Friday, May 06, 2011
Tuesday, March 01, 2011
Lullaby
In a horribly sarcastic sense
There is a lull in my thinking
It steals over me silently in my sleep
Blooming over the veins of my face
That stand out in their Y-shape on my forehead
And draw attention to imperfection
Just the way they should
This lull is perverse because I have wanted it so
I have begged and pleaded for any refuge
From a barrage of thoughts and feelings
My insides have turned themselves outside
In a vague sense of righteousness
And a clear sense of wrong-eousness
Yet when it finally arrives, this lull I have waited for
It is simply a numbness that begins with my toes
As they sink into the ice that is packed so tightly
And spreads upwards until it bursts into song
And a dance that bleeds itself through my hands and feet
Until the carpet is red and I am white
A lullaby to my body and a lullaby to my mind
Meh, I don't know how I feel about this. It was just...there in the midst of confusion and then it was here on this blog...
Sunday, February 13, 2011
Oh, My Life.
After weeks of vague bliss there is a lull in the conversation and an uneasy silence follows while we try to figure out where to go from here.
As human beings we depend on other human beings to leech our emotions from—we can’t feel things on our own, everything comes from those around us. Why do we do this to ourselves? Why does being around a depressed person make you feel depressed? Why do we grab onto optimistic people like they are our last lifelines to happiness? Because it’s better than not feeling anything at all—better than feeling an unknown, unidentifiable ache somewhere in your body that you wish you could stopper and put into a jar and analyze.
Analysis of ache: somewhere just above my ribs and just below my breast, there is a dull throbbing that is not quite pain—it feels more like a constant restlessness, a need to do something, but without the knowledge of what I need to do, the ache will not end. Additionally, my ankle actually does feel pain, probably because I must have rolled it over the course of the last few days, sometime when I was tripping around in heels, and maybe this pain isn’t related, but it makes me limp slightly and is a constant reminder of the melodramatic opera that has taken over the last 48 waking hours.
There’s something about happiness that makes me, and probably others, uneasy. It is like we are waiting for the wheel to continue turning and we know that we are at the top now, but we’ll be at the bottom very soon. So we force ourselves to the bottom, thinking that self-inflicted anguish will probably be better than what the universe can dream up for us. And sometimes we force others to the bottom with us, and this is much worse. I have been forced to the bottom by another person, and it is, to say the least, an experience.
Somewhere in the midst of wondering whether all of this is my fault or if I should never have let my happiness depend on someone else in the first place, I hear everyone around me telling me that I am better off without him, and that nothing is my fault, but none of it seems to register. It may not be my fault, but it is most definitely my pain, and am I a horrible person for wanting him to feel more pain than me? All of those beautiful stories about romance and love (not that this was anything close to love, I’m no fool) involve somebody being hurt, and still wishing happiness and joy towards the person that hurt them because they are in love. How can this be? What an inhuman feeling—all I want is for the person that hurt me to feel far more pain than I feel.
It is a circling darkness, and there is a flash of movement out of the corner of my eye, and I am dancing in a red dress and he is looking at me.
I want this.
I want him to look at me, to know what he is missing, and yet I feel like an unattractive, ugly soul.
It is a circling darkness and I am dancing in a red dress and I am yelling at him, things that he doesn't want to hear because he thought this was going to be a clean break, he thought I wasn’t the kind of person to create unnecessary drama. I wasn’t that kind of person, but I am tripping over my heels and dancing in a red dress and his head and my head will be throbbing with a hangover tomorrow and the drama is here.
It is a circling darkness and I am dancing in a red dress and he is not looking at me.
I don’t want this.
He is leaving with someone else and rage is building within me but it comes out as sadness. I can’t be here but I am not leaving. Then I am pulled upwards and an arm is wrapped around my waist and it is not his arm, but that seems okay. If this was a movie this would be the artistic club scene in which the camera moves quickly and jerkily and creates a dizzying confusion for the audience because that’s what it would feel like if you were there.
It is a circling darkness and I am not dancing in a red dress, I am stumbling outside and there is an arm around me and I feel a vague sense of comfort, but it is gone in the same flash that it came with. This is where the ache begins.
I hear the voice next to me saying that he made a mistake, that he still likes me, and in a haze I believe it because it is what I need to hear, and it is easy to pretend that the voice is him, even though the arm is not his.
It is a circling darkness and I am sprawled across my bed in a red dress, my arms tangled underneath me and I am in deep sleep. I am dreaming in flashes of confusion, and I am dreaming about ways that the night could have gone so that when I wake up I can’t remember any more what really happened and what was in my dream.
When I crawl out of bed I recognize the ache and this has never happened to me before. I can feel my face being a mask that is ready to crumble at any instant and everything around me is making me think about what has happened and I see myself in the mirror and I know what I was the night before. I wasn’t a girl dancing in a red dress, I was a train wreck in red dress who thought she could handle this but she can’t.
It is the longest day that I have ever known.
This morning I woke up and saw the sun filtering through my blinds and the ache lessened.
One step at a time.
In the shower I touched my face and felt the layers of tears I had not bothered to wash and makeup that had covered it and as I picked up the soap I had this thought.
I’m better than this.
As human beings we depend on other human beings to leech our emotions from—we can’t feel things on our own, everything comes from those around us. Why do we do this to ourselves? Why does being around a depressed person make you feel depressed? Why do we grab onto optimistic people like they are our last lifelines to happiness? Because it’s better than not feeling anything at all—better than feeling an unknown, unidentifiable ache somewhere in your body that you wish you could stopper and put into a jar and analyze.
Analysis of ache: somewhere just above my ribs and just below my breast, there is a dull throbbing that is not quite pain—it feels more like a constant restlessness, a need to do something, but without the knowledge of what I need to do, the ache will not end. Additionally, my ankle actually does feel pain, probably because I must have rolled it over the course of the last few days, sometime when I was tripping around in heels, and maybe this pain isn’t related, but it makes me limp slightly and is a constant reminder of the melodramatic opera that has taken over the last 48 waking hours.
There’s something about happiness that makes me, and probably others, uneasy. It is like we are waiting for the wheel to continue turning and we know that we are at the top now, but we’ll be at the bottom very soon. So we force ourselves to the bottom, thinking that self-inflicted anguish will probably be better than what the universe can dream up for us. And sometimes we force others to the bottom with us, and this is much worse. I have been forced to the bottom by another person, and it is, to say the least, an experience.
Somewhere in the midst of wondering whether all of this is my fault or if I should never have let my happiness depend on someone else in the first place, I hear everyone around me telling me that I am better off without him, and that nothing is my fault, but none of it seems to register. It may not be my fault, but it is most definitely my pain, and am I a horrible person for wanting him to feel more pain than me? All of those beautiful stories about romance and love (not that this was anything close to love, I’m no fool) involve somebody being hurt, and still wishing happiness and joy towards the person that hurt them because they are in love. How can this be? What an inhuman feeling—all I want is for the person that hurt me to feel far more pain than I feel.
It is a circling darkness, and there is a flash of movement out of the corner of my eye, and I am dancing in a red dress and he is looking at me.
I want this.
I want him to look at me, to know what he is missing, and yet I feel like an unattractive, ugly soul.
It is a circling darkness and I am dancing in a red dress and I am yelling at him, things that he doesn't want to hear because he thought this was going to be a clean break, he thought I wasn’t the kind of person to create unnecessary drama. I wasn’t that kind of person, but I am tripping over my heels and dancing in a red dress and his head and my head will be throbbing with a hangover tomorrow and the drama is here.
It is a circling darkness and I am dancing in a red dress and he is not looking at me.
I don’t want this.
He is leaving with someone else and rage is building within me but it comes out as sadness. I can’t be here but I am not leaving. Then I am pulled upwards and an arm is wrapped around my waist and it is not his arm, but that seems okay. If this was a movie this would be the artistic club scene in which the camera moves quickly and jerkily and creates a dizzying confusion for the audience because that’s what it would feel like if you were there.
It is a circling darkness and I am not dancing in a red dress, I am stumbling outside and there is an arm around me and I feel a vague sense of comfort, but it is gone in the same flash that it came with. This is where the ache begins.
I hear the voice next to me saying that he made a mistake, that he still likes me, and in a haze I believe it because it is what I need to hear, and it is easy to pretend that the voice is him, even though the arm is not his.
It is a circling darkness and I am sprawled across my bed in a red dress, my arms tangled underneath me and I am in deep sleep. I am dreaming in flashes of confusion, and I am dreaming about ways that the night could have gone so that when I wake up I can’t remember any more what really happened and what was in my dream.
When I crawl out of bed I recognize the ache and this has never happened to me before. I can feel my face being a mask that is ready to crumble at any instant and everything around me is making me think about what has happened and I see myself in the mirror and I know what I was the night before. I wasn’t a girl dancing in a red dress, I was a train wreck in red dress who thought she could handle this but she can’t.
It is the longest day that I have ever known.
This morning I woke up and saw the sun filtering through my blinds and the ache lessened.
One step at a time.
In the shower I touched my face and felt the layers of tears I had not bothered to wash and makeup that had covered it and as I picked up the soap I had this thought.
I’m better than this.
Sunday, November 14, 2010
WARNING: This post is excessively Indian
So...I was on TV guys. Exciting, right? (Please tell me somebody is reading this)
Should you want to watch 30--or 27, to be exact--minutes of me singing, a link to the video is posted below. Before you watch it, though, there are some things about the style of music that you should know.
1) This style of music is called Hindustani, and is originally from the northern regions of India, although pretty much everyone sings it now. Original South Indian music is called Carnatic.
2) Almost everything in the video you are about to see is improvisational. That is correct, other than the words, I am making everything up on the spot. Of course, there are guidelines for what you can make up, and these guidelines for what notes you can use and when you can use them are called "Ragas". Think of it like the Indian classical version of jazz. Additionally, everything has to be in the correct cycle of beats, provided by the instrument that the boy in the video is playing, called a tabla.
3) The first part of the video is called an Alaap. This is essentially the vocal warmup where I show the audience what Raag I am singing by just basically experimenting with the notes a bit. The next section is a "Bhada Khayal", which is a very slow piece. These are more difficult, because you have much more space to fill with your improvisations, but it is also harder to understand if you do not know anything about Indian music. It will basically be like, why is she singing so slowly? The third part is a "Chota Khayal", which is a shorter, much faster piece in which I do some shorter improvisations. This will be probably be much more impressive to the viewer because it will sound fast and you will be like, wow, did she just make that up? The answer is yes, yes I did. The last piece is a "Bhajan", which is just a short devotional song that is entirely not improvised, and is in a different Raga than the rest of the performance.
