s xim ile s

Today I walked 6 miles from downtown LA to an area just west of Silverlake, which I do not know the name of. I also took some pictures.
1. Two Boots in Echo Park had really nice patio furniture. I sat at a table of 5, in the center seat, alone with 2 slices of pizza. I'd received one for free. I was really hung over and completely delirious from the desert heat. This was around mile 4.3
2. Echo Park
3. Micro-vision. Isn't that just really pretty?
4. You're not homeless if you start decorating your boxes with fake flowers. You just live Outside.
5. Is that...? He couldn't have combed... and gelled...
6. Yes he did.
7. Boyfriend Cat. I have a picture of him in my wallet. Cat lady status what?!

It's late and I am sleepytime.



Cover Letter #6 Secret Cosmetics

This cover letter actually got me an interview nxt week. Scorezone! I've removed the product names and brand for secrecy. I mean there's even more than one grammatical error in it!

Hiii Angela,

My name is Atiya, and I have a confession to make: I have an addiction...
To ----- Cream Moisturizer.
It feels really good to have gotten that off of my chest. It started a little over a year ago, when my roommate said she'd found something that would work for both of us (she has very dry skin, I'm a combo-oily-in-the-T-zone, myself). When I read your Craig's List ad in search of a new brand ambassador I realized what a match ---- and I make. I have several years of retail experience, selling everything from high-end accessories with LapSack to regular blue jeans with Levi's. Add in administrative and hospitality jobs and you get me, a person who's really seen every type of customer and still ends every exchange with a smile. At this point in my career I am interested in working for a company that examines the mark they make on communities, from their production sources to their retail locations. Companies such as your, TOM'S Shoes, and EDUN come to mind, on my list of admiration. Bring a playlist to work you say?! Are you really my dream come true ----? I support ---- products because they make my skin feel like heaven, without wreaking havoc on the environment and bunnies in the process. I hope that you will consider me for this opportunity, as I greatly look forward to hearing from your team about it! My contact information can be found on my attached resume.

Thank you for taking this time!




cla p c lap cl ap

shows over!
curtain call!
i'm ready to go home now!

the way you in tertwi ne i s be yond measu re.

I left my sketchbook at Kim's house weeks ago. I've really been dying without it, but I have to learn to live without the things I use as crutches right? If I had I would've put this thought about "red, white and binary" a painting about American youth culture and the internet that just popped up in my head, inside of it.

Also, who knew Natalie Imbruglia made decent music? Too bad she was destroyed by the pop machines. Thank you Pandora, for you have been owning my shiz lately.

I'm about to erase myself and be reborn.


In the morning:
.find Wax Tailor.


cracker, after a bath.

angels on my bed.

nights look like this.

a lot of this is lie.

[i forgot that the pictures load in opposite order of their upload. i will not correct these photo captions, they somehow work out just fine.]


semi permanent

people from home keep asking what it's like. It's really difficult. Self-induced insomnia keeps me up awake, dreaming, as they are at home dreaming the real thing.
No one was surprised when I said I was leaving. Makes me wonder if they knew I would run, or if they thought I was in pursuit. Most of the days I've spent immobile on a bed without a goal or personal mission. It's hot outside. Without money, I feel like I have nowhere to go and then it's nightfall all over again and my day is gone. Everyday feels like a semi permanent vacation. I know it's not.
I think to myself a lot. My phone rings, but it's no one I want to talk to. I don't call very many people because not too much is happening. I hate the question, "What's up?"
[blood salty]
I go out on weekends because it makes me feel like my life is normal. That it can be normal here, that it is not the miserable picture I keep painting. I cannot figure out which one is the truth.
I left my bedroom door open because not even the cats are awake to try to creep in. I contemplate what I'm going to watch to coo me to sleep, but I already know: Golden Girls.
The taste of the water here... I can't describe what it is, but what it is not is New York City tap. I'm pleased to know it was marketed as the best tasting tap water in the country. Another thought where I can not separate the fact from fiction, but I am sure of which one I believe.

Most of the time, it's just me and my peach tea. I want to be standing next to you with my arm around your waist and yours over my shoulder, talking shit and laughing. I want to be back in time, 10 minutes late for my flight with more time to think. I want to wake up tomorrow with a purpose.


find your own way back home.

