It strikes me as strange that almost none of my friends have heard me sing before. Well, no, you have heard me sing probably, but you haven't heard me sing Hindustani, which is something I actually consider a huge part of myself. It's also one of my few talents, dare I call it one.
In fact, many of you don't even know what Hindustani music is. So let me enlighten you.
http://www.kuow.org/program.php?id=18776
You should click on the link in the sidebar that says "Listen to KUOW Presents" to listen to the recording.
This is an excellent piece that was on the radio today. It's about 13 minutes long, and it is a good explanation of Hindustani music, along with some of the music itself played in the background. They are interviewing a local artist, who is actually a friend of our family's.
Someday I may post a recording of my own singing here, but today is not the day. Honestly, I'd rather you heard it live, because in my opinion my voice sounds way better like that, and there tends to be less scrutiny of a live performance.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Monday, November 02, 2009
In which I reveal deep-rooted hatred.
No, not racism. Hatred.
A quote:
Ingrid: "I realized that I actually hate a lot of my friends."
Me too, Ingrid, me too. Why is this? Maybe I'm too nice of a person. Maybe if I was meaner, people would get the hint that I really don't like them/talking to them, and they would leave me alone, leaving me to wallow with those few people I do like.
Warning: The rest of this post is confusing, because I keep mixing up my tenses and pronouns and am too tired and lazy to fix it or write properly.
In my mind, there are two categories of hate for friends/people.
1. You hate them always.
This is the kind of hatred that is self explanatory. You cannot stand this person. You hate being around them at any time. They insist on following you around. You wish they would leave you alone. They can NEVER take a hint. You really hate this person.
2. You hate them sometimes.
This kind of hatred is more subtle, and difficult to deal with. There are certain people in my life whom I hate at seemingly random intervals. These intervals are not random, if you happen to be one of the people on the receiving end of this hatred, and have noticed it. This is the person that is sometimes amusing and fun to be around, but more often than not, they are more annoying than amusing. This is unfortunate. Why can't this person just be better? Then you feel bad about hating them, because really, they just remind you of yourself.
Those are the two main categories. There is a third, somewhat related category, and it is called jealousy.
3. Jealousy
This is not truly hatred, but sometimes you really wish you were this person, so painfully that you end up disliking their presence somewhat, because they remind you of how much you suck. Then they do something majorly awesome, making you want to be around them all the time. Then you are worried about whether you are annoying or not, and in the process end up being even more annoying. This person probably hates you. You are probably the second type of hated person on their list. Maybe even the first (if you're lucky!).
When reading this post, you may have been thinking, whose blog is this? Am I in the wrong place? No, dear reader, you are not in the wrong place. I am simply revealing that in reality, I am in fact not a nice person at all. On the contrary, I can be quite a vile and repulsive person if I put my head to it. Why have I revealed this? Do I want you to hate me too? No, I just want validation that I am not the only person who hates people, and more validation that people read this blog. Maybe. Sometimes.
A quote:
Ingrid: "I realized that I actually hate a lot of my friends."
Me too, Ingrid, me too. Why is this? Maybe I'm too nice of a person. Maybe if I was meaner, people would get the hint that I really don't like them/talking to them, and they would leave me alone, leaving me to wallow with those few people I do like.
Warning: The rest of this post is confusing, because I keep mixing up my tenses and pronouns and am too tired and lazy to fix it or write properly.
In my mind, there are two categories of hate for friends/people.
1. You hate them always.
This is the kind of hatred that is self explanatory. You cannot stand this person. You hate being around them at any time. They insist on following you around. You wish they would leave you alone. They can NEVER take a hint. You really hate this person.
2. You hate them sometimes.
This kind of hatred is more subtle, and difficult to deal with. There are certain people in my life whom I hate at seemingly random intervals. These intervals are not random, if you happen to be one of the people on the receiving end of this hatred, and have noticed it. This is the person that is sometimes amusing and fun to be around, but more often than not, they are more annoying than amusing. This is unfortunate. Why can't this person just be better? Then you feel bad about hating them, because really, they just remind you of yourself.
Those are the two main categories. There is a third, somewhat related category, and it is called jealousy.
