Mark Rothko, Abstract Expressionism.

I find it depressively disturbing that I'm extactically drawn to the abstractionism of Mark Rothko - what is it about his art that touches me? I look at his works; and I get sad. Ha. That sounded minimalistically ignorant and trite. But it's true...

Rothko never defined his art. His obsession with Nietzsche's prototypical categorization of the universe in terms of binary opposition points (to me) to a visual representation of the Dionysian vs. the Apollonian. Those dark, empty colors; vast nothingness; the sublime; depressive reality.

The Four Seasons commissioned Rothko to do a mural in the 60's. He said: "If the restaurant refused to put up my murals, that would be the ultimate compliment. But they won't. People can stand anything these days."

Why am I drawn to artists who lived tortured lives; attracted to the sublime? It bugs me that Rothko committed suicide. I really wish he hadn't. Why did he do that?

Family. What you might or might not know. A personal post.

Family: I don't feel overly or preposterously presumptuous in stating that my family is particularly unique; anyone who has been to a bbq at my house in Palo Alto will know this is true.

Why: My family is hard-grained rooted in extremist liberal ideologies which engender themselves tangibly on your first 10 steps into our house. You may say "fuck," "shit," "bitch," "asshole," or whatever at your whimsical pleasure, but utter the word "fag" and you will face irreversible consequences from my mother and step-dad who will reign down hell-fire like an eleventh unknown plague. You may take part in pre-marital sex, underage smoking, and petty crime, but come home with bad grades or hint at a future life of ignorance and unhappiness, and my mother and step-dad will hang you by your feet with a 9-inch radius rope and force you to digest the feces of a diseased rodent.

Step into my house for a family and friends bbq. Outside will sit me with a few male Asian-American friends with the same haircuts, higher degree educations, stubborn attitudes, and well-taken-care-of cars; smoking packs of Marlboro lights and sipping Scotch from proper glasses. Inside will be my mom and my stepdad entertaining their guests that include my two favorite "titas": an ultra-left-wing lesbian couple, overweight, chainsmoking, and tattoo ridden; with faces and political law-careers involving left-wing activist pseudo military activity during martial law regimes in various countries.

I love my family because they are a reflection of who I am and the ideals with which I grew up. Personal happiness surpasses the importance of financial success. Catch me sometime at home having a cigarette with my mom and a glass of Russian vodka with my sister; we will inevitably be discussing the work of some post-modern Russian existentialist, the current state of the American economy, or why I'm still single.

In California now, getting ready to leave.

A taste of the past; memories fade. Berkeley. Did I really go to school there? For as long as I've been at Juilliard?

Asians. Americans. Family. Friends. The bay. BBQ. Cigarettes. Whiskey. How do I pronounce this nostalgia; they mispronounce reality. Look at this tangle of thorns.

"An amazing thing happened to me: I suddenly forgot which came first, 7 or 8. I went to my neighbors and asked them what they thought about that. I was really amazed when they told me that they too couldn't remember the counting sequence.... We argued for a long time, but fortunately a little boy fell off a park bench and broke both his jaws. This distracted us from our argument. Then we all went home."
-Daniil Kharms, Soviet-era Surrealist and Absurdist poet of the Futurist movement

"Sometimes when I'm alone
I cry because I'm on my own.
The tears I cry R bitter and warm
They flow with life but take no form."
-Tupac Shakur, "The Rose That Grew from Concrete"

Why am I so drawn to Kaufman's "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind?" Is it because I have too many memories I'd like to erase? I feel a disturbingly liberating ecstasy pondering the possibility of controlled-memory loss. A clean slate. No baggage.

Cleveland and Ann Arbor; the midwest.

Sardonically defying the antiquated musician stereotype that we never go on vacation; I just did, and to the heavenly midwest at that. No piano.

Even in forced recollection, I can't conjure up any observations of Cleveland and Ann Arbor. Perhaps I really am on vacation, which puts my mind in the same state.

I had a great time.

Dance like nobody is watching and love like you've never been hurt.

Why do some idiotic shit like that?