Monday, March 21, 2005

Okay, remember when I went on and on about how much I hate the label "exotic?" And how I'm offended when people view me as exotic, for no reason (as far as I can tell) other than my looks? Well...weirdly enough, I realized that I'm largely attracted to those I find exotic. Granted, I still consider my attraction to exoticism more sophisticated, since it's less about physical appearance, and more about upbringing and culture. From a dirt poor playa Dominican Republican, to a dirt poor struggling musician/filmmaker, to a dirt poor composer, to a dirt poor motorcycle driving scientist, to a dirt poor Republican artist who has just a high school education...there's a common theme here, obviously. I'm drawn to guys who are self-made, who struggled in poverty. I'm not sure why this is. Perhaps I'm ashamed of my own upper-middle-class upbringing, of how easy my life has been in every way, of how little I've had to struggle--which contributed to weaknesses in my character (particularly a maddeningly passive approach to my life's path). And even though I live in financial comfort (thanks largely to parents), and succumb to retail therapy occasionally (never particularly extravagant, since I like to delude myself into thinking that I'm not a spoiled brat), I still don't have much interest in material things. During this year, I've been slowly trying to cobble together some sort of spirituality, so that I'm better able to deal with crises which will inevitably rise in the future. I've frequently been distracted, and have abandoned this quest several times. But whenever I start thinking about it again, I realize how unimportant my possessions are--toys, clothes, and so on. They're a superficial balm for what truly ails me, and when I'm on my deathbed (however many, or few, years from now), they will offer little comfort. More than anything, I want to be productive, I want to contribute, I want to give instead of take, I want to share instead of hoard, and I want to explore instead of hide, I want to experience instead of think. More and more, medicine seems like the answer after all (even though I've been questioning it all this time).


To go back to my original point, I'm attracted to people who can teach me something, who can broaden my horizons, who can shatter my world so that I'm forced to piece it back together again, instead of continuing to chug along without editing or altering it. On the other hand, most of my closest friends grew up in similar situations to mine, and have much easier time understanding my idiosyncrasies than those who date me. My friends and I exert much less effort clarifying miscommunications, which seem to plague all my relationships. Then again, maybe my idea of a romantic relationship is inextricably tied to wrestling opposites, given the model of my parents' relationship--different ethnicities, different countries of origin, different political beliefs, different interests, different approaches to money, and so on. Whenever I encounter someone who is remarkably similar to me, I immediately think of that person as a friend. Then again, I have much more trust in friends than in lovers. Relationships, as far as I can tell, don't last with me. And I'm not sure I want them to last. I still feel far too young, too green, too caught up in figuring out my own issues, to decide on a life partner. Although of course I miss the physical aspects of relationships...except sharing a bed at night. That sucked. (Intimacy, shmintimacy.)

Wednesday, March 02, 2005

The Oscars...meh. I actually don't think that Chris Rock was all that bad--he made me laugh a few times, at least, which is more than Billy Crystal was ever able to accomplish--but the ceremony certainly seemed soulless. As everyone and her mother has already stated, it's fucking ridiculous that the AV kids were forced to accept their awards in the aisle, or do the pageant wait on stage, while the movie stars got to sit comfortably in their seats until the winners were granted the right to go onstage and bask in the glow of the audience's adoration. I'm especially disappointed by the boycott of my most anticipated eye-candy, Gael Garcia Bernal. By the way, I'm a little perturbed that he was on Paris Hilton's phone list (which was leaked a week ago). Why was he on that list exactly? I'm also perturbed that I found his number several days too late...because I might have been tempted to call him and turn into a squealing fangirl a la Hard Day's Night.

Highlights: the dry humor of Charlie Kaufman's speech (hooray for his win!), the dry humor of Jeremy Irons as he introduced an award, and the Best Animated Short award to an extraordinary Canadian film called Ryan.

My favorite dresses were those worn by Kate Winslet, Kirsten Dunst, Julie Delpy, Cate Blanchett, and some chick named Natalia Vodianova.

I started my period today. As someone who spends most of the time in her head, barely aware of her body, it's jarring to constantly be reminded of your own physiology like this, in such a horrifying way. Another ovulation for naught. For some reason it makes me think of a pinball machine...a ball is launched, but since you had no interest in lifting those flippy things to keep it alive (aka unprotected sex), the ball falls into a hole and dies. Thus no flashing lights or whirring toys or extra points. And out gushes the blood. You'd think after having to deal with blood gushing out of my vagina every month, I wouldn't bat an eye during a typical slash film. But...no.