3. Jealousy
This is not truly hatred, but sometimes you really wish you were this person, so painfully that you end up disliking their presence somewhat, because they remind you of how much you suck. Then they do something majorly awesome, making you want to be around them all the time. Then you are worried about whether you are annoying or not, and in the process end up being even more annoying. This person probably hates you. You are probably the second type of hated person on their list. Maybe even the first (if you're lucky!).
When reading this post, you may have been thinking, whose blog is this? Am I in the wrong place? No, dear reader, you are not in the wrong place. I am simply revealing that in reality, I am in fact not a nice person at all. On the contrary, I can be quite a vile and repulsive person if I put my head to it. Why have I revealed this? Do I want you to hate me too? No, I just want validation that I am not the only person who hates people, and more validation that people read this blog. Maybe. Sometimes.
Monday, October 26, 2009
Some Trips for You
Oh hey guys, remember how I used to post things that weren't school related? Lies. Now I can only write trippy essays that have everything and nothing to do with Modernism. Here is my latest "short" (aka miniscule) essay: some tripping on freedom.
I may have been free all of my life, yet I can only see myself in captivity. What is freedom in the end? Not a soul on this earth may be truly free, for they will always see themselves in the cage of someone else. One may suggest that I was free when I pulled on the coat that I decided to wear today, and yet it was not entirely my decision. My father paid for the coat, therefore it is his. My mother likes the coat, therefore it is hers. The weather is cold today, requiring me to wear the coat, therefore the coat belongs to the weather as well. Finally the decision I made in putting my arms through the sleeves of said coat was only fractionally my choice, only in part a decision made by me—and therefore how can I be free?
Yet, there may have been one time in my life when I was free; a time when the decision I made was influenced by my thoughts, and only mine. There may have been a decision I have made in my life that was completely mine, belonging to me and nobody else. When was this time that I was free? Certainly not now, when my life’s every movement is determined by the forces and wills of my parents, my teachers, whatever colleges I may be applying to. Even this, what college I will go to, is not determined by me, when in reality it should be entirely my choice, for it is I who will go there. And yet, I must consider where my parents want me to go, I must consider which colleges will accept me, and I must consider above all else, what people will think of me. A constant consideration in every decision I make—what will everyone else say?
This suggests that perhaps the only time I did not worry about this was when I was only a child, who knew nothing of the world, and nothing of the thoughts of others. There is only one time in one’s life when one is truly free, and that is when one has just entered into life, into being—this is the only freedom I know of. When I opened my eyes into the bright lights of a universe tangential to what I had known previously, and yet somehow completely different, then I may have been free.
When I was brought into the world by a nurse in a hospital, somewhere on the earth, in the moment just after I entered consciousness and the moment just before I was placed into the arms of my mother, I was free. For just before this, I was in the captivity of another being who was feeding me, allowing me to live, in fact granting life to me, and as soon as I was put into my mother’s arms, I was entirely dependent on her. I was dependent for food, for water, for anything that was not immediately on my being. But in that exact moment between the two, I belonged to no one but myself, I knew of nothing but myself, and that was freedom enough for me.
A/N: Unsure what to think of this essay (WOAH, THAT'S NEW!). Thoughts? Good? Bad? Disgusting? Offensive? You don't care? Too bad, leave a comment anyway.
I may have been free all of my life, yet I can only see myself in captivity. What is freedom in the end? Not a soul on this earth may be truly free, for they will always see themselves in the cage of someone else. One may suggest that I was free when I pulled on the coat that I decided to wear today, and yet it was not entirely my decision. My father paid for the coat, therefore it is his. My mother likes the coat, therefore it is hers. The weather is cold today, requiring me to wear the coat, therefore the coat belongs to the weather as well. Finally the decision I made in putting my arms through the sleeves of said coat was only fractionally my choice, only in part a decision made by me—and therefore how can I be free?
Yet, there may have been one time in my life when I was free; a time when the decision I made was influenced by my thoughts, and only mine. There may have been a decision I have made in my life that was completely mine, belonging to me and nobody else. When was this time that I was free? Certainly not now, when my life’s every movement is determined by the forces and wills of my parents, my teachers, whatever colleges I may be applying to. Even this, what college I will go to, is not determined by me, when in reality it should be entirely my choice, for it is I who will go there. And yet, I must consider where my parents want me to go, I must consider which colleges will accept me, and I must consider above all else, what people will think of me. A constant consideration in every decision I make—what will everyone else say?