This morning I woke up with spirit that must be the equivalent of arising on the right side of the bed must be. Terry sent me things to work on, so I didn't feel useless. Before I went to sleep last night I listened to both Panic! at the Disco albums and had an embarrassingly good time.

Guess what. I still like pop-rock. Sometimes, I even appreciate the color pink, like the new sparkly pink shoes I got last week. I'm letting all of the secrets loose.

Here's what I listened to, today:

Joe Cocker 20th Century Masters (compilation)
Phoenix Wolfgang Amedeus
Peter Frampton Frampton
The Polyphonic Spree The Fragile Army
Hellogoodbye Zombies! Aliens! Vampires! Dinosaurs!
Head Automatica Decadence
Fall Out Boy From Under the Cork Tree & Take This To Your Grave
The Ataris So Long Astoria
Panic! At The Disco Pretty. Odd.

This song really really makes me want to skip in a poodle skirt in some sort of choreographed musical number.

Panic! at the Disco When the Day Met the Night


Tonight most of my friends will be enjoying the sounds of ManMan for free somewhere in the city (River2River?), whilst I shall create images of ultimate summer fun from the left coast.

P.S. Here are two of the best (summer) songs ever.



i wanna ru n away i wa nt to b r in g you two

Last night / today I was in a music video for LA based band HEALTH. From 6:30 P.M. yesterday evening, until 6:30 this morning I was on an awesome set doing great things like writhing in fake blood with a large group of other people. It ruled. I'm going to be famous (just kidding, I looked like hell the entire time). I can't show you any pictures of the sheer greatness, but here is one of the subtle greatness.

I have bruised and swollen knees from the running and body piling; the dried fake-blood is cracking on my back and continues to drip down my neck from my hair (which was washed in a bucket outside to avoid dripping party blood residue all over the ancient-Chinese artifact furniture store in which we were filming). I also finally chatted up that drummer I am so fond of.

All in all, it was a night well spent. Now I at 7:21 A.M. I am left with a few questions...

After looking at a face mask product on my bathroom counter, labeled with marketing inviting it's user to "Feel [their] Face Pulsate," I wonder- Is that what I want? To feel my face pulsate??

Secondly, if you stay up all night, ...nevermind.

This was just a nice picture:

I guess... I'll sleep or something now.



i li k e wh en t hi s happ ens.

Tonight I went to Natalie Portman's Shaved Head at Spaceland in Silverlake. On my way there, I Silverlake Blvd. split and I wandered in the wrong direction. Because I'm getting better at getting lost, I was able to catch this mistake about 6 blocks in. Around this time James Rubio, unaware that I'd moved to Los Angeles over a month ago called me. If I'd been in NY I'm sure I would've missed the call.

Once inside Spaceland, I began to nervously drink while I waited for NPSH to start. NPSH comes on. Before they play Sideways Pony Tail, I squeal and run up front. I sweat until my clothes are see thru, a girl named Jess (oddly enough) invites me to her house next week because she only wants fun people who are going to dance to come over. She is nice; I forget to take her number. The set ends. I miss Jess (my Jess, not this stranger Jess).

Turns out they were not headlining, but second in command to Andy Clockwise Spaceland's resident band for the month of July. I am sitting on the (my) right-edge of the stage as the begin. The first song bores me, but during the second song Andy begins to release this stage-fury and begins to strut.

I went to this show on the solo. It was during this strutting phase that I became nervous that he would notice me and start pointing at me- as I'd already witnessed him doing to other patrons. As he inches closer I realize it's too late. He's holding my hand. It's pressed into his sweaty chest, with this black button-down shirt serving as some cheap veil between me and his man-mane. He moves my hand higher, to his neck, so I pressed my forehead to his and tried to resist mouthing words to a song I didn't know.

It looked something like this:

*courtesy of a stranger with a Blackberry

When he was done serenading me, he held my hand in the air, briefly, before sassing away. In a strange way, I needed and highly appreciated that moment. Sidenote, their drummer Stella Mozgawa, ex-drummer from my friend Nick's old band, MINK, is a fucking animal on the drums. A-N-I-M-A-L.

In other news, I caught eyes with a tall, salt and peppered (in an early way) beau, who soon after asked my name. I introduced myself before mentioning that I was on my way out (the walk back to the metro was like 6 blocks). The entire time I walked back, I repeatedly paused to turn and look back at the bar. Complain complain about men not approaching you Jones, and then scurry off when they do. An endless battle, this one. Plenty more fish.