4) If you do not want to watch 30 minutes of me singing, but still want to be a good friend to me, I recommend skipping towards the end, when I do the faster, more impressive improvisational stuff called "Taans", and also a Bhajan that is pretty. If you, for some reason, want to know even more about Indian music, talk to me at another time.
5) If you are wondering why I did not tell anyone/force anyone to set their TiVos for when I was going to be on TV, it is because this only aired in Northern California, so I am not a TV star or anything.
Without further ado, here you go:
http://www.swaralahari.org/site/playvideo.php?concertid=150
For a time breakdown of what I do in this video so you can watch selected parts of it:
Bhada Khayal is till about 17 minutes in.
Chota Khayal is till about 24 minutes in.
Bhajan (PRETTY SONG THAT YOU SHOULD LISTEN TO) starts at about 24:30, and goes till the end.
Hope you enjoy it...
Should you want to watch 30--or 27, to be exact--minutes of me singing, a link to the video is posted below. Before you watch it, though, there are some things about the style of music that you should know.
1) This style of music is called Hindustani, and is originally from the northern regions of India, although pretty much everyone sings it now. Original South Indian music is called Carnatic.
2) Almost everything in the video you are about to see is improvisational. That is correct, other than the words, I am making everything up on the spot. Of course, there are guidelines for what you can make up, and these guidelines for what notes you can use and when you can use them are called "Ragas". Think of it like the Indian classical version of jazz. Additionally, everything has to be in the correct cycle of beats, provided by the instrument that the boy in the video is playing, called a tabla.
3) The first part of the video is called an Alaap. This is essentially the vocal warmup where I show the audience what Raag I am singing by just basically experimenting with the notes a bit. The next section is a "Bhada Khayal", which is a very slow piece. These are more difficult, because you have much more space to fill with your improvisations, but it is also harder to understand if you do not know anything about Indian music. It will basically be like, why is she singing so slowly? The third part is a "Chota Khayal", which is a shorter, much faster piece in which I do some shorter improvisations. This will be probably be much more impressive to the viewer because it will sound fast and you will be like, wow, did she just make that up? The answer is yes, yes I did. The last piece is a "Bhajan", which is just a short devotional song that is entirely not improvised, and is in a different Raga than the rest of the performance.
4) If you do not want to watch 30 minutes of me singing, but still want to be a good friend to me, I recommend skipping towards the end, when I do the faster, more impressive improvisational stuff called "Taans", and also a Bhajan that is pretty. If you, for some reason, want to know even more about Indian music, talk to me at another time.
5) If you are wondering why I did not tell anyone/force anyone to set their TiVos for when I was going to be on TV, it is because this only aired in Northern California, so I am not a TV star or anything.
Without further ado, here you go:
http://www.swaralahari.org/site/playvideo.php?concertid=150
For a time breakdown of what I do in this video so you can watch selected parts of it:
Bhada Khayal is till about 17 minutes in.
Chota Khayal is till about 24 minutes in.
Bhajan (PRETTY SONG THAT YOU SHOULD LISTEN TO) starts at about 24:30, and goes till the end.
Hope you enjoy it...
Friday, October 01, 2010
Allegory
Some days are meant to be sat down and spoken to like children
In the dark, I will pretend that this day is one of those
Clear the fiction and fact and fiction from every hotel room
That was ever privy to any secrets that hotel rooms maintain
Be alive until the day of your death and on that day you will be
Deadly in your rotting heart and alive in your growing nails
Cry only when you have been given explicit permission
To allow the display of your excess emotion
Take a picture of every creation that you meet in your life
Except for those that you yourself have created
And then you can ask yourself
Is that how you speak to children?
In the dark, I will pretend that this day is one of those
Clear the fiction and fact and fiction from every hotel room
That was ever privy to any secrets that hotel rooms maintain
Be alive until the day of your death and on that day you will be
Deadly in your rotting heart and alive in your growing nails
Cry only when you have been given explicit permission
To allow the display of your excess emotion
Take a picture of every creation that you meet in your life
Except for those that you yourself have created
And then you can ask yourself
Is that how you speak to children?
Wednesday, September 01, 2010
Adventures in Pretentious Behaviour
Recently I have been having some adventures in pretentiousness, and they are somewhat amusing as well as quite disgusting. I think the pretension level of the general population has risen in the past few years, probably because people found out that if nobody could understand what they were saying, they would be forced to think it was awesome in order to blend in. This has resulted in an explosion of the incorrect usage of words--on a sidenote, which is more pretentious, to use a sophisticated word, or to correct someone on the misuse of a sophisticated word?
Now being in college, I see more and more pretension in the forms of philosophy majors, non-philosophy majors who are taking one philosophy class, people desperate to find friends and think that being smart is a good way to go about that, etc. Note that in the title of this post I spelled behavior in the British way. This was on purpose, to prove some point that I have yet to think of.
Let me give you a glimpse into a recent day I had that will make you throw up in your mouth a little bit.
I am in the cafeteria, and I have just picked up my food. Nobody knows anyone yet, and I need somewhere to sit. Seeing somebody wearing an Arcade Fire shirt, I think "Well, at least there's a built-in topic of conversation", and I sit down next to said person and the group of people he was with. Ridiculousness follows:
ME: Hi, can I sit here?
BOY IN SHIRT: Sure, I guess.
ME: (silence as I listen to the conversation at the table)
BOY IN SHIRT: So, what about (insert old school video game here)? That was a great game...
GIRL WITH BLUE HAIR: Yeah, but (insert other video game) was so much better. Racing games don't get much better than that.
BOY IN SHIRT: Okay, so what if there was a racing game in which you were the steering wheel instead of the person behind it? And like, the controls just randomly changed?
BOY WITH GLASSES: Yeah, except you were in a dark box and you couldn't see anything and you couldn't get out...
ME: (thinking) What??
BOY IN SHIRT: It would be like, a metaphor for life...
ME: (very quietly) I think I just threw up in my mouth.
This conversation continues for some time in this manner. I am becoming desperate to change the subject or leave. In what was a huge mistake and something I hate myself for, I turned to music
ME: (turning to boy in shirt) So...did you know Arcade Fire is coming across the street from here next month?
BOY IN SHIRT: Yeah, I like Arcade Fire, but not as much as some other bands...I mean, they've totally sold out now.
ME: Um...okay. (wishing I had never brought up the subject)
BOY IN SHIRT: So what kind of music do you like?
ME: Um...I don't really know what it's called.
BOY IN SHIRT: What's your favorite band?
ME: Have you heard of Wolf Parade?
BOY IN SHIRT: Yeah, of course...(condescendingly) that's your favorite?
ME: No, actually there's this other band called Sunset Rubdown that's like...
BOY IN SHIRT: I haven't heard of that band.
ME: Okay...well...
BOY IN SHIRT: I guess I'd say the type of music you like is neo-psychedelic art rock...
At this point, I nodded, pretended to be done with my food, and left.
END SCENE
And here ends the story of how I re-learned two lessons that I had already known:
1) Never talk about music with people, especially if you don't know them.
2) Never, EVER say that you like neo-psychedelic art rock.
Now being in college, I see more and more pretension in the forms of philosophy majors, non-philosophy majors who are taking one philosophy class, people desperate to find friends and think that being smart is a good way to go about that, etc. Note that in the title of this post I spelled behavior in the British way. This was on purpose, to prove some point that I have yet to think of.
Let me give you a glimpse into a recent day I had that will make you throw up in your mouth a little bit.
I am in the cafeteria, and I have just picked up my food. Nobody knows anyone yet, and I need somewhere to sit. Seeing somebody wearing an Arcade Fire shirt, I think "Well, at least there's a built-in topic of conversation", and I sit down next to said person and the group of people he was with. Ridiculousness follows:
ME: Hi, can I sit here?
BOY IN SHIRT: Sure, I guess.
ME: (silence as I listen to the conversation at the table)
BOY IN SHIRT: So, what about (insert old school video game here)? That was a great game...
GIRL WITH BLUE HAIR: Yeah, but (insert other video game) was so much better. Racing games don't get much better than that.
BOY IN SHIRT: Okay, so what if there was a racing game in which you were the steering wheel instead of the person behind it? And like, the controls just randomly changed?
BOY WITH GLASSES: Yeah, except you were in a dark box and you couldn't see anything and you couldn't get out...
ME: (thinking) What??
BOY IN SHIRT: It would be like, a metaphor for life...
ME: (very quietly) I think I just threw up in my mouth.
This conversation continues for some time in this manner. I am becoming desperate to change the subject or leave. In what was a huge mistake and something I hate myself for, I turned to music
ME: (turning to boy in shirt) So...did you know Arcade Fire is coming across the street from here next month?
BOY IN SHIRT: Yeah, I like Arcade Fire, but not as much as some other bands...I mean, they've totally sold out now.
ME: Um...okay. (wishing I had never brought up the subject)
BOY IN SHIRT: So what kind of music do you like?
ME: Um...I don't really know what it's called.
BOY IN SHIRT: What's your favorite band?
ME: Have you heard of Wolf Parade?
BOY IN SHIRT: Yeah, of course...(condescendingly) that's your favorite?
ME: No, actually there's this other band called Sunset Rubdown that's like...
BOY IN SHIRT: I haven't heard of that band.
ME: Okay...well...
BOY IN SHIRT: I guess I'd say the type of music you like is neo-psychedelic art rock...
At this point, I nodded, pretended to be done with my food, and left.
END SCENE
And here ends the story of how I re-learned two lessons that I had already known:
1) Never talk about music with people, especially if you don't know them.
2) Never, EVER say that you like neo-psychedelic art rock.
Friday, August 20, 2010
New Things
Shall I give myself a fake name? Anyone who is anyone seems to have a fake name (this is a lie). While I'm feeling all philosophical and shit, I thought I'd post, and as soon as I had that thought, the philosophical shit feeling went away.
I'm moved into college, ready to start in on four years of torturous fun that is named "school" but everyone knows that's code for "parties". Did you know I hate exclamation points? Probably, since every time I write something like "Fun!" it comes out like "Fun."