This suggests that perhaps the only time I did not worry about this was when I was only a child, who knew nothing of the world, and nothing of the thoughts of others. There is only one time in one’s life when one is truly free, and that is when one has just entered into life, into being—this is the only freedom I know of. When I opened my eyes into the bright lights of a universe tangential to what I had known previously, and yet somehow completely different, then I may have been free.
When I was brought into the world by a nurse in a hospital, somewhere on the earth, in the moment just after I entered consciousness and the moment just before I was placed into the arms of my mother, I was free. For just before this, I was in the captivity of another being who was feeding me, allowing me to live, in fact granting life to me, and as soon as I was put into my mother’s arms, I was entirely dependent on her. I was dependent for food, for water, for anything that was not immediately on my being. But in that exact moment between the two, I belonged to no one but myself, I knew of nothing but myself, and that was freedom enough for me.
A/N: Unsure what to think of this essay (WOAH, THAT'S NEW!). Thoughts? Good? Bad? Disgusting? Offensive? You don't care? Too bad, leave a comment anyway.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
"I wish I had a boyfriend...": A response to Ingrid
This is your boyfriend:
This is your boyfriend:
This is MY boyfriend:
This is your boyfriend:
This is MY boyfriend:
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
You Thought Wrong.
Yeah, so I lied when I said I wouldn't post soon, because I found this video. This is incredible. Ignore the awful narration on this, and just look at this guy. It's legitimately ridiculous.
It's things like this that make me feel bad about myself. Do I have any skills like this? No, and yet I will probably end up more successful (at least financially) than most of these autistic people who have amazing skills like this, only because I am considered "normal" and can communicate better. Most autistic people are amazing at something like this, but rarely do they get this kind of recognition.
You thought photographic memories weren't real. You were wrong.
It's things like this that make me feel bad about myself. Do I have any skills like this? No, and yet I will probably end up more successful (at least financially) than most of these autistic people who have amazing skills like this, only because I am considered "normal" and can communicate better. Most autistic people are amazing at something like this, but rarely do they get this kind of recognition.
You thought photographic memories weren't real. You were wrong.
Monday, October 12, 2009
Aww Yeah, Pt. 3 (Finale)
Apparently nobody wants to comment on the second part, so hopefully I'll get some comments (hint hint) on this before turning it in. This is the last installment of the story. I still think I like the first part the best, because I feel like it was the most successful at portraying Joyce's style of writing. This is a bit (a lot) shorter than the other two.
Upon reaching, he slid his way between tables, inconspicuously making his way towards his corner table, at which no single other person dared to sit. Upon seeing his face, a tall glass of ale was immediately delivered to the table, as if he were a respected member of the community, rather than himself, Donovan, who spent his time polishing silver and limping along with no aid. He allowed himself a few extra minutes at the pub that day, taking his time with the drink that soothed and burned its way into his familiar system. Tipping the last drops of ale into his awaiting mouth, he gathered himself up, sucking in his drooping cheeks, rubbing his hands together, and leaving a penny on the table. He slowly turned the lapels of his coat the correct direction, and stepped back onto the frostbitten path towards his house.
Loosened by drink, he slid about, uncaring, on the icy streets. Night had crept upon him, casting sinister shadows over everything in sight. Upon reaching his door, his walk having been uninterrupted by any passerby, he fumbled for his key for some time. Finally, he managed to ease his way into the home, and crumpled into his rocking chair, suddenly breathing heavily. The small of his back stood slightly away from the surface of the chair, although the rest of his body sagged towards the comfort of a seat. He closed his eyes. Immediately against his lids he could see the bearded figure that he had scorned so. The face of the man was not unknown to him. It was the face of a visitor at the pub. No, it was the face of a man whom he had known years ago. No, it was the face of his son.
