ok

It's science.

people + people

Yes.

People. They are misunderstood.
They are well understood.
Either way.

People.

People waiting for the train. People waiting for a sign. People signing papers. People with too much paper. People with too much anger. People without recourse. People without imagination. People drying out. People going out. People coming in. People breaking down. People breaking promises. People breaking other people's dishes. People making brownies. People making love.

People with ideas.

Ideas that they embrace.
Ideas that they cultivate.
Ideas that they hone.
Ideas that they apply.

Ideas that they abandon.

Sometimes people live their lives.

Sometimes people throw other people off of the scent.

People. They have chocolate, they have rain clouds, they have blank sheets of paper.

They have gasoline, plastic sandwich bags, pumpkins, diamond jewelry, and intuition.

They have subtlety, integrity, canned peas, sideways glances, inference, and departure.

People. They have sweater sets.

People ring bells. People wear rings. People wear thin.

People. They pray. They swear. They write poetry. They go silent. They go crazy. They give up. They let go.

Sometimes people give in.

People. With dead batteries. With dead cell phones. With dead ideas. With crashed computers. With crushed flowers. With fallen hems or fallen empires. With magic. With a smile on their face. People that are face to face. Eye to eye. Nose to nose.

People with their hands pressed together.

People. With things remembered yet not learned. With things learned yet not practiced. With things practiced yet not felt. With things felt yet not expressed. With things expressed yet not remembered.

With things surpressed in their minds, but not in their hearts. With things expressed in their gestures, but not with their words.

People. With things pressed between the pages of a book.

Sometimes people want things. To get away with things. To rearrange things. To repair things. To understand things. To remember things. Sometimes people want less things. Better things. To admire things. To search for things. To search for meaning.

Sometimes people pause to look in the mirror.

People. They are seen. Sometimes no one sees them. Sometimes people see people and they think no one sees them. Sometimes people spy. Sometimes people know they are being spied upon. Sometimes they let it happen. Sometimes people see other people from a distance. Sometimes people look for people. Sometimes people are seen right through.

People seek beauty. People look for flaws.

People can't tear their eyes away from horror.

I disagree = I know
I wish = I fail
I try = I apologize
I hate = I assume
I attempt = I ignore
I admit = I lie
I avoid = I want
I love = I lack