Which is not really fun. And makes me sound sarcastic, even when I'm not being sarcastic. Despite this fact, I do sometimes get excited about things, and when I am excited (such as this moment when I am suddenly under the reign of no person other than myself and probably everyone who has any expectations of me whooops) I am very bad at showing my excitement. What usually happens is I don't do anything at all, or I fall down because I tripped on my foot and am acting really awkward. As you can see, I am well on my way to becoming socially aware and adept at making friends. Ha.
In other news, now that I am in college, I am free to begin my seductions of multiple men that are bound to fail because I have no skill in seduction, but the point is that I can at least try!
I pretty much felt obligated to write this post because this marks a very important change in my life that I have yet to feel any particular way about.
Additionally: Since I am desperate for comments, anyone who was on the mailing list before is still on the mailing list at their other email addresses. You couldn't escape that easily...
I'm moved into college, ready to start in on four years of torturous fun that is named "school" but everyone knows that's code for "parties". Did you know I hate exclamation points? Probably, since every time I write something like "Fun!" it comes out like "Fun."
Which is not really fun. And makes me sound sarcastic, even when I'm not being sarcastic. Despite this fact, I do sometimes get excited about things, and when I am excited (such as this moment when I am suddenly under the reign of no person other than myself and probably everyone who has any expectations of me whooops) I am very bad at showing my excitement. What usually happens is I don't do anything at all, or I fall down because I tripped on my foot and am acting really awkward. As you can see, I am well on my way to becoming socially aware and adept at making friends. Ha.
In other news, now that I am in college, I am free to begin my seductions of multiple men that are bound to fail because I have no skill in seduction, but the point is that I can at least try!
I pretty much felt obligated to write this post because this marks a very important change in my life that I have yet to feel any particular way about.
Additionally: Since I am desperate for comments, anyone who was on the mailing list before is still on the mailing list at their other email addresses. You couldn't escape that easily...
Friday, July 09, 2010
Writing? What's that? SORRY.
Even though it's been like, two months or more since I wrote this, here is the second story I wrote in fiction writing.
A Change of Dress
Although she had never seen the ocean, Emily knew that it would be violent and beautiful and very possibly the most awe-inspiring thing she had ever seen. If she was honest with herself, she hadn’t really seen much of anything—the mountains, the countryside, or any true city—only the small town she had grown up in and what lay on the skirts of that town, but she had never slipped off the dress entirely.
When her mother had suggested that they drive to the ocean, Emily had felt an irresistible tug towards the unknown, and she had run upstairs to pack her bags with a swimsuit and—what else? She didn’t know anything about the ocean or the beach, she didn’t know what she would need there. She glanced around her room, but there was nothing that particularly called out to her as belonging on the beach or to the water. She realized that she did not have any idea where the ocean even was in relation to her town—how far they were, how long it might take to get there, whether or not she should bring a book for the car ride.
Deciding to take only a notebook and a pencil, as well as her swimsuit and a towel, Emily raced back down the stairs.
“Emily, dear, are you ready? How do you feel?” Her mother was still standing at the kitchen counter, slowly dicing vegetables, and Emily had a sudden wish for her to be like the professional chefs on the Food Network, if only so that she could dice through the vegetables with lightning speed and get into the car.
“Yeah, so are we going?” Emily noted that her voice sounded like the impatient whine of a much younger person, and so she counted to nine, her favorite number, and took three deep breaths, three being the square root of nine. After all, square roots were so rare, and Emily took every opportunity to use them as they should be used and appreciated by all people.
“I thought we could leave after lunch.”
“I thought we could leave now.”
“Emily, patience. We’ll only get hungry half way through.” Her mother was reasonable, and Emily was passionate. She could feel the claustrophobia of sixteen years in the same place building up from her stomach into the spot in her chest that was just below her throat and made her want to gag. She was surprised at herself for having such a violent reaction. It wasn’t as if she had never been for a drive before, but this idea of seeing the ocean had taken hold of her, and she was determined to go today, or to go never.
The phone rang. Emily’s mother spoke to somebody in rushed tones, and then hung up almost immediately.
“Emily, the doct—the man from the beach just called. They’re ready for you now.”
After eating lunch—her mother had made stew, and every spoon felt difficult to swallow, the bowl never-ending—Emily and her mother finally got into the car.
* * *
When Emily reached the beach, it was the peak of the afternoon, when the day had reached its hottest and the sun had begun to retract the intensity of its rays. There was a general mass of people spread out evenly over the sand. Emily found it disturbing that no individual face registered to her, there was only a low murmur of sound that settled over the entire beach, and the streaks of beach balls that caught her eye like shooting stars, in perfect little circles with areas of pi-r-squared that completed a pretty picture.
There were many fish encased in water, and she could almost reach out and touch them but for some kind of barrier. Her mother sat down in a chair, and began to read a magazine. Emily stared at the seashells arranged decoratively on the blue walls, and thought to herself that she had never seen anything but clouds in the sky before. The beach was an entirely different world, the alien feeling of the carpet under her feet when she pulled off her shoes. Was this what sand felt like?
“Emily, dear, please put your shoes back on. This isn’t our house anymore.” Emily wanted to cry; she liked wiggling her toes around the plush of the sand, but she pulled the sandals back around her feet and sat down on the floor. She looked back up at the fish, and began tapping on the barrier between her and the fish. A man emerged from what seemed to be the depths of—the ocean? Probably. He called out her name, and she stood up suddenly, giving her a dizzy feeling, as if she had been hit by a wave.
Emily braced herself and looked back at her mother, who stood up and held her hand, guiding her towards the dark doorway. They walked into the ocean together, like Emily had not thought possible. In another room, she was still somehow breathing, sitting in a chair across from this man. He gazed at her and she wondered if he was a mermaid, but his legs seemed firmly attached to his body. She moved her arms experimentally, attempting to swim, but the man gently took her hands and lowered them.
“Emily, how are you feeling today?” She wondered why everyone kept asking her that.
“Good.”
“Do you know where you are right now?”
“The beach.” He looked at her sympathetically, but said nothing. Then he began to speak in low murmurs to her mother. She could not distinguish what was being said. She looked around the walls, which were painted blue. She suddenly felt overwhelmed; the ground beneath her feet pulled away from her, and she slipped into the water, choking and grasping at the carpet that slid between her fingers.
Moments later she found herself back on the chair, her mother’s hand back in hers. She was coughing and gasping and she didn’t feel anything anymore, as if she were truly in the water, but she felt another rush, this time of understanding. She was not at the beach, she was only in yet another office of yet another doctor who would talk to her as if she was an infant. She wanted to scream that there was nothing wrong with her, but her mother’s face looked disappointed and Emily bit her tongue and her hopes along with it, and let go of the string attaching her to the beach.
A Change of Dress
Although she had never seen the ocean, Emily knew that it would be violent and beautiful and very possibly the most awe-inspiring thing she had ever seen. If she was honest with herself, she hadn’t really seen much of anything—the mountains, the countryside, or any true city—only the small town she had grown up in and what lay on the skirts of that town, but she had never slipped off the dress entirely.
When her mother had suggested that they drive to the ocean, Emily had felt an irresistible tug towards the unknown, and she had run upstairs to pack her bags with a swimsuit and—what else? She didn’t know anything about the ocean or the beach, she didn’t know what she would need there. She glanced around her room, but there was nothing that particularly called out to her as belonging on the beach or to the water. She realized that she did not have any idea where the ocean even was in relation to her town—how far they were, how long it might take to get there, whether or not she should bring a book for the car ride.
Deciding to take only a notebook and a pencil, as well as her swimsuit and a towel, Emily raced back down the stairs.
“Emily, dear, are you ready? How do you feel?” Her mother was still standing at the kitchen counter, slowly dicing vegetables, and Emily had a sudden wish for her to be like the professional chefs on the Food Network, if only so that she could dice through the vegetables with lightning speed and get into the car.
“Yeah, so are we going?” Emily noted that her voice sounded like the impatient whine of a much younger person, and so she counted to nine, her favorite number, and took three deep breaths, three being the square root of nine. After all, square roots were so rare, and Emily took every opportunity to use them as they should be used and appreciated by all people.
“I thought we could leave after lunch.”
“I thought we could leave now.”
“Emily, patience. We’ll only get hungry half way through.” Her mother was reasonable, and Emily was passionate. She could feel the claustrophobia of sixteen years in the same place building up from her stomach into the spot in her chest that was just below her throat and made her want to gag. She was surprised at herself for having such a violent reaction. It wasn’t as if she had never been for a drive before, but this idea of seeing the ocean had taken hold of her, and she was determined to go today, or to go never.
The phone rang. Emily’s mother spoke to somebody in rushed tones, and then hung up almost immediately.
“Emily, the doct—the man from the beach just called. They’re ready for you now.”
After eating lunch—her mother had made stew, and every spoon felt difficult to swallow, the bowl never-ending—Emily and her mother finally got into the car.
* * *
When Emily reached the beach, it was the peak of the afternoon, when the day had reached its hottest and the sun had begun to retract the intensity of its rays. There was a general mass of people spread out evenly over the sand. Emily found it disturbing that no individual face registered to her, there was only a low murmur of sound that settled over the entire beach, and the streaks of beach balls that caught her eye like shooting stars, in perfect little circles with areas of pi-r-squared that completed a pretty picture.
There were many fish encased in water, and she could almost reach out and touch them but for some kind of barrier. Her mother sat down in a chair, and began to read a magazine. Emily stared at the seashells arranged decoratively on the blue walls, and thought to herself that she had never seen anything but clouds in the sky before. The beach was an entirely different world, the alien feeling of the carpet under her feet when she pulled off her shoes. Was this what sand felt like?
“Emily, dear, please put your shoes back on. This isn’t our house anymore.” Emily wanted to cry; she liked wiggling her toes around the plush of the sand, but she pulled the sandals back around her feet and sat down on the floor. She looked back up at the fish, and began tapping on the barrier between her and the fish. A man emerged from what seemed to be the depths of—the ocean? Probably. He called out her name, and she stood up suddenly, giving her a dizzy feeling, as if she had been hit by a wave.
Emily braced herself and looked back at her mother, who stood up and held her hand, guiding her towards the dark doorway. They walked into the ocean together, like Emily had not thought possible. In another room, she was still somehow breathing, sitting in a chair across from this man. He gazed at her and she wondered if he was a mermaid, but his legs seemed firmly attached to his body. She moved her arms experimentally, attempting to swim, but the man gently took her hands and lowered them.
