Dazed & Enthused

2009-06-17T15:43:00.000-07:00

I've been out of commission for quite some time now. Obviously I underestimated the amount of work I would endure during my first year at Chico State, most of which being chillin' and drankin' and stuff. Recently I have been feeling an urge to begin writing once again. This summer I decided I am beginning a short story project and just to show everyone I've already started I shall post my first short story entitled Self-Training here. I wrote this short story in my Creative Writing class, this will appear in my collection, which if you know me will never be finished. But, on the positive side, I can use my blog to test out my first story and see if it has any gusto! On with it then!

Self-T r a i n i n g
by: Laura Daegling
5/14/2009

Her eyes squint as she adds more bacon to the pan. It’s a typical Thursday morning and she is up making bacon for God knows who. Heat seeps through open windows and she wonders why she ever moved to New York. She wipes her soft hands on the edges of her tacky brown apron and sets out a cream colored egg timer. She turns the dial for four minutes and notices she has forgotten to put her wedding ring on, again. Mag shifts around and makes her way down the hall into the backroom. She sits on the edge of her bed and gazes across to the night stand where old pictures of her younger self sit unmoving. Edges crack from her cramped mouth and she grins as she remembers that day at that park, with that person, yet her smile faded into a quaint frown. She hadn’t felt the way she had in that picture for years. Her hair covers her back and curls around her shoulders, which always used to upset her as a child because it never seemed to “feel right.” In fact her entire appearance never “felt right” to her.

A buzzer blares throughout the house. Her eyes, screaming green as she opens them, flutter and she rises. As she moves towards the hallway she notices Allen had left his wallet at home again; he is always doing that. Sometimes she thinks it’s just so he has a reason to come home and make sure she is doing what she “should be.” Her pale body moves with soft agility as she glides towards the sound of crackling meat. She flips and adjusts each strip with delicacy so as not to cook each unevenly. Her body folds down and she peers at the meat by eye level, feeling its heat on her face, inhaling the fumes like the old paint cans in high school. She grabs the strips and tosses them onto two paper towels then sets them aside. She then turns around and reaches above the refrigerator for her Corn Flakes cereal, pours herself a healthy bowl and showers it with milk. She places herself near the edge of the table and watches the pumping veins of the city drones walking, talking and racing their way to work, school and wherever else people seemed to be in such a hurry to get to. It was as if everyone in her whole God damn town had somewhere severely crucial to be, except for her. Instead she sits at the edge of her wooden warped table and eats cereal while life passes her by. Just as she is finishing up her final bite, the phone shatters the silence of her quiet kitchen. Mag moseys over towards the phone, she slumps her body on the edge of the counter then reaches outwards towards the receiver.
It was Harper, an old friend. At least that’s how Mag thought of him. Harper spoke softly and mentioned he was in town and it would be nice to catch up over coffee or tea, or whatever Mag would prefer.

“We can even meet at a bar if that’s what you’re into these days.” Harper laughed to himself but not too much, for he didn’t want the offer to appear too nonchalant.

“Well, Harp, I have to take care of some things here… I don’t know if I’ll be able to make it out,” Mag scratched at a spot on her apron of absorbed grease and frowned upon its presence.

“Oh, Maggie, come on. Only one hour, that’s all I ask. You know all you’ve got going on there is making fixings for Allen, things he never ends up eating,” Harper’s voice pushed through the holes in Mag’s phone. She finally cracked and agreed to meet him downtown for some coffee.
Mag pushes her hair up with discreet caution and applied a soft, subtle base of make up to ensure she didn’t look too tired. She throws on a custard-yellow sun dress and leaves. The rushing heat drips down her back as she makes her way to the subway station. A fire hydrant explodes. The tip spews gallons of cold, crushing water up and down the streets. Flocks of children gather and gallivant through the walls of water and Mag wonders how angry Allen will get this time, seeing that she had left. She passes through the checkpoints with ease and finds herself a seat next to a young, whiskered man. Mag’s eyes scan his face from top to bottom, gently stopping to notice her reflection in his eyes. Clearly she had dismissed the modern societal rules of the city because she simply began to stare.

“I’ll shave tonight I promise,” he looked at Mag with a biting smurk.

