sick of job

I've got a job, everyone. It seems like the only way I can get the job is if I know someone. Oh well. The guy who hired me was in dire need of someone, and my parents know him and his wife. I'm a staff assistant at State Farm Insurance--meaning I answer calls, take messages, fill out payments, mail stuff, fax stuff, file stuff, greet customers and all that.

I hate it. It's probably because I just started, and I don't really have any experience, and everyone treats me like I'm stupid. Wait, there's more. The drive sucks, and I work full-time Monday through Friday. Unbelievable. Which leaves me nights and weekends to edit film. Can I do it? And still be able to see my friends?

I'm also sick. Sore throat and chills. It's like 66 degrees outside, and I'm wearing a hooded sweatshirt (with the hood) and flannel pajama pants. I'm thinking it's all psychological, that this is only happening because I'm stressed at this new job because everything is, well--new.

At least I had an awesome birthday. With the fam, we ate at Ruth's Chris Steakhouse in Irvine and had cake at home. Then my friends ambushed me with a surprise birthday party/sleepover the next day. Amazing. I am so undeserving of my family and friends. Thank you God for these amazing, inspiring people in my life and a great 18th year.

I'm going to go now, 'cuz I should rest up. I've got work tomorrow. Ugh.

19

A funny thing happened this week, the week of my 19th birthday (which happens to be tomorrow). Mom's friend's daughter came to our house to pick up some paperwork from my Mom to give to her Mom. I was upstairs tidying my room when Mom called me downstairs to meet the daughter. I came down.

She was tall and pretty with a nice smile. We were exchanging small talk when she asked me, "What grade are you in?"

I wish I can convey to you the way she said this question. She said it sweetly--too sweet. I wanted to say that I was in 7th grade. I wondered if she would have believed me. I told her the truth though (my parents were right there), that I was going to be a second year in college. So was she. We were the same age.

I was flattered by her question. I inferred from her tone that she thought I was younger--how could anyone within 3 feet miss it? How much younger, I'd like to know. When I was a sophomore in high school, I was mistaken for a 7th grader. Just this year, the lady who did my facials thought I was 15 or 16. I'm comforted by these misjudgments, yet know that there will be a negative side to it someday. I don't want to venture there right now.

I really don't want to celebrate my b-day. I just want to have a quiet dinner with the fam--that is all. I was planning to invite my friends over, but, it's sad but--I changed my mind (sorry Chaunce). I just wanted to be with the fam. How weird is that? I just want to be with the fam, and when I'm not with the fam, I want to be alone. It's this sort of b-day grieving period I sort of go through. It lasts a couple of days. Anyway, it's not serious, it's totally normal.

birthday plans:
1. go to Mass
2. ?
3. dinner with the fam

a stranger named Steve, and happy father's day, Mom

Went to Fry's to get Mom a digital camera (on Father's Day, of all days). Was intensely jealous, I have to admit. Kuya bought it for her because he broke her camera a long time ago and promised to get her a new one, and now that he's working (and earning more money than I will hope to see in a lifetime), he fulfilled his promise.

Here's where this post takes an interesting and wonderful turn...

Went with Kuya to the cashier section to pay for the things. He was a cashier.

His glasses caught my eye. They were black-rimmed, rectangular, reminding me about the boy with glasses (see my Sept.-Dec. posts, if you're not familiar with this character). He was pale, rickets-thin, embodying all the male stereotypical geeky, dorky qualities that linger between the 20s and 30s. His head was shaved, and I detected a balding pattern. He was gorgeous.

The cashier's area is like a huge long counter, one cashier after another behind it, and customers in front of it, if you're not familiar with the Fry's store layout. Our cashier was two stations away from him. I waited for Kuya during the transaction a few feet behind as to not crowd the counter. That's where I could perfectly watch him.

He was succint and courteous with his customers. He greeted them with a slight, polite nod and quiet smile--an action that made me smile inside and my Amelie mode come into play.

I wondered if he knew I was watching him, that I was interested in him. I wanted him to know. I was hoping that this interest would flatter him, comfort him, let him know that strangers can make a profound effect on strangers.