“Emily, how are you feeling today?” She wondered why everyone kept asking her that.
“Good.”
“Do you know where you are right now?”
“The beach.” He looked at her sympathetically, but said nothing. Then he began to speak in low murmurs to her mother. She could not distinguish what was being said. She looked around the walls, which were painted blue. She suddenly felt overwhelmed; the ground beneath her feet pulled away from her, and she slipped into the water, choking and grasping at the carpet that slid between her fingers.
Moments later she found herself back on the chair, her mother’s hand back in hers. She was coughing and gasping and she didn’t feel anything anymore, as if she were truly in the water, but she felt another rush, this time of understanding. She was not at the beach, she was only in yet another office of yet another doctor who would talk to her as if she was an infant. She wanted to scream that there was nothing wrong with her, but her mother’s face looked disappointed and Emily bit her tongue and her hopes along with it, and let go of the string attaching her to the beach.
Sunday, March 28, 2010
Fiction Writing #1
Here is the first story that we wrote in fiction writing. I am under the impression that it came out a lot better than our teacher seemed to think it came out, so please tell me your (possibly honest) opinion.
Distance
When Christine showed up at the door, the first things she noticed were the azaleas on the doorstep in desperate need of watering. It hadn’t rained in a few months, so perhaps it was excusable, but Christine knocked on the door slowly, with a growing annoyance at having to be here on a Friday night, mixing with her irritation at uncared for plants. Although she had nowhere else to be tonight, other than her studio apartment with its sloppily painted walls and a quickly deteriorating sofa bed, these jobs always made her feel more than inadequate. The door opened with the same reluctance Christine felt, but the parents thrust their baby into her hands with excessive enthusiasm. Just for this she hated them a little, but she knew that her kind were hard to find—an adult, not a teenager, who had a college education and suggested in advertisements that she planned to become a teacher, even if that was not the whole truth.
“Our phone numbers are next to the fridge, and so is the doctor’s number, and he’s already eaten but if he gets hungry there are some jars in the cupboard next to the microwave and thank you so much for doing this. Good night!” Parents often spoke in run-on sentences that drifted in and out of Christine’s ears; in their desperation to leave the house, which mingled with worry about the wellbeing of their child, speaking was never at the top of the priority list. She nodded in what she hoped was a polite, not surly, manner, and looked for the first time at the baby whose pudgy limbs were entangled in her arms.
He was looking up at her with wide eyes, and his expression was impossible to read. He could have been about to cry or scream, and if she didn’t feel him breathing in her arms he could have been dead. They stayed that way for a few moments, looking at one another, blank, irritable, mirror-images, and then he kicked out with one chubby leg, breaking the moment. Christine carried him over towards the sofa, and placed him on his back. He began making gurgling sounds in the back of his throat. She turned away, suddenly nauseous.
It was the little things that made her angry—the inability to walk without stumbling, the drool that dripped incessantly onto the clothes of the carrier, the constant incomprehension of instructions. Then there were the aspects of babyhood that disgusted her, made her want to drop the child she was carrying and leave—the throwing up on shoulders, the perpetually sticky face and hands, the crying that seemed to be on call for every baby she had ever cared for. They tired her, all children did, and she would never be a teacher in an elementary school, or find a job in child care, when anybody who spent over an hour with her realized that her disgust for babies was ever-present and threatening.
Christine walked to the sink, where dirty dishes were piled in precarious towers. She wondered if she was expected to wash them, and suddenly felt so exhausted that she sat down on the floor of the kitchen. She stared at the magnets on the fridge, wishing that they spelled out a sign, but the letters were only arranged in random orders—FCRBOHJGW—and she closed her eyes, memorizing the room. When she opened her eyes the room, only two seconds later, looked different than she remembered it—the light was too bright, the lines too sharp.
Disoriented, she heard the hiccupping coughs of the baby, signifying that he was about to begin crying. She got to her feet, rubbing the small of her back, and made her way over to the baby. She got there before he started crying completely, and he immediately stopped his short, breathless tears, and gazed up at her, searching her face for signs of comfort. Finding none, he immediately started wailing. She bobbed him up and down in her arms, looking around the room for any props that would quiet him. Seeing a pile of plastic toy dinosaurs in the corner of the room, she carried him over to them. She picked one up and waved it in front of his face. The dinosaur felt waxy in her hands, and the surprising smoothness of it made her feel the strange urge to sink her teeth into its rounded, ridged body.
Instead, she handed it to the baby, who proceeded to gum the head of the dinosaur. She looked at the clock, and back at him, his saliva dripping into the body of the green dinosaur. It was a diplodocus, her least favorite type of dinosaur. She got up to check if there was any milk in the refrigerator, feeling useless, needing something to do with her hands. This baby was surprisingly agreeable, and she felt her worthlessness in every moment he did not need a caretaker. Christine thought of her mother, feeding her, rocking her, changing her diapers, and most tiring of all, unconditionally loving her.
She retrieved a bottle from the fridge, and handed it to the baby, who eagerly drank from the bottle. Christine’s voice felt like she had never used it, when in fact it had just been a few hours of silence. She needed to clear her throat. She rocked the baby back and forth, the bottle in his mouth. His eyelids fluttered, then began to blink shut, the bottle falling as if in slow motion out of his hand, her eyes not seeing it falling until it was on the ground. She felt a wave of nausea come over her, and suddenly she had to get out of this house. She looked at her watch. The baby’s parents would return in only ten minutes, and his eyes were shut, his chest moving rhythmically up and down. Her mother’s voice echoed in her ear: “You’re not like me, Christine. You won’t have any children.” Her desire to prove her mother wrong in every way flared up inside her, but died down just as quickly, the fight emptying out of her through her tired fingertips. She wanted to scream.
When the baby’s parents returned home at 10:00, he would be in his crib, sleeping softly, fingers curled around a green plastic diplodocus, a note next to him.
I’m sorry for leaving, there was an emergency. I left at 9:50. You don’t have to pay me.
- Christine
Christine lay on her fold out couch, staring up at the ceiling, trying to summon up the tiredness that had overcome her earlier into a sleep, but her legs were itching to run.
Distance
When Christine showed up at the door, the first things she noticed were the azaleas on the doorstep in desperate need of watering. It hadn’t rained in a few months, so perhaps it was excusable, but Christine knocked on the door slowly, with a growing annoyance at having to be here on a Friday night, mixing with her irritation at uncared for plants. Although she had nowhere else to be tonight, other than her studio apartment with its sloppily painted walls and a quickly deteriorating sofa bed, these jobs always made her feel more than inadequate. The door opened with the same reluctance Christine felt, but the parents thrust their baby into her hands with excessive enthusiasm. Just for this she hated them a little, but she knew that her kind were hard to find—an adult, not a teenager, who had a college education and suggested in advertisements that she planned to become a teacher, even if that was not the whole truth.
“Our phone numbers are next to the fridge, and so is the doctor’s number, and he’s already eaten but if he gets hungry there are some jars in the cupboard next to the microwave and thank you so much for doing this. Good night!” Parents often spoke in run-on sentences that drifted in and out of Christine’s ears; in their desperation to leave the house, which mingled with worry about the wellbeing of their child, speaking was never at the top of the priority list. She nodded in what she hoped was a polite, not surly, manner, and looked for the first time at the baby whose pudgy limbs were entangled in her arms.
He was looking up at her with wide eyes, and his expression was impossible to read. He could have been about to cry or scream, and if she didn’t feel him breathing in her arms he could have been dead. They stayed that way for a few moments, looking at one another, blank, irritable, mirror-images, and then he kicked out with one chubby leg, breaking the moment. Christine carried him over towards the sofa, and placed him on his back. He began making gurgling sounds in the back of his throat. She turned away, suddenly nauseous.
It was the little things that made her angry—the inability to walk without stumbling, the drool that dripped incessantly onto the clothes of the carrier, the constant incomprehension of instructions. Then there were the aspects of babyhood that disgusted her, made her want to drop the child she was carrying and leave—the throwing up on shoulders, the perpetually sticky face and hands, the crying that seemed to be on call for every baby she had ever cared for. They tired her, all children did, and she would never be a teacher in an elementary school, or find a job in child care, when anybody who spent over an hour with her realized that her disgust for babies was ever-present and threatening.
Christine walked to the sink, where dirty dishes were piled in precarious towers. She wondered if she was expected to wash them, and suddenly felt so exhausted that she sat down on the floor of the kitchen. She stared at the magnets on the fridge, wishing that they spelled out a sign, but the letters were only arranged in random orders—FCRBOHJGW—and she closed her eyes, memorizing the room. When she opened her eyes the room, only two seconds later, looked different than she remembered it—the light was too bright, the lines too sharp.
Disoriented, she heard the hiccupping coughs of the baby, signifying that he was about to begin crying. She got to her feet, rubbing the small of her back, and made her way over to the baby. She got there before he started crying completely, and he immediately stopped his short, breathless tears, and gazed up at her, searching her face for signs of comfort. Finding none, he immediately started wailing. She bobbed him up and down in her arms, looking around the room for any props that would quiet him. Seeing a pile of plastic toy dinosaurs in the corner of the room, she carried him over to them. She picked one up and waved it in front of his face. The dinosaur felt waxy in her hands, and the surprising smoothness of it made her feel the strange urge to sink her teeth into its rounded, ridged body.
Instead, she handed it to the baby, who proceeded to gum the head of the dinosaur. She looked at the clock, and back at him, his saliva dripping into the body of the green dinosaur. It was a diplodocus, her least favorite type of dinosaur. She got up to check if there was any milk in the refrigerator, feeling useless, needing something to do with her hands. This baby was surprisingly agreeable, and she felt her worthlessness in every moment he did not need a caretaker. Christine thought of her mother, feeding her, rocking her, changing her diapers, and most tiring of all, unconditionally loving her.
She retrieved a bottle from the fridge, and handed it to the baby, who eagerly drank from the bottle. Christine’s voice felt like she had never used it, when in fact it had just been a few hours of silence. She needed to clear her throat. She rocked the baby back and forth, the bottle in his mouth. His eyelids fluttered, then began to blink shut, the bottle falling as if in slow motion out of his hand, her eyes not seeing it falling until it was on the ground. She felt a wave of nausea come over her, and suddenly she had to get out of this house. She looked at her watch. The baby’s parents would return in only ten minutes, and his eyes were shut, his chest moving rhythmically up and down. Her mother’s voice echoed in her ear: “You’re not like me, Christine. You won’t have any children.” Her desire to prove her mother wrong in every way flared up inside her, but died down just as quickly, the fight emptying out of her through her tired fingertips. She wanted to scream.