“What? Oh, I, no… I’m sorry, I have a tendency to stare.” Mag fumbles with her bag and straightens out her dress the way she used to at St. Anne’s School for Girls. Within the man’s laugh Mag feels herself relax, she rests her eyes on the tops of his sleek, jet black glasses and begins to laugh as well.

Mag becomes entranced by the man’s use of vocabulary, something she intimately adores. His words almost pierce her senses, they aren’t loud or heavy, they are soft and quick. She watches his lips collide with one another like the striking of a match. His words lit on fire, reaches her ears and she listens for the first time in years. Her stop was thirty minutes from here and his even further, so she knew they had time to make real conversation, not just small talk about them Yankees or which Original Ray’s Pizza was the actual original. She feels herself plummet into conversation with him, like they were two synchronized divers flipping and twisting in unison. She watches the way his eyes crack like two, tiny, slivered moons luminous and profound. The colors of his eyes spiral around his deep dark pupil, protecting it from invaders; she wanted so badly to inhabit that hole. As they discuss their love for travel and people she watches his eyelashes soar in the air like pointed swords, exclaiming each word he says. She turns her small frame towards him and is empowered with stark delight. She watches the herds of people jolting and jousting through the trains, she notices their urgency. At this moment in time Mag feels no urgency to be anywhere with anyone, but right there on the subway with some stranger talking about the greatest Salmon he ever tasted and what Hawaii is really like. Mag watches him sip his coffee with a slow ease and feels his sense of quiescence wash over her.

“Whatever happened to duck and cover drills,” the man exclaimed after a moment of comfortable silence. Mag erupts with laughter, almost to the point of tears. She couldn’t remember the last time something so non sequitur was said, hell, she couldn’t remember the last time something even slightly delightfully spontaneous had happened in her life.

“Honestly! Hours of drills full of flashing light and dropping for cover,” Mag feels her lungs flourish like two masts on a ship, full of air and life, “We all thought it would be useful one day.” Their conversation never had a dull moment their words intertwined like rope thick and strong.

“Canada is like a nice hat for America.”

“Yes and Mexico is our beard.”

“California is one bad ass sideburn.”

“Yes, and Florida is like the drool hanging from our mouths due to our stupidity…”

By this time the heat was raging and Mag could see beads of sweat releasing themselves from this man’s scalp. They race down his face in an unintentional fashion, tiny rivers that lead to nowhere. She watches the alluring, delicate lines that he could erase with one swift swipe of his hand, yet instead lets them decide their own fate. The man blinks and before Mag knows it she has reached her stop. Mag lifts her things and walks towards the doors, she turns in just enough time to watch his smile fall into silent content.

Mag watches the train move away from her, the wind whipping her hair across her face. She follows the rear of the train with the small pinholes of her eyes until it fades into the tunnel. She wipes her forehead and remembers why she was on the train in the first place, Harper. She slowly emerges from the underground of the city and strolls down the street.
Two men are playing a game of Chess. Mag feels herself slow down to watch the battle unfold. Mag watches as each man contemplates their next moves. A Rook moved towards a Bishop. Almost immediately another Rook takes the Charging Rook from the side. Like clockwork another Rook defeats the refuting Rook.

“Ahhh, a Rook for a Rook, now we are even,” the men laugh and seem content with their seemingly pointless exchange. Mag laughs to herself and lets her smile guide her father along the street. She feels her bag press against her side, begging for attention, she clutches it tight and keeps walking. Her golden-tawny dress flows around her slender pale legs as she makes her way through the city. She walks by street vendors, business executives in power suits, young moms and dads taking their children to museums and parks. She smiles and nods at their existence, wonders how their day had been, and wishes them luck on their journeys.

Mag walks six blocks until she comes to a kitschy little coffee shop complete with modern art and catchy names for their various drinks such as “Iced Soylent Green” and “Wait Until Dark Coffee”. Mag peers through a window and watches the scattered pages of newspapers flipping and folding all while screaming the day’s tragedies. She scans over the groups of people, conversing, relating, living, until she comes to Harper.

His hair is freshly doused in Clairol’s Dark Brown hair dye number 45. His face could have been in an ad for Johnson and Johnson’s baby smooth skin. His tie wraps around his neck like a noose, a cobalt blue, 31st floor type of noose. His hands are cradling The Wall Street Journal which seemed to keep his attention intensely.