I caught a glimpse of his nametag: Steve, I think. Steve.

We left. I was happy to have seen this stranger, imprinting his visage and mannerisms in my memory. I didn't expect to see him again except for in my mind's eye.

Kuya had bought the wrong memory card for the camera. We needed to go back to Fry's. As we drove along the 91, I entertained the thought of seeing him again behind the cashier. It could happen. I could see him again.

We entered the parking lot. I couldn't believe it. I whispered an "oh my God" to myself. My own personal form of thank you to Him.

He was pushing carts. He was outside in his black Dickies, tucked in crisp white oxford shirt and tie, sunglasses, pushing carts with a co-worker.

I laughed to myself. I imagined that he always volunteered for the task, that he liked the excercise, the sun, the fresh air, the chance to get out of that building. Thank you God for that moment.

We head to the cashier again, this time with the right product. I didn't see him. Probably still pushing carts. I stood next to Kuya this time.

Steve walked to the cashier next to us and stood there, not doing "cashier things" but rather, using the cashier computer. This is more than I could have asked for. I couldn't believe my luck. A million thanks to mon Dieux. Since I was closer this time, I caught his name: Steve Holloway. A nice name. A final gift.

We left. And I was happy and blushing. I can always tell that I am blushing because my cheeks burn when I blush.

Sometimes I feel closer to strangers than to real people. We share nothing and everything all at the same time. We can't hurt each other because we know nothing of each other. I'll be okay if I never see him again.

birthday wish list:
1. a thousand more moments like these
2. a nice dinner with the fam
3. assorted dvds and cds

june gloom

Okay, so I don't have a job yet. Should I be worried? Went to Borders on Monday and saw a "Now Hiring" sign. I applied. I also applied to a Hallmark store. I hope I get a job. I need monies!

It's been overcast lately. I kind of like it because it reminds me of SF. Plus, I really don't have anywhere to go, so hopefully it'll be sunny by the time I get to go out.

I'm having fun with Windows Movie Maker. My current project is editing film from our family trip (sans Dad...he had to work) to England in 2002. It's a lot of work, but I love it. I feel like I'm so close to doing my dream job. Right now, it's just a regular family movie, just the basic stuff. Later, I might set it to some music. I've got an idea for a Coldplay video, you know, since we were in England. Fun, fun, fun! Sorry, that was dorky.

great cartoons from my childhood (they pratically had a hand in my raising):
1. Muppet Babies
2. Bobby's World
3. Pee-Wee's Playhouse
4. Animaniacs
5. Pinky and the Brain (The spinoff show. Did you know it won an Emmy? Amazing.)

name change

Hello readers. I've decided to change the name of my blog from "Prufrock's Journal" to "till human voices wake us". The thing is...I was just tired of plain "Prufrock's Journal". It was a great idea when I started, and I'm very proud of my blog so far, but I need a change. If you don't already know, the name Prufrock comes from a poem I hold very dear to my heart: "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" by T.S. Eliot. I was introduced to this poem in English class junior year, and let's say that after that day I was never the same again.

Prufrock then became a sort of nickname among my group of friends, because I'd do Prufrocky things and have his sort of mindset. I still do sometimes. I think I've changed a lot though since then. And I think that I've sort of become a part of the "human voices" that Eliot speaks about in his poem. So, "till human voices wake us" is also from the same poem, it's in the last line actually. If you read the whole poem, the end is quite sad, and you might think, "That's a horrible line to title a blog!", but I really don't think so. I feel that "till human voices wake us" is a beautiful, hopeful string of words. There are a bunch of people out there who are literally zombies, going through the motions, caring about nothing, really, and I want to wake them up. There are many others out there who don't even know it, but they want to wake people up too. Because there is so much...So much to this world that you shouldn't sleep through. Okay.

So, this blog is pretty much my voice, genuine and pure and human, and all for you. Whether you're asleep or awake. Thank you, my loyal readers, whoever you are, those of you who comment or don't comment. Thank you for being a part of me, and I will continue to serve you loyally.