When the baby’s parents returned home at 10:00, he would be in his crib, sleeping softly, fingers curled around a green plastic diplodocus, a note next to him.
I’m sorry for leaving, there was an emergency. I left at 9:50. You don’t have to pay me.
- Christine
Christine lay on her fold out couch, staring up at the ceiling, trying to summon up the tiredness that had overcome her earlier into a sleep, but her legs were itching to run.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
News (finally!)
Hey guys. So something has finally happened in my life. Remember the story I wrote a little while ago? The title was "Pennies"? It mimicked James Joyce? It was posted in three parts? Anyways, I had submitted that story, along with my play, to the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards (www.artandwriting.org) a few months ago.
Basically, to summarize, my story has been recognized for the Gold Key award. Some statistics: about 165,000 people applied this year, and about 1,000 received the Gold Key award. Some other famous people who have received the Gold Key award in the past are Sylvia Plath (!!!), Joyce Carol Oates, Truman Capote, etc. From here, the story will be reviewed by various publishers/famous authors, and so on, and they will judge it to see if it qualifies for the final scholarship award.
ANYWAYS. I'm really excited. Okay, done bragging now. In other news, soon I will probably post my latest short story that I wrote in fiction writing, maybe. Farewell for now.
Basically, to summarize, my story has been recognized for the Gold Key award. Some statistics: about 165,000 people applied this year, and about 1,000 received the Gold Key award. Some other famous people who have received the Gold Key award in the past are Sylvia Plath (!!!), Joyce Carol Oates, Truman Capote, etc. From here, the story will be reviewed by various publishers/famous authors, and so on, and they will judge it to see if it qualifies for the final scholarship award.
ANYWAYS. I'm really excited. Okay, done bragging now. In other news, soon I will probably post my latest short story that I wrote in fiction writing, maybe. Farewell for now.
Monday, February 08, 2010
Dream Post #3: Hindu Mythology, Swimming, and Ian McKellen
This dream involves some mythology that you may not be familiar with, which is necessary to understand the dream. Therefore, first I will give you a brief overview of the story in question:
In the Mahabharat, the Hindu epic (win), before the war or anybody involved in it, there existed a king named Shantanu. Once, Shantanu went hunting, and he stopped by the river Ganges (known in India as the river Ganga, after the goddess who inhabits it). Suddenly, a woman dressed in white emerged from the river (the goddess...duh). Shantanu immediately fell in love with her. She agreed to marry him and go back to his kingdom under the condition that he would never question anything that she did. Shantanu agreed happily. Shantanu and Ganga had many children. Every time one was born, Ganga would take the child to the river and drown it. Shantanu was horrified at her actions, but could not question them. Finally, when she was about to drown the eighth child, he couldn't take it anymore and asked her why she was drowning the children. Ganga said that it was to protect them from a cursed life on earth, and now they could be happy in heaven, but since he had questioned her, she had to leave, and she could not drown the eighth child. He would have to live on earth. Ganga left. The child grew up to become an influential force on the kingdom. He was named Bhishma, and he played a large role in the war that took place later.
NOW, ONWARDS.
In my dream last night, it began with an aerial view of Shantanu's castle. It is a Gondor-like, typical castle, and there is a flag flying at the top of a walkway thing, similar to what Denethor jumped off of. As it zooms in, it becomes clear that on the flag are the incredible golden arches of McDonald's. Shantanu, every morning, comes out to raise the flag, and shouts "MAC-DONAAALDS!" in an intense Indian accent, if you can imagine. Then, he is informed by an attendant that he has a new child. He is excited. Then, he realizes that the child has been hung (this may sound horrible and nightmare-ish, but for some reason it was a bit comical in the dream).
This happened multiple days in a row, until finally Shantanu couldn't take it anymore, and so he asked Ganga what she was doing. She immediately jumped into a river and began to swim away, so he started to swim after her, attempting to keep up. Finally, they reached a secluded forest area. At this point, both emerged from the water, both dripping wet, of course, and broke out into a Bollywood style song and dance sequence that I wish I could remember. It was as if I was watching a movie, because there were various different views from different "cameras" that I could see at once.
Finally, they stopped singing and dancing. At this point, Shantanu suddenly morphed into Bhishma, without any kind of obvious morphing taking place. Bhishma was (of course) played by Ian McKellen. Suddenly, people all around were dropping dead, and it was revealed that there was a villain with ten heads that was killing them. Bhishma killed the villain. He began to look around, and suddenly he saw his head on everyone's body. EVERYONE WAS IAN MCKELLEN. WHAT A GOOD LIFE.
In the Mahabharat, the Hindu epic (win), before the war or anybody involved in it, there existed a king named Shantanu. Once, Shantanu went hunting, and he stopped by the river Ganges (known in India as the river Ganga, after the goddess who inhabits it). Suddenly, a woman dressed in white emerged from the river (the goddess...duh). Shantanu immediately fell in love with her. She agreed to marry him and go back to his kingdom under the condition that he would never question anything that she did. Shantanu agreed happily. Shantanu and Ganga had many children. Every time one was born, Ganga would take the child to the river and drown it. Shantanu was horrified at her actions, but could not question them. Finally, when she was about to drown the eighth child, he couldn't take it anymore and asked her why she was drowning the children. Ganga said that it was to protect them from a cursed life on earth, and now they could be happy in heaven, but since he had questioned her, she had to leave, and she could not drown the eighth child. He would have to live on earth. Ganga left. The child grew up to become an influential force on the kingdom. He was named Bhishma, and he played a large role in the war that took place later.
NOW, ONWARDS.
In my dream last night, it began with an aerial view of Shantanu's castle. It is a Gondor-like, typical castle, and there is a flag flying at the top of a walkway thing, similar to what Denethor jumped off of. As it zooms in, it becomes clear that on the flag are the incredible golden arches of McDonald's. Shantanu, every morning, comes out to raise the flag, and shouts "MAC-DONAAALDS!" in an intense Indian accent, if you can imagine. Then, he is informed by an attendant that he has a new child. He is excited. Then, he realizes that the child has been hung (this may sound horrible and nightmare-ish, but for some reason it was a bit comical in the dream).
This happened multiple days in a row, until finally Shantanu couldn't take it anymore, and so he asked Ganga what she was doing. She immediately jumped into a river and began to swim away, so he started to swim after her, attempting to keep up. Finally, they reached a secluded forest area. At this point, both emerged from the water, both dripping wet, of course, and broke out into a Bollywood style song and dance sequence that I wish I could remember. It was as if I was watching a movie, because there were various different views from different "cameras" that I could see at once.
Finally, they stopped singing and dancing. At this point, Shantanu suddenly morphed into Bhishma, without any kind of obvious morphing taking place. Bhishma was (of course) played by Ian McKellen. Suddenly, people all around were dropping dead, and it was revealed that there was a villain with ten heads that was killing them. Bhishma killed the villain. He began to look around, and suddenly he saw his head on everyone's body. EVERYONE WAS IAN MCKELLEN. WHAT A GOOD LIFE.
Sunday, January 24, 2010
What to do?
The feeling of Senior Spring that was wonderful lasted about 10 minutes. Then I was bored.
It feels like that's how my life constantly is now. It fluctuates between being ridiculous and painful to entirely boring. Is this what we call a "sad truth"? Or is it just "the truth"?
The lyrics to a song that is not finished. I'm not sure where it is going, but I know that I kind of like the first line, therefore it has to go somewhere...Also, I have been informed by various people that this song sounds like it is referring to crystal meth, which I realize now is glaringly obvious, but I assure you, initially unintentional. I may change the name "Crystal" to make it not sound like that, but I kind of almost like the reference...
I’m riding the wave of the power lines
You’re walking beneath me, slow as time
Colorless, pale, absolute
There can be no reason, no reason at all
There can be no reason, no reason to fall
Beaks of birds move far too fast
Comprehension never lasts
Cleared away the thoughts of rest
Backing into the workday, the endless crest
Endless high
Endless high
Crystal I seek you, I seek you out
In the corner, breaking out
Gallant men, they said they were
Fools with crossbows, dead and hurt
Beaks of birds move far too fast
Comprehension never lasts
Cleared away the thoughts of rest
Backing into the workday, the endless crest
Endless high
Endless high
It feels like that's how my life constantly is now. It fluctuates between being ridiculous and painful to entirely boring. Is this what we call a "sad truth"? Or is it just "the truth"?
The lyrics to a song that is not finished. I'm not sure where it is going, but I know that I kind of like the first line, therefore it has to go somewhere...Also, I have been informed by various people that this song sounds like it is referring to crystal meth, which I realize now is glaringly obvious, but I assure you, initially unintentional. I may change the name "Crystal" to make it not sound like that, but I kind of almost like the reference...
I’m riding the wave of the power lines
You’re walking beneath me, slow as time
Colorless, pale, absolute
There can be no reason, no reason at all
There can be no reason, no reason to fall
Beaks of birds move far too fast
Comprehension never lasts
Cleared away the thoughts of rest
Backing into the workday, the endless crest
Endless high
Endless high
Crystal I seek you, I seek you out
In the corner, breaking out
Gallant men, they said they were
Fools with crossbows, dead and hurt
Beaks of birds move far too fast
Comprehension never lasts
Cleared away the thoughts of rest
Backing into the workday, the endless crest
Endless high
Endless high
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Dream Post #2: Animals, Boy Bands, and Labyrinths
I'm not sure exactly where this dream began. I think it was when my family and I were sitting in the backyard. Suddenly, there was a deer standing in front of us. We were kind of baffled as to how the deer got into the backyard, since the fences were still up, when the deer was followed by another non-dangerous animal. I don't really remember what this animal was, only that it posed no immediate threat. We came to the conclusion that soon there would be dangerous animals in the backyard, so we all went inside and locked the door.
After locking the door, we realized that there was still a plate of food outside, which we had to recover if we didn't want more animals in the yard. I snuck (why does spellcheck tell me that snuck is not a word?) outside, and grabbed the plate of food. By the time I got back inside, there were so many animals outside that I could barely close the door without letting any of them inside.