Mag turns around and presses her back against the window. She watches the buses and cars pass by, winding and curving down the fingerlings of roads. After a moment of stillness Mag rounds the corner and presses on. She follows the street to the next subway station and jaunts down the stairs, passes through the checkpoints and waits for a train. She smiles to herself as she traces the seams of her dress up and down. A train calmly pulls into the station. She waits before the double doors and feels the wisps of air as they open; she walks inside and finds a seat next to a young woman with vibrant red hair and J.D. Salinger’s Franny and Zooey clutched in her hands.

The train pulls out of the station pushing the hot air onto the sides of the tunnel. The wheels follow the curved path towards the next station ahead and fade out of sight, leaving only echoes of heat and metal behind it.

Patching The Addiction

2008-09-17T22:14:00.000-07:00

Cigarettes, the love affair I have had with cigarettes is similar with smokers everywhere. You love them, you hate them, you invite them over for coffee, then want them to leave after breakfast. Smoking has been a huge part of my life for the past year now. No, I haven't been a smoker for years and years, but my life revolved around them. Every day was cigarettes and coffee. I would head to Starbucks (Due to the lack of real coffee.) and I would read and smoke. Eventually I met an eccentric group of smokers that seemed to do the same. They would congregate everyday and engage in the most ridiculous topics, eventually I began to join them.

I began to appreciate smoking as an art, as opposed to an unhealthy vice. Honestly, it will still take a lot to convince me to quit because of future illnesses, I live in America, if I were concerned about health, I would've moved a long time ago. These so called preachers would tell me about the deteriorating effects on my health, all the while gnawing on their Big Mac. (Or Le Big Mac, thanks Vega.)

It really did make me laugh. As I grew to meet more and more smokers I realized their was a whole world I was unaware of. The Smokers.

Every smoker has that specific brand.

Paul Mall- For serious smokers, who regard it as an occupation

Camels- For those who smoke, but like to think they're not trashy

Virginia Slims- Pretentious hipsters or old white women

Misty- Old ladies who mastered the "smoker's cough"

Marlboro Reds- White girls into hip-hop, or Cowboys

Parliaments- Punks

Winston- Rednecks

Basic- Probably live in a Trailer and regard Budweiser as fancy

Kool- Typically Black

Menthols- Simply confused

Kamel Reds- Understands the concept of taste

Lucky Strike- Males into cars or Con Artists

Obviously, there is some hasty generalizing going on here, but having been a smoker, this is typically what I observe. Obviously there are exceptions, so before you start sending me hate mail make sure you don't fulfill your own stereotype.

Smokers are a minority now and band together. Smoking tables, benches, designated "areas" allow us to exchange our ideas about smoking, why we started, what we enjoy and what fucking sucks about it.

For every smoker there is always that one instant in which you wish you weren't a smoker, whether it is alienation or getting used to constantly hacking.

It's true, it is unhealthy, but every smoker began smoking for a different reason and isn't about to quit because of one universal fact. You can't make us stop, only we can.

I finally got to a point where it was necessary for me to quit. My sense of smell was inhibited, my sense of taste was dulled and I was tired of planning my day around my next cigarette. Above all, I just wanted to see if I could really quit.

Upon my decision I purchased some nicotine gum and patches to start my journey. The first day was the hardest, by nightfall I just ached to that cigarette, I wanted it, I needed it, I just fucking felt like having a smoke. I realized how incredibly advanced I had gotten into talking myself into having "just one" cigarette. I was avid. Finally I got to a point of some sort of control, I began to enjoy the task of talking myself out of wanting another cigarette. It was a new challenge everyday I loved it, I hated it, I needed it, I didn't need it, then I realized how not smoking, was exactly LIKE smoking. Whenever I was smoking I wish I wasn't, when I wasn't I wish I was. It was opposite but so contrary. I found my new nicotine.

I've been wearing the patch now for awhile and it does help, but smoking is 98% psychological. You don't need gum, or a patch, you need a reason. The only smoking "withdrawals" I endured were the oddest dreams I've had in awhile. Which if you know me, I absolutely love.

Essentially I don't smoke, but I will always be a smoker. After all is said and done I just want to increase my chances of being able to hike and play in a parks when I'm 60.

Learning, Interning and Returning.