Your friend,
Elaine aka Prufrock aka nerd aka dork

house arrest

I won't leave the house because of the intense swelling in my face. It's quite funny actually. And weird. Because I'll look in the mirror, stare at this face, and know that that isn't me. That's not what I really look like. It's a strange feeling. Like how the daughter felt in Freaky Friday when she saw that she was her mom. But to a lesser extent. I like the original film.

Pretty much, I have been doing nothing productive. Mom and Dad don't want me to exert myself. So, I've been nerding out on the internet, watching dvds. Your basic couch potato stuff. Reading as well. Forgot to tell you about this...Some telemarketer called me asking when I'll be attending college, in the summer or the fall? I was so not in the mood, so I said, in a sad voice, "I won't be attending college." I hung up, told my brother what I did, and we were laughing so hard! I tried not to laugh so hard because it was hurting my face, but oh man, what a riot.

great soft foods:
1. soup (I've just discovered this love for soup. I mean, there are so many kinds! What a selection!)
2. ice cream (strawberry, of course)
3. smashed up bananas (haha, I'm such a baby)

dvds:
Gunslinger Girl (Episodes 1 through 5): This is awesome anime. Breathtaking. Cyborg girls trained to be assassins. Set in an unknown location in Italy, this story covers a number of girls and their relationships with their handlers (their trainer/boss) and each other. The soundtrack is incredible. The theme/introduction alone is what got me. Girls handling automatic rifles set to The Delgados's "The Light Before We Land". Cinematic beauty. Violins and other symphonic music set the mood for most of the episodes. Amazing. What a dream it would be to direct this into an actual film. I got dibs!

not for the faint of heart

NOTE: The following is a detailed, slightly graphic account of my time in a dentist's chair having two "stubborn" (dentist's words) wisdom teeth getting removed. There will be blood, gums, and what seems like many horrible surgical instruments. But what follows and what interjects the painful memory is a beautiful and insightful piece of work that will not disappoint. At least, it does not disappoint me.

I had two wisdom teeth on the bottom part of my masticatory apparatus (nice, huh?) removed yesterday. What an ordeal. They injected an anaestethic into my gums and the sides of my mouth, which pinched and made me flinch, but what the hell, I won't feel any of the surgical pain, right? They took x-rays and waited for the numbing to take place.

They started with the right one, the one the dentist said would be easiest. My heart races as I try to recount this. She gave me something to bite on while she put pressure on the tooth. The pressure was too much. I started to stress out. My hands gripped the chair. My legs would move slightly, involuntarily in response to the pressure. All I could think about was how they gave Jesus something to bite on while they beat him, or nailed him on the cross, sometimes I forget. Think of something else, Elaine. This isn't the right time. The pressure and discomfort continued. "Don't stress out, Elaine", the dentist said. "It'll only make it worse."

I started to cry. Not the sobbing kind. I've always hated that kind of crying, thinking it was unbeautiful, for the weak, something I'd resort to for funerals. No, this was the beautiful kind, the Oscar-worthy kind. Tears streamed down the sides of my face in single file. I pretended to be an actor. Anyone who needed to cry for a heartbreaking scene.

I was a soldier dying in the arms of my best friend amidst gunshots, tanks moving, buildings crumbling. I was Juliet. I was a woman who just saw her lover, the man who she thought was her soulmate, kissing a taller, more attractive female.

They asked if I was okay. I nodded and continued acting. Because of the tears though, my nose was getting stuffy, making it hard to breathe. It was hard enough breathing through the mouth, so I was breathing nasally before the whole Oscar thing. Pull through, Elaine. Pull through. It's only wisdom teeth.

I watched the sucking tube picking up bits of flesh (gums), blood, and saliva, and I closed my eyes. You are all crazy. How can you walk into this carnage, and fix me? How can you deal with this? What do you feel after dealing with this? At one point there were like 5 tools in my mouth, all doing their job. Sucking, probing, cutting, putting pressure, and other jobs. A ball of fiery stress and tension from biting on that biting thing formed in my jaw and moved down and settled in my neck. Oh God, I thought. I might have an aneurysm.