A few minutes later, I looked back out the window, and all the animals were gone. Instead, there was a group of about five guys in blue suits walking towards us in slow motion--Backstreet Boys style. Only two of them were even remotely attractive. They continued to walk towards us in slow motion. At this point the sequence of events became a little unclear.
I think that somehow there was now a party happening in our backyard. My parents were still inside, but I was in the backyard with another friend of mine who looked like a mix between an Indian and an Asian person, except only one or the other. In other words, she was sometimes Indian looking, and sometimes Asian looking, but never both. She approached one of the attractive guys (the more attractive one), and started dancing with him. It wasn't any kind of dancing I've ever seen--it was like slow dancing, except grinding at the same time. What? Anyways, in this dream I was a lot more attractive than I am in real life. The other attractive guy approached me and told me I was very attractive (good God, I'm insecure even in my dreams), and started dancing with me in the same strange manner.
We had been dancing for some time when we came over next to my friend and Attractive Guy #1 (AG1), and suddenly AG1 stopped dancing with my friend and grabbed me away from AG2. AG1 kind of looked like Bradley James, and I remember thinking that I should tell 'Do about dancing with someone who looked like Bradley James. AG1 and I danced for a while, and then the music stopped playing. During the course of dancing, I remember wondering whether my parents were finding it weird or inappropriate that I was dancing in a strange, almost-grinding way. They apparently didn't, and promptly disappeared for the rest of the dream.
It began to get dark, and we all sat in a circle on the lawn and started playing a game that we once played in Drama class in which you have to go around the circle tapping your hand once except your hands are linked with other peoples' hands. It's confusing. Anyways, we played this for a while. I was sitting next to AG1, and after a while he started kissing me (are you seeing a pattern in my dreams? Good job, you now know how desperate I am). Then I said I had to go, and they told me they were having another party later on.
I went into my house, which now resembled an office building. The walls were all white, and all the hallways looked the same. It was kind of like being in a maze, except I didn't ever feel panicked. All I remember is thinking that I had to find my way to the party that was happening later on, and asking random people in cubicles that I saw along the way where the party was. I wandered around for a while, and then fell asleep in one of the corridors. The moment when I fell asleep in the dream was the moment when I woke up in the real world.
After locking the door, we realized that there was still a plate of food outside, which we had to recover if we didn't want more animals in the yard. I snuck (why does spellcheck tell me that snuck is not a word?) outside, and grabbed the plate of food. By the time I got back inside, there were so many animals outside that I could barely close the door without letting any of them inside.
A few minutes later, I looked back out the window, and all the animals were gone. Instead, there was a group of about five guys in blue suits walking towards us in slow motion--Backstreet Boys style. Only two of them were even remotely attractive. They continued to walk towards us in slow motion. At this point the sequence of events became a little unclear.
I think that somehow there was now a party happening in our backyard. My parents were still inside, but I was in the backyard with another friend of mine who looked like a mix between an Indian and an Asian person, except only one or the other. In other words, she was sometimes Indian looking, and sometimes Asian looking, but never both. She approached one of the attractive guys (the more attractive one), and started dancing with him. It wasn't any kind of dancing I've ever seen--it was like slow dancing, except grinding at the same time. What? Anyways, in this dream I was a lot more attractive than I am in real life. The other attractive guy approached me and told me I was very attractive (good God, I'm insecure even in my dreams), and started dancing with me in the same strange manner.
We had been dancing for some time when we came over next to my friend and Attractive Guy #1 (AG1), and suddenly AG1 stopped dancing with my friend and grabbed me away from AG2. AG1 kind of looked like Bradley James, and I remember thinking that I should tell 'Do about dancing with someone who looked like Bradley James. AG1 and I danced for a while, and then the music stopped playing. During the course of dancing, I remember wondering whether my parents were finding it weird or inappropriate that I was dancing in a strange, almost-grinding way. They apparently didn't, and promptly disappeared for the rest of the dream.
It began to get dark, and we all sat in a circle on the lawn and started playing a game that we once played in Drama class in which you have to go around the circle tapping your hand once except your hands are linked with other peoples' hands. It's confusing. Anyways, we played this for a while. I was sitting next to AG1, and after a while he started kissing me (are you seeing a pattern in my dreams? Good job, you now know how desperate I am). Then I said I had to go, and they told me they were having another party later on.
I went into my house, which now resembled an office building. The walls were all white, and all the hallways looked the same. It was kind of like being in a maze, except I didn't ever feel panicked. All I remember is thinking that I had to find my way to the party that was happening later on, and asking random people in cubicles that I saw along the way where the party was. I wandered around for a while, and then fell asleep in one of the corridors. The moment when I fell asleep in the dream was the moment when I woke up in the real world.
Monday, January 04, 2010
The Way I Am
You all know me far better than I'd like to admit, and it's no secret that I'm not a very secretive person about my life. Okay, maybe it was, but it isn't any more. See?
However, I have changed quite a bit recently. It's pretty incredible the way stress affects people. I've already posted on the different ways I hate people, so I won't do that again. I thought about posting all the ways that people annoy me, but I realized that would end up being offensive and hurtful, and generally lose me a lot of friends. So instead, you get a collection of words that detail the ways in which I'm a bit obnoxious.
I'm really ready for college. I mean, sure, I'll miss my friends, and don't get me wrong, you guys are great in many different ways. I'll leave out the part where some of you are not so great in many different ways, because I'm attempting to be sentimental right now. But really, I'm ready for new friends. I'm ready for a new start. This isn't going to be as difficult for me as I thought it would. There are a few (two or three, at the most) people whom I will pine for every day of my existence, but I can deal with it. As much as I hate to admit it, I'm not really going to miss a whole lot about high school at all. Well, no, actually it isn't that hard for me to admit at all. It's just the truth.
I get attached to people really easily. Not just people, I get attached to almost anything really easily. But I also don't find it very difficult to break off connections. I'm going to warn everyone about this right now, so that you aren't offended later, but I'm absolutely crap at staying in touch. I'm not going to write you letters, I probably will only Facebook chat you very occasionally--and other than the people who I am extremely close to and have known for a long time, I probably will lose touch altogether. This is just a personality trait. Don't take it too personally. I'll probably cry at graduation. I'll probably be incredibly excited and happy the very next day.
I don't know exactly what the purpose of this post was, other than just to give you all a heads-up about a side of me you might not have seen coming (or maybe you have, in which case, kudos). Maybe I'm extremely selfish, as someone in my English class suggested, but really, I don't have that much of a problem with that. I'm okay with myself, finally, after all this time. I may not be confident about myself, but I've reached a point where my personality is something I can deal with, at the very least. Maybe that's awful--maybe you think I'm not really living. Well, truth is, I'm not really living. For a while now, and probably in the future, I'm just going to have to be content with getting by.
However, I have changed quite a bit recently. It's pretty incredible the way stress affects people. I've already posted on the different ways I hate people, so I won't do that again. I thought about posting all the ways that people annoy me, but I realized that would end up being offensive and hurtful, and generally lose me a lot of friends. So instead, you get a collection of words that detail the ways in which I'm a bit obnoxious.
I'm really ready for college. I mean, sure, I'll miss my friends, and don't get me wrong, you guys are great in many different ways. I'll leave out the part where some of you are not so great in many different ways, because I'm attempting to be sentimental right now. But really, I'm ready for new friends. I'm ready for a new start. This isn't going to be as difficult for me as I thought it would. There are a few (two or three, at the most) people whom I will pine for every day of my existence, but I can deal with it. As much as I hate to admit it, I'm not really going to miss a whole lot about high school at all. Well, no, actually it isn't that hard for me to admit at all. It's just the truth.
I get attached to people really easily. Not just people, I get attached to almost anything really easily. But I also don't find it very difficult to break off connections. I'm going to warn everyone about this right now, so that you aren't offended later, but I'm absolutely crap at staying in touch. I'm not going to write you letters, I probably will only Facebook chat you very occasionally--and other than the people who I am extremely close to and have known for a long time, I probably will lose touch altogether. This is just a personality trait. Don't take it too personally. I'll probably cry at graduation. I'll probably be incredibly excited and happy the very next day.
I don't know exactly what the purpose of this post was, other than just to give you all a heads-up about a side of me you might not have seen coming (or maybe you have, in which case, kudos). Maybe I'm extremely selfish, as someone in my English class suggested, but really, I don't have that much of a problem with that. I'm okay with myself, finally, after all this time. I may not be confident about myself, but I've reached a point where my personality is something I can deal with, at the very least. Maybe that's awful--maybe you think I'm not really living. Well, truth is, I'm not really living. For a while now, and probably in the future, I'm just going to have to be content with getting by.
Saturday, December 26, 2009
Dream Post #1: Drinking, Pocket Watches, and The Bear.
Time to do what I do best: copy other people. I had a pretty crazy dream last night, as detailed below.
I'm getting a ride back from musical rehearsal. Since, of course, my house is on the other end of the universe, we have been in the car for two hours when the car breaks down somewhere in Seattle. We are in a neighborhood that is a "bad" neighborhood. I do not know where this neighborhood is actually located, nor do I know if it actually exists, but for the sake of my dream, there was a "bad" neighborhood, with "bad" houses, and sketchy looking people walking around.
For some reason, I was not scared by the "bad" neighborhood, and also for unknown reasons, it was assumed that we would have to spend the night in said neighborhood, because there was no way we could get like, a cab or anything. We walked into the house that the car had broken down in front of. It just so happened that the people in this house got a lot of situations like this, and they were perfectly happy to rent out a room to us for the night, provided that we could pay for it. I opened up my wallet and gave them money. I think it ended up being $1000 dollars for one night, but the money was all made out of toothpicks, so it was okay.
We went upstairs to our room. This is the point where who "we" are becomes unclear, because at some point it ended up being only me. I'm not quite sure who "we" were to start with, but there was definitely some other person in the car with me, because even in dreams, I don't have my license. When I got to the room, there was one girl sitting in the corner. She was around 12 or so, and she had in iPod headphones. I didn't want to disturb her, so I looked around. There were two more girls on the bed, who were around my age. They were making out. It didn't occur to me in the dream to be awkward, so I just observed them for a few seconds and then sat on the edge of the bed.
At some point, they asked me if I wanted to join them. This was still not awkward, so I started making out with one of them (the hotter one), and the other one looked a little lost. Then there was a knock on the door, so we stopped making out, and the door opened to reveal a large woman. They called her mom, even though she was black and they were white, and I'm pretty sure she wasn't their actual mom. This was intuition--they didn't tell me so, but I just knew. I also knew that she was not to know about us making out, so I kept my mouth shut. She yelled at them about something, and then she left.