2008-09-15T21:07:00.000-07:00

I'm back! Clearly I overestimated how much time I would have to update this blog. College has been amazing so far. I have yet to be disappointed. The schedule, the classes and the opportunities have exceeded all expectations.

For my first semester I decided to get rid of some general ed, while still exploring my options. That being said I am taking Speech, Philosophy, U.S. History, Math and Acting. Surprisingly I enjoy every class. Now I know you're thinking, "Okay, everything can't be that amazing!" You're right it can't. Even though I have a very flexible schedule I still have time to miss home. Luckily, that passes as I push myself to take advantage of my new life.

Among my fantastic schedules I also got involved in the local radio station. KCSC is Chico's very own student ran and maintained radio station. Essentially KCSC is fiercely independent, and damn proud. After applying for a slot in as a DJ, I was pleasantly surprised when I actually received one. I am now DJ-KDAL one of the new music DJs at KCSC radio. I get to spin the latest tracks from albums that are fresh from the studio. KCSC has a vast array of various independent artists and bands including; People Under The Stairs, Mirah, The Walkmen, Frightened Rabbit, The High Decibels and thousands of others. Every Saturday from 8-10 a.m. I get to indulge myself in the talented unknowns of music. Anything that broadens my music intake is appreciated.

Aside from applying to be a DJ, I also applied to be on the Music Staff. Stepping into the dark I sent in my 150 word sample review of Frightened Rabbit's-The Midnight Organ Fight. After days of anxiety I finally received the call to show up at the meeting. I couldn't believe what I was actually going to do. Every week KCSC receives new albums from artists who are trying to get some airplay and every week the music staff distributes them and begins to review them. Not only do I get to play some of my favorite artists, but I get to hear and review others. I can't lie, this is the life.

Note: If any of you feel you know an artist or band that should receive some airplay or at least approving nods feel free to Email me at DJKDAL@gmail.com

Radio Show:
DJ-KDAL
"Sheer Ear"//New Music
Saturday Mornings 8-10
Tune in at KCSCRADIO.COM.

Only The Best

2008-08-23T14:06:00.000-07:00

You will never know what a Chico party is really like unless you have been to one. We have all heard the talk, "Dude, no seriously, these parties are like off the hook....fuckin' kegs and music and party girls!" You must be asking yourself, well what's so special about that? There isn't anything special about kegs and girls and music. It's all about the art of parting. Here in Chico partying is an art. Houses with yards, the canvas, booze and people the paintbrush. I never knew one could take partying so seriously, that was before I went to The Tropicana. The Tropicana is one of the leading party spots in Chico. Surprisingly it's not a club, hell, it isn't even a gay club! It's just a house with a yard on Warner. Hundreds of students gather together for important nights filled with dry-humpage and free beer.

At Tropicana they mean buisiness, they work very hard in finding the highest quality beer around (Keystone and Coors). They also interview very prestigious individuals that pratice the art of DJing. After all, how can you drop it like it's hot without Andre Nickatina pushing a hook?! The Tropicana doesn't mess around when it comes to illuminate effects, Tropicana has a very solid group of light technitions, so that the flashing lights will bounce perfectly off of your hard-rock body as you're moving your body to the night. They don't stop there, oh no, only the most talented and professional brewing artists will be serving you at the bar. Equipped with they're exquisite taste for beer and they're dazzling people skills, they'll have you asking yourself, "My God, how could I have ever enjoyed this Pabst Special Export?! Give me a tall glass of Bud! Hell make it light! I'm feeling fancy tonight!" Clearly it's evident, in the world of parties there ain't no party like a Tropicana party 'cause a Tropicana party don't stop.

So why don't you get yourself a fresh pack of Marlboro Reds, put on your "Free Beer!!" shirt, and walk on over to the Tropicana, where they expect party perfection and nothing less.

-K. Dal

A Bit of Preface

2008-08-21T21:10:00.000-07:00

Alone and alive. That's the life I'm living now, on my own and ready to roll. This blog will now hold the accurate chronicles of college life as I know it. Complete with the true-life risks, hard-life studies, free-life kicks and thug-life cuddys. So grab your bike lock and argyle socks, this is going to get interesting.

-K. Dal

(My new radio personality/blogging alias. You'll get over it.)