He opened his eyes and padded over to the window, not bothering to remove his mustard socks. The background glowed a blue-black shade. In that moment, he felt that if he stood still for long enough, unseen and unheard, he might simply dissolve into his surroundings, hopefully never to be seen again.
Yeah, so I think this is collectively pretty much the best story I've ever written, because it had some semblance of plot in it, and it got finished (gasp!). Hopefully you liked it too. Comments and criticism welcome and...yeah, I'm dying for comments, guys. With that thought, goodbye for now. Don't expect posts for a while, I'm really busy. Early Decision is due in 3 weeks guys! Good luck!
Upon reaching, he slid his way between tables, inconspicuously making his way towards his corner table, at which no single other person dared to sit. Upon seeing his face, a tall glass of ale was immediately delivered to the table, as if he were a respected member of the community, rather than himself, Donovan, who spent his time polishing silver and limping along with no aid. He allowed himself a few extra minutes at the pub that day, taking his time with the drink that soothed and burned its way into his familiar system. Tipping the last drops of ale into his awaiting mouth, he gathered himself up, sucking in his drooping cheeks, rubbing his hands together, and leaving a penny on the table. He slowly turned the lapels of his coat the correct direction, and stepped back onto the frostbitten path towards his house.
Loosened by drink, he slid about, uncaring, on the icy streets. Night had crept upon him, casting sinister shadows over everything in sight. Upon reaching his door, his walk having been uninterrupted by any passerby, he fumbled for his key for some time. Finally, he managed to ease his way into the home, and crumpled into his rocking chair, suddenly breathing heavily. The small of his back stood slightly away from the surface of the chair, although the rest of his body sagged towards the comfort of a seat. He closed his eyes. Immediately against his lids he could see the bearded figure that he had scorned so. The face of the man was not unknown to him. It was the face of a visitor at the pub. No, it was the face of a man whom he had known years ago. No, it was the face of his son.
He opened his eyes and padded over to the window, not bothering to remove his mustard socks. The background glowed a blue-black shade. In that moment, he felt that if he stood still for long enough, unseen and unheard, he might simply dissolve into his surroundings, hopefully never to be seen again.
Yeah, so I think this is collectively pretty much the best story I've ever written, because it had some semblance of plot in it, and it got finished (gasp!). Hopefully you liked it too. Comments and criticism welcome and...yeah, I'm dying for comments, guys. With that thought, goodbye for now. Don't expect posts for a while, I'm really busy. Early Decision is due in 3 weeks guys! Good luck!
Thursday, October 08, 2009
Awww Yeah, Pt. 2
So, I'm not really sure what I think of this part. It's a little repetitive, I know, but it's hard to convey exactly how long this walk was for Donovan without being repetitive. As in, it was not a long walk in terms of distance, but for him it is a really long walk. This is probably the worst of the three parts of the story right now, so you have been warned. Also, thanks for the comments guys. Apparently I have a huge problem with the passive voice, aka I can't actually ever use anything else. Should probably fix that before I am murdered via English teacher. Also, there is some confusing switching of tenses going on in this story. The first part is in present tense, even though it's describing his past, and the rest is in past tense, even though that is what is happening in the story. It's intentional, but let me know if it's bullshit.
Donovan rose slowly from the rocking chair, and made his way over to the mantel. He observed his spoons, and noted a small spot on one of them. Picking up a square gray cloth, he polished the spoon until the spot was gone, and then placed it carefully back onto the mantel. He slowly limped over to the door, stopping to pull on thick yellow socks, the color of mustard. In the dim light of his home, he can barely find his shoes in the closet, but finally pulled out a clunking pair of leathers, and eased his feet into them. Pulling open the door, he stepped outside, hearing the brittle cracking of frost under his feet, and inhaling the bitter air.
He was going back to the pub, though he had been twice in that day already. Thinking of Ellen always made him thirst for cheap ale, or perhaps some whiskey to feel the burning in the back of his throat. The sun was just behind a passing cloud, and he could look directly at a faint orange sphere as it was setting, casting blood rays over his home. He scarcely glanced at it, walking on as firmly as he could, leaning towards one side slightly. The road to the pub was slippery, and he was at a disadvantage with his legs, and no cane. He brought his hand to his mouth, gnawing on raw cuticles with his chipped and yellowing teeth. If he slipped and fell, he knew it would mean many days at home, and he couldn’t do without his daily ale. He stepped carefully over small chunks of ice, cast aside in snowball fights, and a grimace pulled at his cheeks as he remembered his sons flinging bits of snow and rock at each other, and his wife, with her cheeks red and puffed, holding the boys apart from each other, her voice raising octaves in seconds.