Eventually, it became dark, and we decided that it would be really fun if we ordered some drinks. For some reason, there was some kind of liquor delivery service, like pizza delivery, so we called them and ordered a lot of vodka and rum and other such things. We were very much underage, but the person on the phone didn't bother to check. Finally, the doorbell rang, but the girls' "mom" answered the door. She got very angry at us, because we were not supposed to be drinking. At this point, she suddenly became my mom too. She started saying things like "what would your father say?", etc, and it was gathered that my father (and theirs) was dead. We all were looking for a pocket watch that he had supposedly left behind, since this pocket watch was the key to all knowledge or something.
Finally we opened a safe where they had stored all his belongings, and found many cool things, like a miniature christmas tree. At the very back of the safe was a pocket watch. We all rejoiced. Then, we walked out the front door of the house.
When we walked outside, we realized that we were in Red Square. Suddenly, the people I was with were gone, and it was just me in Red Square. I realized it was time for math class. I went into Allen-Gates and sat down in the classroom (which was actually the OChem classroom). Mr. Kresser came in and looked at some faceless boy and asked him for his homework. He gave it to him. I was worried, because I hadn't done the homework, having been on a quest to find a pocket watch. However, he didn't collect any more homework, and instead started reviewing a problem on the board. I was very curious about how to do this problem, since I hadn't understood it on the homework (that I had suddenly attempted). He was in the middle of his explanation when, alas, I was awoken by my father, informing me that it was noon.
Curses! I guess we shall never find out the answer to the problem, nor shall we get to drink the liquor we ordered or finish our make out session. Or get home from rehearsal, for that matter...
I'm getting a ride back from musical rehearsal. Since, of course, my house is on the other end of the universe, we have been in the car for two hours when the car breaks down somewhere in Seattle. We are in a neighborhood that is a "bad" neighborhood. I do not know where this neighborhood is actually located, nor do I know if it actually exists, but for the sake of my dream, there was a "bad" neighborhood, with "bad" houses, and sketchy looking people walking around.
For some reason, I was not scared by the "bad" neighborhood, and also for unknown reasons, it was assumed that we would have to spend the night in said neighborhood, because there was no way we could get like, a cab or anything. We walked into the house that the car had broken down in front of. It just so happened that the people in this house got a lot of situations like this, and they were perfectly happy to rent out a room to us for the night, provided that we could pay for it. I opened up my wallet and gave them money. I think it ended up being $1000 dollars for one night, but the money was all made out of toothpicks, so it was okay.
We went upstairs to our room. This is the point where who "we" are becomes unclear, because at some point it ended up being only me. I'm not quite sure who "we" were to start with, but there was definitely some other person in the car with me, because even in dreams, I don't have my license. When I got to the room, there was one girl sitting in the corner. She was around 12 or so, and she had in iPod headphones. I didn't want to disturb her, so I looked around. There were two more girls on the bed, who were around my age. They were making out. It didn't occur to me in the dream to be awkward, so I just observed them for a few seconds and then sat on the edge of the bed.
At some point, they asked me if I wanted to join them. This was still not awkward, so I started making out with one of them (the hotter one), and the other one looked a little lost. Then there was a knock on the door, so we stopped making out, and the door opened to reveal a large woman. They called her mom, even though she was black and they were white, and I'm pretty sure she wasn't their actual mom. This was intuition--they didn't tell me so, but I just knew. I also knew that she was not to know about us making out, so I kept my mouth shut. She yelled at them about something, and then she left.
Eventually, it became dark, and we decided that it would be really fun if we ordered some drinks. For some reason, there was some kind of liquor delivery service, like pizza delivery, so we called them and ordered a lot of vodka and rum and other such things. We were very much underage, but the person on the phone didn't bother to check. Finally, the doorbell rang, but the girls' "mom" answered the door. She got very angry at us, because we were not supposed to be drinking. At this point, she suddenly became my mom too. She started saying things like "what would your father say?", etc, and it was gathered that my father (and theirs) was dead. We all were looking for a pocket watch that he had supposedly left behind, since this pocket watch was the key to all knowledge or something.
Finally we opened a safe where they had stored all his belongings, and found many cool things, like a miniature christmas tree. At the very back of the safe was a pocket watch. We all rejoiced. Then, we walked out the front door of the house.
When we walked outside, we realized that we were in Red Square. Suddenly, the people I was with were gone, and it was just me in Red Square. I realized it was time for math class. I went into Allen-Gates and sat down in the classroom (which was actually the OChem classroom). Mr. Kresser came in and looked at some faceless boy and asked him for his homework. He gave it to him. I was worried, because I hadn't done the homework, having been on a quest to find a pocket watch. However, he didn't collect any more homework, and instead started reviewing a problem on the board. I was very curious about how to do this problem, since I hadn't understood it on the homework (that I had suddenly attempted). He was in the middle of his explanation when, alas, I was awoken by my father, informing me that it was noon.
Curses! I guess we shall never find out the answer to the problem, nor shall we get to drink the liquor we ordered or finish our make out session. Or get home from rehearsal, for that matter...
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
I'd love to...get to know you.
Let's do a measurement of how much college is screwing me right now.
This is how much I would be screwed anyways:
----------------------------------------------
This is how much I'm screwed when college is added:
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Woooooooo!
I hate this. A lot.
Not going to talk about it anymore.
If anyone is curious, I finished the tune for that last song I posted (so exciting!).
Also I saw Avatar. It was great. It was like a massive drug trip...IN 3-D!!
Why did I start this post? I don't really have anything to talk about. I'm going to take some random quizzes on blogthings so that I can procrastinate a little bit more, and then post the results here.
What Kind of Beauty Are You?
Answer: You are a natural beauty!
(This is code for: you are no kind of beauty)
How Evil Are You?
Answer: You are 40% evil.
(This is code for: you pretend. A lot.)
What Hairstyle Are You?
Answer: You are dreads.
(This is code for: LOL)
What Age Do You Act?
Answer: You act like you are 22 years old.
(This is code for: you are entirely average in every way. Don't worry 'bout it.)
What Kind of Art Are You?
Answer: You are a drawing.
(This is code for: see above.)
Well, that was fun. What have information have we gleaned about me? We now know that I am completely average in every way. This is a great thing to find out while trying to describe (sell) yourself to college.
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Now let us look at this article:
http://flavorwire.com/57909/stereotyping-people-by-their-favorite-indie-bands
From this article, we can learn even more about me! Here is what we now know describes me:
Bros vaguely interested in listening to music and very interested in having sex with their girlfriend.
Hopelessly patchy beard growers.
People who think that world hunger could be assuaged with four part harmonies.
Gorilla Vs. Bear readers.
People with self-esteem issues and probably hate Ben Gibbard.
Frequent transcendental experience havers.
----------------------------------------------------------------
Okay, now what do we know about me? That I am a stoner, that I have a beard, that I am interested in solving world hunger, that I hate Ben Gibbard, that I have self-esteem issues (truth), that I am vaguely interested in listening to music, that I am a bro, that I am very interested in having sex with my girlfriend (maybe truth).
The process of writing this post has been an educational experience. I now feel better equipped to describe myself to college. See the above paragraph. That is what I will say.
This is how much I would be screwed anyways:
----------------------------------------------
This is how much I'm screwed when college is added:
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Woooooooo!
I hate this. A lot.
Not going to talk about it anymore.
If anyone is curious, I finished the tune for that last song I posted (so exciting!).
Also I saw Avatar. It was great. It was like a massive drug trip...IN 3-D!!
Why did I start this post? I don't really have anything to talk about. I'm going to take some random quizzes on blogthings so that I can procrastinate a little bit more, and then post the results here.
What Kind of Beauty Are You?
Answer: You are a natural beauty!
(This is code for: you are no kind of beauty)
How Evil Are You?
Answer: You are 40% evil.
(This is code for: you pretend. A lot.)
What Hairstyle Are You?
Answer: You are dreads.
(This is code for: LOL)
What Age Do You Act?
Answer: You act like you are 22 years old.
(This is code for: you are entirely average in every way. Don't worry 'bout it.)
What Kind of Art Are You?
Answer: You are a drawing.
(This is code for: see above.)
Well, that was fun. What have information have we gleaned about me? We now know that I am completely average in every way. This is a great thing to find out while trying to describe (sell) yourself to college.
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Now let us look at this article:
http://flavorwire.com/57909/stereotyping-people-by-their-favorite-indie-bands
From this article, we can learn even more about me! Here is what we now know describes me:
Bros vaguely interested in listening to music and very interested in having sex with their girlfriend.
Hopelessly patchy beard growers.
People who think that world hunger could be assuaged with four part harmonies.
Gorilla Vs. Bear readers.
People with self-esteem issues and probably hate Ben Gibbard.
Frequent transcendental experience havers.
----------------------------------------------------------------
Okay, now what do we know about me? That I am a stoner, that I have a beard, that I am interested in solving world hunger, that I hate Ben Gibbard, that I have self-esteem issues (truth), that I am vaguely interested in listening to music, that I am a bro, that I am very interested in having sex with my girlfriend (maybe truth).
The process of writing this post has been an educational experience. I now feel better equipped to describe myself to college. See the above paragraph. That is what I will say.
Sunday, December 13, 2009
OH MAN
OH MAN GUYS. I wrote a song. This song has actual music for the chorus. This is super exciting. I am choosing to ignore the fact that it will hardly be a minute in length. Whatever. Repeating verses is always an option. Here is my song:
Clever fingers meet your eyes,
At the crinkled corners just inside
We’ll hold your hands away, yeah
Black lines are drawn across your arm
The children are inside, the children are inside
Clearly marked with thrilling charm
The children stay inside, inside, inside
Clear away your classic songs
From the table where they remain
Remove them from my shaking arms
My blank eyes are to blame
My eyes take all the blame
Clever fingers meet your eyes
At the hardened corners just inside
Stay on the floor where I belong
You cleared away your classic songs
Multi-colored lights are shown
Above the trees, where grass is grown
I’ll lie awake on every night
Wondering where you’ve gone
Since you took all your songs
Cradled head in icy arms
Hold your head in breaking arms
Hold your head in silent arms
My eyes take all the blame
Yeah, that's my song. The temporary title is "Classic Songs", which may need to be changed. Also what may need to be changed is the verse beginning with "multi-colored lights", because I don't like it. It sounds like it was written by 10-year-old-me. Overall, this is not great, but it is not bad. Right? Right? And yes, I did write this song when I was supposed to be doing something else. That's okay. Right? Right guys?