Band Myspaces:
Natalie Portman's Shaved Head
Andy Clockwise



one of these things reminds me of another

I wrote this a few years ago for a speech class, I started crying about halfway through... As I'm watching MJ's service, I'm crying for a lot of reasons, most of which are not on the t.v. screen. I think about my sisters, and how we all have to die. I think about everyone I know and how we all have to die. How some of us will out live the others and have to make these speeches for our friends and families. I am thinking about how ugly people can be in life, and in death become so beautiful yet again. That's what happened for me when my grandmother died.

Atiya Jones
Public Speaking
Speech #1
January 29, 2007
“In Loving (Regained) Memory”

I did not cry the day my grandmother died. That wouldn’t come until later.

Who she was by the time my mother announced the news to me was not the women I knew as a child- The woman who picked me up from the school bus, took me to play illegal “numbers” (because I was good luck, or so she thought) and cooked massive meals on and off the holidays. I missed her, and to me she had died years ago.

The woman we were cremating would arrive at my house at ungodly hours to ask my mother for money. She made my mother upset whenever she showed up. The air was thick with anxiety whenever our doorbell rang. I would often ask my mother why she didn’t just write Amma off; she only caused us pain and sadness. She had transformed her life into something no one ever wanted to talk about with me. She was a mystery that I was too young to understand how to solve.

My family had always sheltered me from the various bouts of information they received about her through locals, or sometimes phone calls from the police. I referred to the photographs that hung on my walls to piece together how she became Amma –this is what we called her. She was alleged to have once owned six restaurants. When her birthday came, she threw a party at each one –wearing lavish evening gowns for the occasions and only serving top of line meals to top of the line people.

In the 70s, much like a lot of people at the time, I hear she began using cocaine.
She knew “loan-sharks,” she dated drug dealers and lived a fast life. She lived this fast life until the day she died. When she slept, she looked as though she were awake. Her head propped up on folded hands and her eyes slightly ajar. Amma never missed a beat.
Over the years, she faded away. She moved out of our house, housing a variety of our estranged family members wherever she went. Thanksgiving dinners faded, Christmas dinners faded and drug use increased.

But this is not about the tragedy that her life became. Actually, this is about her funeral.
It was sunny that day. I can’t remember the exact date; I guess I, subconsciously, chose not to make a note of it. The funeral home was beautiful. When I entered the room, I’m not sure what I was expecting to see. I knew there would be no body, but I was still nervous. I wondered who would come, which of her friends were still alive, and which of my terrible, disconnected family members would show face.

I was relaxed as people came and went. When it came time to “say a few words,” there may have been 10 people in the room. My uncle couldn’t make it, one of my sisters just didn’t want to come; my aunt and cousin never showed up. And so much for her friends; always knowing where to find her when they were down and out, but they didn’t get the news when she passed?

The few people that spoke in her honor chose not to dwell on the latter parts of her life. They recollected times of need when Ruthie came through for them, sheltered, fed them, and made her home their own. For the first time in years, I remembered when I knew my grandmother- Days when I returned from school to lay her money out on the floor and count it, take trips with her to the fish market, watching Matlock, and admiring a woman who helped so many people, but could never help herself.

What she left behind wasn’t much. There was no money, cars, houses, or any of the luxuries people sometimes inherit during times like these. There was one plus- I haven’t seen troubled relatives in years; most of that stress passed on when she did. Now, when I look back to the time we spent in that funeral parlor, I see the people who cared about her most. In the front row sat my mother, two of my three sisters and myself –all mourning a great woman, whom we forgot we had known. When I stood up to say something in her memory, even I was shocked. I couldn’t find many words in between my tear-soaked stutters, but I found as many as I needed to thank everyone for coming and for reminding me of my Amma. She had left each of us with a story to tell and the strength to tell it. She was a true heroine, and at some point, I had loved her.

I suppose I was raised with a very unconventional grandmother by my side- She did teach me a few things though: Pepsi over Coca-Cola, orange juice is the secret ingredient in carrot salad, the Bacardi-Bat means a good rum, and some people actually love Newport cigarettes.


hair in my soup.

this is the view from my room windows. click on it and it will get bigger.