--Ah, Ellen, if you could see me now, he muttered to himself, you would look in disdain at my very being, feeble and helpless as I am, the very embodiment of everything you scorned.
The pub was not far, but the streets were beginning to empty of people as they went to their homes for hot suppers. Donovan much preferred an empty street to a full one, and so he walked on, considerably faster and more cheerfully at the thought of being so close to his drink. So quickly, in fact, that he hardly noticed his foot as it landed only a sliver away from a hand that was resting on the icy ground. He only glanced down when the hand raised towards him, and the man to whom it belonged whispered coarsely, but fiercely--A penny sir, for a helpless man like me. Donovan felt the rage begin to rise up into his stomach, the bile in his throat. It was the word helpless--perhaps if the man had used a different word, a penny would have fallen into his hand, but Donovan looked at the man whose beard almost covered his face, whose squinting eyes blinked quickly and looked at him hopefully, and scornfully turned away and walked still more quickly to the pub.
Comments and criticism welcome and encouraged (I'm on my hands and knees). Part 3, the final part of this saga, will be posted soon. Also, if you haven't recognized it yet, this is based on one of our beloved English teacher's own life stories.
Donovan rose slowly from the rocking chair, and made his way over to the mantel. He observed his spoons, and noted a small spot on one of them. Picking up a square gray cloth, he polished the spoon until the spot was gone, and then placed it carefully back onto the mantel. He slowly limped over to the door, stopping to pull on thick yellow socks, the color of mustard. In the dim light of his home, he can barely find his shoes in the closet, but finally pulled out a clunking pair of leathers, and eased his feet into them. Pulling open the door, he stepped outside, hearing the brittle cracking of frost under his feet, and inhaling the bitter air.
He was going back to the pub, though he had been twice in that day already. Thinking of Ellen always made him thirst for cheap ale, or perhaps some whiskey to feel the burning in the back of his throat. The sun was just behind a passing cloud, and he could look directly at a faint orange sphere as it was setting, casting blood rays over his home. He scarcely glanced at it, walking on as firmly as he could, leaning towards one side slightly. The road to the pub was slippery, and he was at a disadvantage with his legs, and no cane. He brought his hand to his mouth, gnawing on raw cuticles with his chipped and yellowing teeth. If he slipped and fell, he knew it would mean many days at home, and he couldn’t do without his daily ale. He stepped carefully over small chunks of ice, cast aside in snowball fights, and a grimace pulled at his cheeks as he remembered his sons flinging bits of snow and rock at each other, and his wife, with her cheeks red and puffed, holding the boys apart from each other, her voice raising octaves in seconds.
--Ah, Ellen, if you could see me now, he muttered to himself, you would look in disdain at my very being, feeble and helpless as I am, the very embodiment of everything you scorned.
The pub was not far, but the streets were beginning to empty of people as they went to their homes for hot suppers. Donovan much preferred an empty street to a full one, and so he walked on, considerably faster and more cheerfully at the thought of being so close to his drink. So quickly, in fact, that he hardly noticed his foot as it landed only a sliver away from a hand that was resting on the icy ground. He only glanced down when the hand raised towards him, and the man to whom it belonged whispered coarsely, but fiercely--A penny sir, for a helpless man like me. Donovan felt the rage begin to rise up into his stomach, the bile in his throat. It was the word helpless--perhaps if the man had used a different word, a penny would have fallen into his hand, but Donovan looked at the man whose beard almost covered his face, whose squinting eyes blinked quickly and looked at him hopefully, and scornfully turned away and walked still more quickly to the pub.
Comments and criticism welcome and encouraged (I'm on my hands and knees). Part 3, the final part of this saga, will be posted soon. Also, if you haven't recognized it yet, this is based on one of our beloved English teacher's own life stories.
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