I thought about "Lost", about the scene where Kate had been separated from Jack and Charlie after they were running from the monster. She was alone, screaming Jack's name, and nothing. He told her beforehand that his trick with dealing with fear was to let it in, count to 5, and just deal with it. So she counted to 5. I did it too. 1...2...3...4...5... I can't do this, I'm going to die in this chair from the pain, I'm going to die from an aneurysm, and I'm wearing my yellow Yellowcard shirt, how can I die like this? 1...2...3...4...5...I'm going to die, and I've never even been kissed before, how absurd, and I'll only be 18, unbelievable. 1...2...3...4...5...The fiery ball died. I killed it. Stabbed it 5 times. Hooray for me! I'm not going to die a virgin!

At the slightest pinch of pain, I winced. That was when she'd inject me more of the numbing stuff. I let her do it, even when it didn't hurt. I didn't care. It was insurance. They worked on the second one, the hardest, because the tooth was growing sideways. I was better this time. The tears still came, but not as much.

It was all over. They sewed me back up, and I was to return in a week to get the sutures removed. I looked in the mirror and saw that my face had gained like ten pounds. It was the swelling.

It was hell to eat. I think I lost a pound today. Mom took care of me yesterday, thank God. I felt like a baby, an invalid, an old person. The pain in my face was horrendous. As if the pain that I didn't feel because I was numb during the ordeal came back to punch me a few times in the face. I thought a lot, about what this had taught me, showed me. There was worth in this pain.

I firmly resolved that I wasn't going to get cancer, or live in a home when I got old. I wasn't going to have a triple by-pass, like my Dad, or a colonoscopy, like my Mom and Grandma. Things are going to be different. There will only be great news coming from my doctor. This life, this chance, to be in this world--I'm not going to throw it away. I'm not going to ruin it. There's so much more to see, do, discover, learn. I'm not going to let sickness or anything for that matter stand in my way. I have to take care of myself if I want to live better. And I want to live better. So I can make a difference in this world. Change hearts, minds. Encourage people to read books, travel, help others, see all that is cinematic and beautiful in this world because there is so much that is both cinematic and beautiful.

An hour of pressure and discomfort, and look what's happened to me.

dork out

Kuya bought a wireless router--so now I can be on the internet anywhere in the house, I guess. Isn't that terrible? Now, it's tempting more than ever to dork out on the internet. God, help me. On the other hand, he bought a cable so that I can connect Dad's DV camera to my computer. I've added some clips from my Europe 2003 trip to my computer, and I hope to make a decent film with it this summer. Kuya has joined me on the whole filmmaking thing. He made a slideshow from our Europe trip pictures to some sad song by The Get Up Kids. It's well done.

Still haven't found a job. Typical. I know I don't want to work with food--I just don't want to handle it and all. I have an application for this thrift store near my house, but Kuya doesn't want me working there because all these punk guys with piercings work there, and I think I'd be the only teen girl working there. When I went to shop for some bowls and get an application, I only saw middle-aged ladies working there. I found a cool bowl, by the way. It's made in Japan and is shaped like an open flower. It's green, one of my favorite colors.

Signed up (paid up, more like it) for an casting call sort of thing for extras. I get access to this search engine that would help me find locations where they are filming near me and are in need of extras. It's 5 bucks a month. I figure I might as well give it a try since I am down here for the summer.

Hung out with a friend of mine, C., the other day. It was swell. We were at Starbucks, talking, enjoying our coffee. She lamented over her boy problems, and I lamented over my lack thereof. But we both rejoiced in how glad we were to grow up in an environment that stressed independence--in other words, both of us were not allowed to date until college, and, if that wasn't enough, were sent to an all-girl's private Catholic high school. We were glad though. We both knew, at that moment, who we were, what we were made of, and what we wanted of this world. It was beautiful, like stars exploding, or the sun racing into the sea.

Was this possible because of the way we were raised, or because we had it in us all along? I want to believe that it is both.