In addition to working diligently on this new pretty layout, I also went through way too many of my old live journal entries, which for your comical pleasures, are here and here. Serving up the results of low-self esteem and the woes on college on a savory platter of girly.

This dig into the depths of LJ also reminded me that I used to work at Hot Topic. and that I had a monroe. and that I used to go to underwear parties.

I'll leave you all with an excerpt from 11.15.2004. I was listening to Matchbox 20 "Unwell" at the time.

over partied and passing out.
i move to undress and as i inch
down my jeans my tender muscles
remind me of last night.
the scent of cigarettes stains
my clothing and i think of
my slow daily suicide.
i turn to look at my spine,
my finger tips surprise my skin
as the mirror exposes my
ruby red waistline.
someone had a strong hold on me
during a slow dance.
but i don't know his name
and he probably didn't bother
learning mine.
the shadows in the room fade
another sad song on a slow
saturday night and i am left
singled out on a crowded dance floor
alone in a crowded room..

i think i have a drinking problem.

just now.

When you said, "I'm going to go use the restroom," clearly, in your sleep... but failed to get up, I got nervous.

it means "Famous Warrior" in a latinoculture.

the new header is a collage of my room. i'm going to make more of them. also, someone make it center please, or at least justify left? i've grown apart from html. below is some character development for a lassie named Xiomara.


Lying in the sun, she briefly, remembered a bit of a childhood. Maybe her own, or possibly a scene she’d only witnessed, or one that she’d fathomed… Time had blurred the line between the three. The smallest child in the family was failing to keep up with everyone, as they made their ascent to the shoreline. Her mother, in these moments was just as beautiful as the sunset itself. The woman stopped to look back at her daughter. Xiomara saw her hair gently blow across her face and noticed that it could not hide her smiling visage. She was off in the distance, by just a few paces, and she held her hand in the air. Xio jumped to meet her mother’s air high-five, attempted to catch up, but sank into the softness of the sand beneath her feet.



"I should've had another one after you. It's like you're more than one person sometimes, like you're too much for yourself. You want to zip yourself open and just walk away."

- My mom, in reference to me. She knows me like no one else.

I called her today to get some motherly advice on my latest dilemma.

In my life, it seems as though when one door opens, another one creeks ajar, just parallel to it. I am in the middle of a very tedious application process for a suit position with a financial institution. They have required that I fill out a in depth background check form- listing all of my employers of the last 5 years... I had five jobs just last year. This is what I'm working with her people. This position will have many many benefits, both financially... I guess financially. Oh and I'll have health insurance.

A past-supervisor moved to LA a few years ago and has since written a book. She is looking for an intern to help her with the marketing of her literary baby. When she asked if I knew anyone interested in the position, I knew that she was being coy. Unlike the other job, this one would pay me nothing but give me lots and lots of experience in the field of my actual interest.


Here's what I am going to do: I am going to complete this application process. I do actually hope that I get this job. I will use all of my Daddy Fatstacks cash to buy canvases, paint, film and an external hard drive. I will make the art that is burning holes- the size of the dots seen on the back of your eyelids from staring at the sun too long- into my brain (which in scale to your brain are rather large). I am going to tell Writer that I can offer her my weekends, and see what she says. We work very well together, and marketing this book will be really exciting and fun and fresh feeling.

I want both of these things. I want to walk into both doors. It makes me imagine buildings in Brooklyn with two front doors, both of which you need to be buzzed into. Some of them are spaced so that you can easily make it through, or even hold them open simultaneously. Others require the stretch of a gymnast. You're holding the front door with an outstretched right leg, straining your calf in a way not unlike the first time you did yoga in 2000. Your left hand is inches away from the hinges, and secretly you fear for your fingertips- as you smile for the woman with the stroller that you're straining for in the first place.

I hope it doesn't end like that.

"You went there to find yourself. Not to work in a bank."

I'm not so sure about that. It might take working in a bank, to find myself. Considering I don't know where I got lost in the first place.



oh no. oh no. oh no.

On the upside:

Alaina and I had "Tea Lunch" at American Girl Place Cafe yesterday. I'll putting the photos from that up shortly. They lend dolls to the unfortunate girls who don't have their own, and give you these little seats that allow the dolls to sit at the table with you.

It looks something like this:

Except by comparison to its usual patrons, Alaina and I are pushing 45.