Clever fingers meet your eyes,
At the crinkled corners just inside
We’ll hold your hands away, yeah
Black lines are drawn across your arm
The children are inside, the children are inside
Clearly marked with thrilling charm
The children stay inside, inside, inside
Clear away your classic songs
From the table where they remain
Remove them from my shaking arms
My blank eyes are to blame
My eyes take all the blame
Clever fingers meet your eyes
At the hardened corners just inside
Stay on the floor where I belong
You cleared away your classic songs
Multi-colored lights are shown
Above the trees, where grass is grown
I’ll lie awake on every night
Wondering where you’ve gone
Since you took all your songs
Cradled head in icy arms
Hold your head in breaking arms
Hold your head in silent arms
My eyes take all the blame
Yeah, that's my song. The temporary title is "Classic Songs", which may need to be changed. Also what may need to be changed is the verse beginning with "multi-colored lights", because I don't like it. It sounds like it was written by 10-year-old-me. Overall, this is not great, but it is not bad. Right? Right? And yes, I did write this song when I was supposed to be doing something else. That's okay. Right? Right guys?
Tuesday, December 08, 2009
Some Whinging
Why do some people spell the word "whining" as "whinging"? Is it a typo? Why have I seen it so many times?
Today I was angry. Why, you ask? Why are you angry, Marvelous Narvel? I just asked myself that question, and then I answered myself.
I don't know. I don't know why I'm in a bad mood. I don't know why I feel like punching everyone in the face. Maybe it's because everyone just needs to be punched in the face. It's more likely that I just need to be punched in the face.
I think I am having a mid-life crisis. If this was my mid-life, it would be pathetic, but I am suffering from all of the symptoms of a mid-life crisis. NOTHING INTERESTS ME ANYMORE. IT ANGERS ME. EVERYTHING ANGERS ME. Anger Bear, that's me.
Because I made the above statement (the mid-life crisis one) with almost no justification or knowledge of what the actual symptoms were, I looked them up. Thanks Google! Turns out I actually do suffer from many of the symptoms. I want to change direction. I desire free-flowing movement. I suffer from irritability and anger. I want to run away from everything. I have a desire to get in shape. I excessively look back to my childhood. A sidenote: what are they defining as childhood? Am I still a child? Aren't these supposed to be my "best years"? That sucks, it really does. All it tells me is that all the other years are worse.
WORSE? IS IT POSSIBLE?
Yeah, it probably is. When I have to be financially independent, and people realize that I actually have no real skills in anything except pretending to do work, and I don't have a job because of this, and all I really want to do is be Gabe's intern, and then be Gabe, that will probably be worse. I could never be Gabe. I'm only average (read: bad) at humor, and Gabe is definitely Above Average. Too bad, one career path down the drain.
Maybe I could be an actress, and meet people like Bradley James and make him fall in love with me. But I'm only average (read: really bad) at seduction, and probably love in general, even though I've never tried it. I probably never will try it, because I will be incapable of making anyone love me back. Whoops! Problemo! That's okay though. I think I can resign myself to a fate of admiring people from afar and never marrying anyone and being a whore. What? I didn't actually just say that.
Maybe I could be a writer. Then I could move to England and buy a country manor and write novels and meet Mr. Knightley. This would be Ideal Option Number One. It's a possibility, right? (insert laugh track here)
I just re-read this post. It made no sense and had no overall idea. It was mostly random mutterings. This is the part where I pat myself on the back for being successfully incoherent.
Hey. Hey guys. So remember that thing? Called commenting? We should start that again...that was cool...
Today I was angry. Why, you ask? Why are you angry, Marvelous Narvel? I just asked myself that question, and then I answered myself.
I don't know. I don't know why I'm in a bad mood. I don't know why I feel like punching everyone in the face. Maybe it's because everyone just needs to be punched in the face. It's more likely that I just need to be punched in the face.
I think I am having a mid-life crisis. If this was my mid-life, it would be pathetic, but I am suffering from all of the symptoms of a mid-life crisis. NOTHING INTERESTS ME ANYMORE. IT ANGERS ME. EVERYTHING ANGERS ME. Anger Bear, that's me.
Because I made the above statement (the mid-life crisis one) with almost no justification or knowledge of what the actual symptoms were, I looked them up. Thanks Google! Turns out I actually do suffer from many of the symptoms. I want to change direction. I desire free-flowing movement. I suffer from irritability and anger. I want to run away from everything. I have a desire to get in shape. I excessively look back to my childhood. A sidenote: what are they defining as childhood? Am I still a child? Aren't these supposed to be my "best years"? That sucks, it really does. All it tells me is that all the other years are worse.
WORSE? IS IT POSSIBLE?
Yeah, it probably is. When I have to be financially independent, and people realize that I actually have no real skills in anything except pretending to do work, and I don't have a job because of this, and all I really want to do is be Gabe's intern, and then be Gabe, that will probably be worse. I could never be Gabe. I'm only average (read: bad) at humor, and Gabe is definitely Above Average. Too bad, one career path down the drain.
Maybe I could be an actress, and meet people like Bradley James and make him fall in love with me. But I'm only average (read: really bad) at seduction, and probably love in general, even though I've never tried it. I probably never will try it, because I will be incapable of making anyone love me back. Whoops! Problemo! That's okay though. I think I can resign myself to a fate of admiring people from afar and never marrying anyone and being a whore. What? I didn't actually just say that.
Maybe I could be a writer. Then I could move to England and buy a country manor and write novels and meet Mr. Knightley. This would be Ideal Option Number One. It's a possibility, right? (insert laugh track here)
I just re-read this post. It made no sense and had no overall idea. It was mostly random mutterings. This is the part where I pat myself on the back for being successfully incoherent.
Hey. Hey guys. So remember that thing? Called commenting? We should start that again...that was cool...
Sunday, December 06, 2009
Your Mom Got a Blog
No, my mom got a blog.
Oh dear. Oh dear. Why mom? First Facebook, now Blog?? What next, TWITTER? Will I soon be reading tweets from MY MOM?
This is...not as big of a deal as it seems. Let me blow it out of proportion for you.
My MOM is now on blogspot, blogging away about things like...ME. She is blogging about ME. No, I do not know this to be true, because she has only written one post and it is not about me, it is about Tiger Woods. I can only assume, however, that somewhere in the not-so-distant future she will be writing about things that annoy her, and that will consist of ME.
Also, I found this: www.mylifeistwilight.com
This is a travesty. This is the travesty of travesties. WHO HAS DONE THIS?? WHO HAD THE GUTS TO PROFESS THEIR DISGUSTING INSANITY AND RABIDNESS IN SUCH A WAY??
Okay, this blog clearly is not really about my writing anymore. Not my fault. The last thing I wrote was a college essay.
Oh dear. Oh dear. Why mom? First Facebook, now Blog?? What next, TWITTER? Will I soon be reading tweets from MY MOM?
This is...not as big of a deal as it seems. Let me blow it out of proportion for you.
My MOM is now on blogspot, blogging away about things like...ME. She is blogging about ME. No, I do not know this to be true, because she has only written one post and it is not about me, it is about Tiger Woods. I can only assume, however, that somewhere in the not-so-distant future she will be writing about things that annoy her, and that will consist of ME.
Also, I found this: www.mylifeistwilight.com
This is a travesty. This is the travesty of travesties. WHO HAS DONE THIS?? WHO HAD THE GUTS TO PROFESS THEIR DISGUSTING INSANITY AND RABIDNESS IN SUCH A WAY??
Okay, this blog clearly is not really about my writing anymore. Not my fault. The last thing I wrote was a college essay.
Saturday, November 21, 2009
A Play.
Hey guys,
A quick promo on my part. I wrote a play for the YPP (Young Playwright's Program), and will be submitting it on Tuesday. The YPP is a program run through the ACT theater, and if my play is chosen, it will either be published or performed at a local theater.
I'd really appreciate it if you all could read my play, and your comments are super helpful to me. The play is posted on my Fictionpress account. It is called For the Justice. Link below:
http://www.fictionpress.com/s/2743642/1/For_the_Justice
You can either comment on Fictionpress or right here on this post.
Thanks!
EDIT:
A clarifying note, since I have gotten a few comments on this. Chris and Taylor are not hipsters. I am aware of that. The description was merely intended to describe how they are dressed, but I can see that it would be confusing. I have changed the descriptions to include exactly what they are wearing instead of saying "hipster". Also, they talk like that because they are stoned. Also, another thing that I think may be confusing if you don't understand why I did it (aka if you can't read my mind), Chris and Taylor are actually quite intelligent and well-read, as seen by knowing about Joyce, etc. However, they are also complete stoners--something that is true about a lot of today's youth (what do you know? Culture criticism is present in this play after all!).
Another clarifying note: they are talking about the particular bands that they are because those are the bands I happened to be listening to while writing most of this play. Hopefully that clears up some confusion...
A quick promo on my part. I wrote a play for the YPP (Young Playwright's Program), and will be submitting it on Tuesday. The YPP is a program run through the ACT theater, and if my play is chosen, it will either be published or performed at a local theater.
I'd really appreciate it if you all could read my play, and your comments are super helpful to me. The play is posted on my Fictionpress account. It is called For the Justice. Link below:
http://www.fictionpress.com/s/2743642/1/For_the_Justice
You can either comment on Fictionpress or right here on this post.
Thanks!
EDIT:
A clarifying note, since I have gotten a few comments on this. Chris and Taylor are not hipsters. I am aware of that. The description was merely intended to describe how they are dressed, but I can see that it would be confusing. I have changed the descriptions to include exactly what they are wearing instead of saying "hipster". Also, they talk like that because they are stoned. Also, another thing that I think may be confusing if you don't understand why I did it (aka if you can't read my mind), Chris and Taylor are actually quite intelligent and well-read, as seen by knowing about Joyce, etc. However, they are also complete stoners--something that is true about a lot of today's youth (what do you know? Culture criticism is present in this play after all!).
Another clarifying note: they are talking about the particular bands that they are because those are the bands I happened to be listening to while writing most of this play. Hopefully that clears up some confusion...
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